Category Archives: China

Chinese Americans of Historical Significance

May is Asian American, Native Hawaiian, Pacific Islander Month.

The first Asians documented in the Americas arrived in 1587, when Filipinos landed in California. In 1788, the first Native Hawaiian arrived on the continental United States, in Oregon. And, in 1900, Hawaii was annexed by the U.S. The Chinese, Japanese, Hawaiians, Indians, Koreans and other Asians have migrated to the United States over the last few centuries. Wikipedia has a great article on the history of Asians and Hawaiians that you may like to read. To observe the AAPIH Month, we are pleased to share a few writings by Fanny Wong of New York, focusing on some important Chinese personalities that have made significant contributions to our nation’s history. A few of these are:

Hong Yen Chang: The First Chinese Lawyer in the U.S.

Born To Be A Chef: Eileen Yin-Fei Lo

Polly Bemis: A Pioneer Chinese Woman in the Northwest

Hazel Lee, Chinese American Fighter Plane Pilot

King of the Soup Dumplings: Yang Bing-Yi

United States v. Wong Kim Ark

Discrimination Against Asians in the United States

Ten Times Better: George Lee, Ballet Dancer

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American Author, New York.

Young George Lee stood by himself, leaning against the fence in the playground. Other children ignored him in recess, just as they did in the classroom. He looked thoroughly Chinese, but they knew he had a Polish mother. Still, George was a happy child.

His father, Alexander, a circus acrobat, taught his young son how to do a headstand. Father and son were so proud when he finally nailed it. His mother, Stanislawa, a former ballerina, was George’s first ballet teacher. She insisted that George learn every pose, exercise and combination correctly. Not just correctly, but beautifully. George loved the lessons. He loved to dance. That’s why he was a happy child in spite of not having friends.

In 1941, when Japan occupied Hong Kong, where George was born and lived with his family, they fled to Shanghai. There he took dance lessons from Russian teachers. Dancing made him forget for a little while that his father had gone to western part of China to find work. At the age of 7, George was performing polkas and Russian dances in nightclubs to help support the family.

George was heart-broken when his father died in a traffic accident on his way back to Shanghai. Fearing the Communist takeover of Shanghai, mother and son evacuated to the Philippines and spent two years in a hot and humid refugee camp. His mother had to find a way to get out of there. She was able to contact a friend, who sponsored their immigration to the United States.

This friend not only changed their lives by being a sponsor, but he also set George on a path to a career in dance. He introduced him to the School of American Ballet, the prestigious ballet school in New York City. He received a full-scholarship, and in an advance dance class where all the students were White. Knowing how fortunate he was, he was never late for class and wished the classes lasted longer.

Balanchine, the principal and choreographer of the school, asked George what he could do. George did impressive splits, double turns and multiple turns. His dancing was masculine, graceful and joyful! Balanchine was impressed and gave him a role of “Tea” in the 1954 production of The Nutcracker. He was the first Asian dancer in the New York City Ballet. His costume—the Fu Manchu moutache, the queue and rice paddy, did not bother him. “Dancing is dancing,” he said.

But his dancing was being noticed. A New York Times critic observed, “George jumps wonderfully and exhibits some wonderful extensions in the Chinese dance.”

He was not asked to join NY City Ballet. At 5’ and 5”, he was told he was too short. He could do nothing about his height. However, his dancing caught the attention of Gene Kelly, a renowned dancer in film musicals. He cast George in the original production of “Flower Drum Song.” He did 600 performances, many in various cities. He was doing what he loved, and he was using ballet techniques in the Broadway shows.

Touring was tiring and the work was sporadic. There was too much traveling involved, and he had to stay in inexpensive hotels. As much as he loved to dance, he decided to learn a new trade. While performing in Las Vegas, Nevada in his mid-forties, he learned to be a casino dealer. He worked as a blackjack dealer for 40 years in different casinos after he retired from dance performances.

