I grew up in a rural part of Taiwan in the back of my grandparents’ convenience store. My memories are hazy, but I remember vignettes—lush jungles, swarms of dragonflies, green everywhere, and lots and lots of rain. Some of my sharpest memories include making a bow and arrow out of a kite and shooting it at my brother (totally safe, I’m sure), biting the principal’s son’s nose until he bled during kindergarten because he took my toy, and stealing instant noodle packages from my grandparents’ general store so I could suck on the pepper during nap time.
My paternal grandparents raised me until I was five years old while my parents were in the United States getting their advanced degrees at the University of Nebraska (Go Huskers!). For the most part, it was a good childhood, except for having an outhouse, showering with a bucket, and having chickens nip at me once in a while.
When my parents returned to take my brother and me to America, I remember telling my crying grandmother that I’d stay with her. I didn’t, of course, but I always wondered what life would have been like if I had never left Taiwan. On one hand, I probably would have studied harder. On the other hand, I probably wouldn’t have become an author.
