Image source: The Hibiscus in My Memory Comes from Qianjia Li, the first completed biographical work by StoryPatio. Qianjia Li, located in Hsinchu, is the hometown of the author’s mother, while the hibiscus refers to the hibiscus flowers commonly seen in Taiwan’s rural areas.
In 2021, unable to return to Taiwan due to the pandemic, I found myself overwhelmed by homesickness and the solitude of living abroad. To cope, I decided to embark on a meaningful project — weekly video calls with my mother, during which she would recount her childhood stories, and I would compile them into a book.
For three months, we kept up this routine, and eventually, I completed my first “StoryPatio” work — a biography dedicated to my mother titled The Crimson Blossom from Qianjia Village, a 25,000-word memoir. What I hadn’t expected was that this journey would become a delightful surprise for both of us. Through these stories, I gained a deeper understanding of my mother and discovered aspects of her personality she had never revealed before. At the same time, she revisited cherished moments in her life with a newfound sense of gratitude.
A Beloved Candy, A Grandmother’s Love
Listening to family stories has a unique kind of magic — it allows us to see ourselves in the past. As I immersed myself in my mother’s memories, I found traces of myself in her experiences. We shared many similarities: a love for movies, moments of skipping class, an interest in fashion trends, bouts of loneliness, a fear of parental reprimands, and an attachment to certain cherished objects.
One of the most heartwarming stories she shared was about her favorite childhood candy, which she called “amedama.” She struggled to recall its exact name but described it as round, slightly hard, and sweet. Intrigued, I did some research and discovered that the candy she loved was kingantang, also known as ganza candy, a nostalgic treat from traditional Taiwanese grocery stores. When I showed her a picture, her face lit up with joy. She eagerly asked me to buy some, hoping to relive the happiness of her childhood. “A tiny colorful candy could brighten my entire world,” she said with a beaming smile.
Image source: Candied Memories—a nostalgic treat from many childhoods. The author’s mother recalled the name and appearance of the candy purely from memory, leading the author to discover her mother’s favorite childhood sweet, Jin Gan Tang.
But behind her love for this candy lay a deeper story about her childhood.
In those days, my grandfather worked tirelessly as a warehouse manager at a fertilizer plant, laboring from dawn to dusk and continuing farm work on weekends. Meanwhile, my grandmother managed household chores while also farming and selling produce at the local market to barter for essentials like eggs and tofu. “Every time she returned from selling vegetables, she would have money to buy us some candy. We had no television or modern entertainment, so we eagerly awaited her return,” my mother recalled. “I would often climb the tallest tree near our house, just like a little monkey, watching for my mother’s silhouette as she made her way back from the market.” Her face glowed with nostalgia as she recounted these cherished childhood moments from Qianjia Village.
One of the most enduring lessons from my grandmother was a simple but profound piece of wisdom: “The more bountiful the rice stalk, the lower it bows.” She would take my mother and her siblings to the fields and point at the ripening stalks of rice, explaining that true wisdom and success should come with humility. This lesson remained with my mother throughout her life, and she, in turn, instilled it in me — always reminding me to stay humble, just like the ripened rice bowing in the wind.
Talking About Joys and Worries, Like Friends
Through these conversations, I also discovered details about my mother’s youth that I had never known. She adored Bigstone jeans, a trendy brand in the 1970s. As a high school student, she loved watching The Graduate, The Godfather, Jaws, and any film starring Sophia Loren. She frequently visited the “Huayang Grand Theater” in Hsinchu to catch the latest releases, but she never enjoyed romance novels by Qiong Yao. Her leisure activities included occasional hiking and movie outings. She also recalled the uncertainty of her youth, when Taiwan had just withdrawn from the United Nations and many young people harbored doubts about the United States.
Image source: Since its opening in 1970, Huayang Theater has been a prominent venue in Hsinchu for screening Western films. The author’s mother had a particular fondness for Western movies, which led her to frequently visit this theater. (Source: Taiwan Memory website)
In that moment, my mother no longer seemed like just my mother — she felt like a friend, a confidante. She had experienced the same simple joys, the same struggles with work and the future. I realized that, beyond her role as a parent, she carried dreams, worries, and aspirations of her own.
Do You Know Your Parents’ Dreams?
As children, we all wrote essays titled “My Mother” or “My Father,” but these were merely observations from our perspective. Rarely did we get the chance to hear them narrate their own childhood, teenage years, or the dreams they once held. Most of what we know about our parents’ pasts comes from scattered accounts shared by relatives or family friends — if we even ask about them at all.
I once saw a deeply moving commercial where children were confidently answering questions about their own goals — when they planned to buy a house, get married, or have children. But when the interviewer asked, “Do you know your parents’ dreams?” they all fell silent. They realized they had spent their lives chasing their own dreams, expecting their parents’ support, but had never considered what their parents truly wanted.
As a journalist, I have interviewed many prominent entrepreneurs, listening to their life stories with admiration. Yet, it dawned on me that I had never applied this same curiosity to my own parents. One day, I decided to ask them a series of questions:
- What nicknames did you have as a child?
- What were your favorite childhood games?
- What was your happiest and saddest childhood memory?
- What was your favorite movie?
- What was your favorite food growing up?
- Did your hobbies change over the years?
- What was the most frustrating experience you ever had?
- What is your dream destination for travel?
- What unfulfilled dreams do you still have?
To my surprise, I couldn’t answer many of these questions. I felt a deep sense of guilt, realizing how little I truly knew about my parents. Meanwhile, they knew me inside and out — able to predict my moods and preferences without me ever saying a word. “I raised you. Of course, I know,” my parents often said. Their deep understanding of me stood in stark contrast to my ignorance about them.
Searching for Home from Afar
After moving to the United States, I often found myself questioning where “home” truly was. Was it here? Or was it the place I left behind?
“Where are you from?” This is one of the most common questions I hear when meeting new people in the U.S. I can’t simply respond with the name of my current city, as my appearance — yellow-toned skin, dark brown hair, petite frame — immediately signals that I am not from here. They anticipate an answer that points beyond American borders, and so I reply, “I am from Taiwan.”
In a foreign land, every attempt to adapt made me think more about the Taiwan I remembered. Seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, I recalled the history of Chinese immigrants who helped build America’s railroads. Tasting Cantonese cheung fun reminded me of the Hakka rice noodles and stir-fried vermicelli my mother used to make. Reading about renowned mathematician Shing-Tung Yau or Silicon Valley pioneer Steve Chen, I thought of my mother’s stories about the Hakka community.
Recounting my mother’s memories helped me redefine my own sense of belonging. Perhaps home isn’t just a physical place, but a tapestry woven from the voices and stories of those we love. In writing my mother’s story, I found myself reconnecting with my roots — and, in the process, rediscovering the meaning of home.