As the first Asian dancer at New York City Ballet, he led the way for the next generation of Asian ballet dancers who are becoming increasingly prominent in major dance companies. New York City Ballet features Chun Wai Chan (Chinese) and Mira Nadon (Indian and American) among others.

When they were moving to the U.S., his mother had told him that he must always remember that he would be seen as a Chinese person in White America, and so he’d better be ten times better. George never forgot that; he always tried to be his best both in school and in his work. He died at the age of 90 on April 20, 2025.

By Fanny Wong, Asian American author, New York. Her work has been featured numerous times in Skipping Stones over the years.

Fou Tsong: A Renowned Chinese Pianist

“I’m always a beginner, I’m always learning.”

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American Author, New York.

Fou Tsong, the renowned pianist, was born in 1934 in China. He was well-known for his sensitive interpretation of the compositions of Chopin, Debussy, Schubert and Mozart. Still, Chopin’s music was closest to his heart.

At the age of 21, he was awarded the third place prize at the 1955 International Chopin Piano Competition held in Warsaw, Poland. He also won a special prize for his performance of a Chopin’s Mazurka.

How did a shy, quiet young man from China reach such heights?

Fou Tsong’s father, Fou Lei, used to tell him, “First, you must be a person, and then a musician, and then a pianist.”

Fou Lei was an intellectual who translated the complete works of the French author Balzac into Chinese. His strong and heartfelt opinions shaped his son. He provided the water, soil and nutrients for his son’s growth, down to the correct elbow positions at the edge of the dinner table. He thought that people, like trees, without good cultivation, could not thrive.

Fou Tsong, under his father’s supervision, was educated in the classical Chinese traditions and grew up under Chinese and Western cultural influences. His household was full of art and music with a large collection of records.

His father noted his son’s love of piano and music, and him bought a piano. Fou Tsong began his music lessons at the age of 7. He later recalled, “When I was young, I enjoyed playing the piano so much I felt I was in paradise. A gift from heaven.”

Among his earliest teachers was Mario Paci, founder of the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra. After Paci’s death in 1947, Tsong studied mainly on his own.

In 1952, Tsong performed Beethovan’s Emperor Concerto with the Shanghai Philharmonic to great acclaim. The Chinese government was so proud that he had reached such prominence that it sent him at age 19, to international competitions in Bucharest, and then to Warsaw.

At the Conservatory, his teachers praised that his playing was like a flowing stream, like a river. While he was studying in Warsaw on a scholarship preparing for the 1955 competition, Communists took over the government of China. This political change brought danger, turmoil and suffering to the nation. Fou Tsong was called back to China. He was instructed to writing a self-criticism and witnessed his father being branded as anti-Communism. He returned to Poland and graduated from the Warsaw Conservatory in December 1958. After what he had seen in China, he made a decision to defect—seeking a political asylum in London, England on Christmas Eve, in 1958. His career soared from his London base.

Fou Lei’s trouble increased with his son’s defection. The Red Guards from the Shanghai Conservatory hounded him. The Red Guards were primarily high school and college students mobilized by Chairman Mao Zedong to enforce his vision of Communist society. They targeted and harassed perceived intellectuals of traditional influence and bourgeois elements. Both his parents, under great duress from the Red Guard, committed suicide. His father was 58, mother 53. His heart broke when he learned of their deaths two months later.

In 1981, a volume of the letters from his father over the years was published. It was full of advice, encouragement and stern paternal love. The book “Fou Lei’s Family Letters,” collected by Fou Tsong’s brother, Fou Min, became a best seller in China.

* * *

A Few Quotes from Fou Lei’s Letters:

• 1954, evening of 18th and 19th of January.

“If one cannot see the larger picture, one is in the danger of thinking the sky is no bigger than it appears to be seen from the bottom of the well.”

• 1955, 26th of January.

“Dear Son, Had we ourselves been in the hall where you played, we would have been unable to control ourselves. Happy at the honor you’re bringing to our country. And happier you are giving joy to so many others through your music.”

