RF Kuang’s New Novel Takes On the Angst of a Diaspora Kid on a Study-Abroad Trip to Taipei

How does this novel interface with—the sometimes impossible—expectations of homecoming?

I’m fascinated with fantasies of homecoming and the narratives we buy into about how certain cultural experiences can return you to the fold. A lot of Chinese heritage speakers end up getting these flattened experiences in the US that feel like touch points, but are actually silly ways to reconnect—distilled cultural simulations such as Lunar New Year, red envelope parties, and film screenings. I say this not to mock diasporic kids; it makes total sense. You get so little, so you take whatever you can have, even if it’s not region-specific or what your parents experienced.

In Lily’s case, I’m fascinated by the promises of heritage speaker-study abroad programs (editor’s note: these are linguistic immersion programs designed for students who grew up in households speaking a second language) because they hold so much promise and meaning for many people attending them. With Taiwan in particular, if you think about it just on the logical level, every step of this premise that you could, as a Chinese-American, go to Taiwan, to study Mandarin, to feel closer to your family on the mainland—is crazy. Lily’s family has never been to Taiwan. She’s the only person who’s ever stepped foot there until her mom has a layover.

When she finally gets there, she starts learning all the ways in which she is so wrong and how her experiences of Chineseness and the trajectory of her family history has absolutely nothing to do with Taiwan. In the end, she is a little more aware of this complexity and moves towards a more genuine, honest encounter of a strange place. She’s like, I’m a foreigner, this is a weird summer, and maybe that’s okay.

In what ways does foreignness, or a lack of fluency, act as a source of fuel for travel and exploration in this novel?

I definitely think [feeling out of place] is generative because I’ve felt like an outsider culturally for most of my life. My family immigrated [to the US from Guangzhou when Kuang was four-years-old], and I never felt like I quite belonged in the world of Dallas, Texas. I was a pretty happy kid, but when you’re on the periphery, observing how people behave, I think you just get more perceptive.

When I go back to China, that’s also not home, which is not a unique perspective. I think almost every immigrant kid feels this way. When I’m in China, I am looking at my family, and I observe cultural codes that they’re following, and I have to figure out how these rules work because I didn’t grow up understanding them innately. Being reflective about all of this makes you a good writer.

In Lily’s case I don’t think she perceives her bumbling and ignorance as virtues. For her, it’s a barrier between her and the rest of the world. Because she’s so afraid of getting things wrong, she never asks for help and never willing to embarrass herself. The ethical argument that the book is making is that embarrassment is really good for you. To admit, “I don’t know what’s going on,” and also “somebody helped me,” is an attitude I wish we all embraced more, not just when we’re traveling, but in our entire lives. I find it a strength, and Lily finds it a weakness, and by the end of the book, she’s at least accepted that she’s gonna mess up, and she might as well own it.