The Old House in Taiwan

By Kathleen Kuo

A commissioned reimagination of the author’s father’s old house for his birthday. Painting by Ben Salerno.

The inability to fully connect with my parents on a linguistic and cultural level is painful. Through our conversations in mixed broken English and Mandarin, I wish to share my struggles, my hopes, my successes. I want to know their stories - their experiences growing up in Taiwan, moving to the States, and adjusting to their new home and environment. I am certain that there is always more that they wish they could impart upon me, and me to them, but the barrier of acculturative dissonance prevents us from doing so. Thus, what can only be said shallowly must be felt deeply - we must become masters at reading between the lines. 

May is Asian and Pacific Islander American Heritage Month. For me, the concept of “heritage” is inseparable from “home.” Both are loaded terms, simultaneously ambiguous in their meaning and meaningful in their ambiguity. Since 2013, I have resided in six different apartments, four different states, and two different countries. The house in which I spent the majority of my childhood and adolescence was sold several years ago when my parents moved back to Taiwan. Only my siblings and I remain in the States; the rest of my extended family lives thousands of miles away, most of them unknown names and faces. Is it strange that the closest thing to a home in my imagination, and the place with the most emotional attachment, is a place I never even lived in? The place that calls to me, what I view as the first and foremost symbol of home, my complicated Taiwanese American identity, and Hakka heritage, is my father’s childhood house in Taiwan.

The “old house,” as my father refers to it in English, is a real tangible place, although in my mind it is also a place of fantasy, where my thoughts turn to longing for people I never knew, and traditions and rituals I’ll never experience. I have been to Taiwan a scant number of times, and no trip has ever felt complete unless we made the pilgrimage back to the old house. I remember the scent of sweet osmanthus and jasmine filling the air as I walked on dirt paths, weaving my way through tropical flora. But this is all gone now. Over time the surrounding land was developed, the horizon gradually filled with high rise buildings. Today, my father’s childhood home is a museum, a beautifully preserved Hakka longhouse for the public to see.

When I think of the old house, history, heritage, tradition, and identity are all irrevocably intertwined. My sister was born in the old house, and my brother’s name is engraved in gold upon a plaque listing all male Kuo family members and their spouses. Meanwhile, I have nothing other than blood tying me to the old house. But it is this invisible, tenuous, precious thread that I treasure most, an anchor to my heritage, and a testament to the history and resilience of those who came before me. 

Images/Courtesy of Kathleen Kuo unless indicated otherwise

Kathleen Kuo is a Program Manager for Nevada Humanities. 

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Appendix

An old photo of my father’s house, before the surrounding land was developed and transformed into asphalt roads and high rise residential and commercial buildings. When I was little, I loved to hear his stories of how he rode water buffalo in the rice paddies. Image shared with permission from author’s father.

According to my father, Hakka farming families liked to keep their families together in the same household if possible; however, there were several limiting factors, such as the availability of farmland, the size of the physical house, and harmonious relations between children (and their spouses). My grandfather was the second of five brothers; more than 60 years ago, two of his brothers decided they no longer wanted everyone to stay together. Consequently, the others had to build their own house nearby. All of this was done without modern machinery. With no roads and a lack of efficient transportation to ship materials, all of the building materials had to be carried by hand. From thousands of meters away, my grandparents and three uncles and aunts carried everything using only bamboo sticks and their backs to the building site. The house was completed sometime between 1956 and 1957, the largest and most beautiful house in the area. Over time, other brothers moved out, until only my grandfather was left and the maintenance of the once multi-generational house became his burden alone.

An image of my father standing outside his childhood home. Photo taken by author’s mother.

About 15 years ago, the Hsinchu city government decided to redevelop the land. The goal was to remove all existing houses, build new roads, utilities, and high-rise buildings. My father’s elder brother was retired at that time and appealed to various government agencies, requesting to preserve the old farming house as an example of old farming traditions. With help from the Hakka Council, the house was restored and saved from being demolished. Three years ago, my parents bought an apartment in one of the high rise buildings, just a block away from the old house. Now, my father is able to visit whenever he wants.

When I last visited, my father and his brother laughed, thinking about how these new apartment buildings were built on old pig manure.

Offerings for our family ancestors. Image courtesy of author’s father.

My parent’s former bedroom, the room in which my sister was born, is now converted into a museum display. Image courtesy of author’s father.

My grandparents’ bedroom, preserved for the public. The bed is not the original one, but was donated by my father’s brother. Image courtesy of author’s father.

A precious memory that guests to this museum will miss - my father and his brother used to play basketball using this small semi-circular hole in the bricks.