* * *

Only a few of Fou Tsong’s letters to his father survived, likely because many were destroyed by the Chinese government.

In his later years, Fou Tsong played the piano for hours every day, even as his fingers grew frail. Whenever he was criticized for defecting and of being a traitor to his country, he would say, “It’s not that I was longing for the West. I was choosing freedom. There was no other choice.”

Fou Tsong died in London of Covid-19 in 2020 at the age of 86. He left us these words, “I’m always a beginner, I’m always learning.”

He is remembered for his sensitive ear for color and the elusive gift of melody. His music swirled, twisted and soared on wings of sound.

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong is a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine. Please also read Hong Yen Chang: The First Chinese Lawyer in the U.S. that Fanny wrote recently by clicking on the title.

Hong Yen Chang

Hong Yen Chang: The First Chinese Lawyer in the U.S.

By Fanny Wong, New York

In 1872, thirteen-year-old Hong Yen Chang was sad and excited when he boarded a ship on a twenty-five days journey to the United States. Born in either 1859 or 1860, he had seldom left his village in Heungshan in South China.

He was an exceptional student and was chosen to be one of the first of 30 boys to study in the United States. The plan of the Chinese government was to educate 120 young Chinese boys, all expenses paid, to acquire technical knowledge from the West. They were known as the Chinese Educational Mission students.

When Hong Yen Chang arrived in bustling San Francisco, he marveled at the six-storied buildings. Heat came out of radiators in the hotel that was not made of mud with paper windows. Water came out of the faucet. Riding the elevator up and down was fun.

Yen Chang noted that the men in San Francisco wore tight pants and form-fitting jackets. He wore maroon robes with blue silk coats and round, small hats. His footwear was a plain padded slipper, whereas the western footwear was laced shoes.

He and the other boys were amazed at the hundreds of people in and out of the San Francisco train depot. They called the trains “fire-cars.” They would eventually ride a train from Sacramento, California, all the way across America, to New England.

The Chinese Education Mission found foster families for the boys, and made arrangements with schools. The curiosity of the town citizens was not always comfortable for Yen Cheng. At first, he laughed it off, but then he was chased by American kids/youth. And the ogling by adults made him conscious of his queue.

The Mission moved to Hartford, Connecticut, where the Chinese had a supportive community. Foster families made great efforts in teaching the youngsters language and customs. The Mission allowed the boys to wear Western clothes, and to tuck their queues beneath their jackets. (During the Qing Dynasty from 1644 to 1911, by decree Chinese men grew their hair long and braided it into a queue.) In their new outfits, the boys looked less like foreigners.

Yen Chang picked up English at a fast pace. He soon learned that speed, strength and dexterity were desirable in America, whereas these qualities were deemed inappropriate for scholars in China.

Exercise, and a rich diet of protein and carbohydrates did wonders for the boys’ health. (In China, most of them ate mainly rice, with an occasional piece of chicken, if they were lucky). Soon, they were strong enough to play team sports with American youth. They had uniforms and tucked their queues underneath their caps when they played baseball. They took to football as well.

Studying hard was the boys’ primary duty. Yen Chang, like the others, ranked at the top of his classes. Although he was encouraged to fit in, the Mission was against Americanization of the boys. He was required to study Chinese for at least an hour each day. Every three months, the boys spent two weeks at the Mission’s headquarters to receive instruction in their native language and literature.

The boys adjusted socially as well. They attended dances and receptions and were sought out by girls to be their dancing partner. But they were constantly reminded they were to be standard bearers of a new China. Their purpose in life was to bring technical skills to their country.

Meanwhile, there was concern in the Chinese Royal Court that these boys were susceptible to foreign influences, and were immersed in the Western culture. So the mission was closed even when there were over 60 Chinese students still enrolled at Yale, M.I.T, Columbia, Harvard and other technical schools. Of these, only two received their degrees before the Mission was recalled. The others were just beginning their technical training.

