The immigration journey, moving from Taiwan to Japan at age five and then to America during the height of the Civil Rights Movement, learning English as my third language.
Democracy Spring (1989) and the Tiananmen Massacre which silenced the voices of the Chinese people.
My father's Manchurian stubbornness and my mother's Hakka obstinacy.
The five years of stalking which drove me to writing and painting in solitude.
The benevolent spirit of my great grandfather who was swept out of his estate to wander a beggar under Communism.
What I have often said to myself is, Gee, when I switch to my Chinese texts at night, I feel like I am moving from one part of the brain to another. It's a physical move that I can almost hear.