In August 1881, Yen Chang was among the first group of 22 boys to leave Hartford. A train took them to San Francisco, and he boarded a ship back to China. He was now 22 years old, and he was determined that he’d return to America as soon as possible to resume his studies.

Upon his return to China, after a brief reunion with his mother, the government enrolled him in the naval school in Tientsin. He was not happy with the monotony of the school. He was used to Western training and attitude and he found the old style of the officers stifling. He obtained a release and was free to plan his future.

His brother was a merchant in Honolulu, Hawaii. With his small savings and the help of friends, he departed from the port city of Shanghai for Hawaii in 1882. There, he worked in a law office for a year. But his ambition was to become better educated in law.

In 1883, he managed to enroll at the Columbia Law School and received a law degree three years later at the age of 27. A newspaper reported that his “abilities in legal investigation” were among the finest in his class. By then had cut off his queue, having decided that he’d not be going back to China.

The 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act dashed his ambition and hope of being admitted to the New York Bar along with his classmates. Citizenship was required, and he was not a citizen. So, in 1887, he reapplied to the bar after a New York judge issued him a naturalization certificate that granted him citizenship. He became the only Chinese lawyer in the United States.

Still, he faced more barriers when he applied for admission to the bar in California. He presented his New York law license along with his certificate of naturalization to the California State Bar. But it rejected his application based on the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, a law passed by Congress that prohibited the naturalization of Chinese persons. The California Constitutional Convention in 1879, in the midst of anti-Chinese sentiment, had further restricted the rights of Chinese residents.

Chang Hon Yen. Photo by unknown. Ah Tye Family Website, Retrieved on 2012-02-21, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org

With diligence and persistence, Yen Chang decided against appealing the decision and went on to become an advisor at the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco and later became a banker. He married Charlotte Ah Tye in 1897.

He eventually served as the Chinese consul in Vancouver and first secretary at the Chinese Delegation in Washington. His last position, before his death from a heart attack in 1926, was the director of Chinese naval students in Berkeley, California.

The denial of admission to Yen Chang remained as a published opinion of the California Supreme Court. But notable changes have been made since then. In 1972, it held that exclusion of non-citizens violated the equal protection clauses of the state and federal constitutions. In 1973, the U.S. Supreme Court followed suit.

In 2015, the California Supreme Court, posthumously and unanimously, granted Yen Chang as an attorney and counselor at law in all courts in the state of California. It also acknowledged that the discriminatory exclusion Yen Chang suffered was wrongful.

When Yen Chang left China at age thirteen, he could not have foreseen that he’d become a pioneer for a more inclusive legal profession in the United States.

Author’s Note:
I learned about the boys who went to Yale from the book, “My Life in China and America” by Yung Wing, one of the Yale boys. Further research found the book, “Bury My Bones in America” by Lani Ah Tye Parkas. I read an excerpt about Yen Chang and saw the historical photos of his. I have always been fascinated by faces and I found his face as a young and middle-aged man impressive. A calm face exuding intelligence and competence. I would like to know him as a friend.

Art by Makayla Liu, age 12, Vancouver, Canada. She adds: “I’ve loved drawing since I was a child, and in the future I hope to work in a field related to drawing or character design.”

Scrambled Lessons

By Yimeng (Nicole) Wang Yu, age 17, P. R. China

I have an estranged relationship with eggs. We aren’t completely cut off from each other—we still cross paths on occasion—but our encounters are awkward, fleeting, and never quite right. At most, I’m allowed to see them once every couple of weeks, and when I do, they always insist on showing up in some strange outfit. Sometimes they’re draped in a heavy coat of soy sauce, other times they’re wrapped in a knitted avocado-green sweater of their own making, smugly nestled against toast. But bare? Never. On the rare occasions they appear unadorned, it feels less like a gift and more like a threat. My stomach churns, my throat tightens, and my face knots itself into lines I don’t consciously form. I try to be polite, because it isn’t every day I get to share a meal with eggs, but honestly—they make me deeply uncomfortable.

And yet, as repulsed as I am now, I’ve probably consumed entire dynasties of chickens in the form of eggs over the past sixteen years. I grew up in a household where protein was fuel, and eggs were regarded as the most reliable gas station. My parents, convinced that my athleticism required a steady supply of scrambled yellow, believed they were doing me a favor. So, for sixteen years, they placed eggs before me every morning. Scrambled, boiled, fried, buried in fried rice, floating in soup—eggs became the guest at all of my meals.

For years, I wished this unwelcome visitor would finally excuse itself from my breakfasts. I told my parents that eggs made my stomach feel as if it were gnawing on itself from within. My complaints, however, were dismissed as excuses and childish exaggerations. “You’ll get used to it,” my mom would say. “It’s good for you,” my dad would add. And so I swallowed my objections along with the eggs, because, after all, parents must know best. Didn’t they always?

Until last year.

After a lifetime of groans, gags, and grimaces, my mom finally relented and scheduled a food intolerance test. We waited one long week. When the results arrived, it felt as though the SAT scores of my digestive system had been released. My mom and I huddled around the phone, tense with anticipation. Then the screen flashed with numbers, and chaos erupted. There was screaming, crying (mostly mine), leaping, refreshing the page again and again as if the result might shift if stared long enough. The report confirmed what my body had been insisting all along: I was intolerant to eggs. Not just mildly intolerant, either—I had obliterated the intolerance scale. The threshold for high sensitivity was 200. I scored 900. Four and a half times the limit. Eggs and I weren’t simply mismatched; we were sworn enemies, cosmically opposed.

In that moment, years of swallowed frustration finally poured out of me. My intuition had been right, and science had finally corroborated it. Turns out I wasn’t a dramatic complainer. At last, my mom believed me. I was vindicated.

But looking back, I realize those mornings of forced eggs were not acts of cruelty but of love—misguided, perhaps, but love nonetheless. My parents weren’t trying to torture me; they were trying to keep me healthy in the way they knew best. Only now, with hindsight, can I see how much care went into those breakfasts. At the time, I couldn’t imagine it. I just assumed that because my parents insisted, they must be right, and because I was a child, I must be wrong.

It reminds me of the way I thought about growing up in general. As a child, I carried this foreign but persistent belief that everything would improve as I got older. I thought the world itself would change with me—that kindness and fairness were waiting just beyond the next birthday. My greatest problem then was the cafeteria bully, and even that seemed temporary, destined to dissolve once we were all old enough to know better. In my imagination, adulthood was a yet-to-be-discovered place where everyone made good decisions, where people were kinder, wiser, gentler—because they were grown.

Of course, the reality was never that simple. Growing older didn’t fix the world; it merely sharpened my vision to see it more clearly. Eggs did not suddenly stop making me sick when I turned sixteen—it took years of paying attention to myself, of insisting on what I felt, before anyone else would listen. Adulthood did not sanctify those around me—it simply gave me the ability to recognize their complexity, their contradictions, and, sometimes, their well-intentioned mistakes.

In that sense, perhaps I was not entirely wrong as a child. The world did get better—not because it grew kinder, but because I learned how to navigate it. I learned to trust my body when it screamed at me. I learned that being believed is not automatic, even by those who love you most, but that persistence matters. And I learned that the very things that cause you pain can, years later, soften into strangely tender memories.

So yes, eggs and I remain estranged. I avoid them, and I live a happier life because of it. But I can’t quite bring myself to hate eggs. They’re a part of my story, a relic of mornings at the kitchen table with my parents, who—despite their misplaced faith in scrambled yolks—were only ever trying to love me in the way they knew how. And maybe that’s what growing up really is: not escaping discomfort, but learning to hold it alongside love, until the bitterness—or the grossness—tastes almost sweet.

—Yimeng (Nicole) Wang Yu is a 17-year-old junior at Shanghai American School, P.R. China. She grew up in Spain and now lives in China, and she speaks, reads, and writes in English, Chinese, Spanish, and French. When she isn’t writing, she can be found on the basketball court, blasting music through her AirPods, or noticing the small, everyday details that might inspire her next piece—sometimes all at once.

The 2025 Weather Photographers of the Year

The 2025 Weather Photographers of the Year Winners

The Royal Meteorological Society (of the United Kingdom) has announced the winners of this year’s Standard Chartered Weather Photographer of the Year Competition. In their tenth year of the competition, they received over 4,000 images from both amateur and professional photographers in 84 countries. You can view details by clicking the Winners’ Galleries on Royal Meteorological Society website.

The Main Category
Winner: Geshuang Chen and Shuchang Dong, for their photo: “The Gorgeous Ring” on Lugu Lake, Yunnan Province, P. R. China.

Runner Up: Jadwiga Piasecka, from the UK, for her photo: “Eunice III,” an image from a sheltered place out of reach of the storm in Newhaven, on the south coast of the U. K., where winds were gusting at over 80 miles per hour. The photographer wrote: “From my vantage point, I watched enormous waves battling against the sea wall, sending dramatic sprays of water high into the air…highlighting just how immense the storm’s fury truly was.”

The Mobile Category
Winner: Kyaw Zay Yar Lin, from Myanmar. Photo: “Fishing in the Raining Season.” The photo captures the urgent feeling of being caught in a sudden downpour. The motion blur of both the fishermen and the rain make the viewer feel part of the action, caught in the sudden intensity of a tropical storm.
Runner Up: Tamás Kusza, from Slovakia, Photo: “Path to the Heart of the Storm”

The Young Category
Winner: Adrian Cruz, from the US, Photo: “Eruption of the Sky,” captured from a passenger plane flying between Washington DC, and Orlando, Florida. The photo reveals a spectacular view of a thunderstorm cloud glowing pink against a deepening blue sky.
Runner up: Ellen Ross, from the US, Photo: “Clear Skies Ahead.”

The Climate Category
New to this year’s competition was the Climate Category, created to underscore the connection between weather patterns and the broader impacts of climate change, illustrating how these global shifts impact businesses, people and communities.
Winner: Jonah Lange, from the US. Photo: “West Texas Special.”
Climate change is amplifying extremes, turning open landscapes into arenas for even more volatile and destructive weather. Drought conditions in West Texas are becoming more frequent and severe, drying out the soil and increasing the availability of loose dust.
Runner Up: Maria del Pilar Trigo Bonnin, of the Philippines, for: “Heading Home.” Typhoon Rai (locally named Odette) tore across Siargao Island, Philippines, in December 2021. Maria took this photo from the back of another motorbike as they made their way through the devastation.

You can visit the Winners’ Galleries on the Royal Meteorological Society’s website.

A New Chapter of My Life

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida.

Another box. Then another. My black hair, usually silky, was sticky with sweat as I packed up all of my earthly belongings.

“Ming, get ready.” Under my mom’s authoritative voice, a note of trepidation quivered. “We’re about to go to the airport.”

“Ok, fine,” I replied, as reluctantly as I could.

I had lived in the buzzing streets of Shanghai for my whole life. I haven’t taken one step out of the comfort of my country. Now, all the sudden, my parents had decided to move to America, where my dad could find a better job. I’d have to leave all my friends, teachers, and even my tennis coach, who taught me how to swing a racquet before I could write my name. So, as you can see, I absolutely do not want to move to America. But, according to my parents, “Ni zhang da yao sheng huo hao, shiao shi hou yao mian dui tong ku.” That basically translates to, “If you want to live a good life when you are older, then you have to suffer when you are young.” They also said something vague about staying true to yourself and your dreams even when moving to another country—which I never really understood. My dream had always just been to enjoy my life in China.

“Are you ready?” my mom called.

“Yes, just one more thing to pack,” I replied, my heart racing like an F1 driver. I carefully placed my last precious item, a picture of my family and me, into the final box.

Then, I hurried down the stairs. With a heavy heart and dragging feet, I slowly made my way to the door. I tried to savor that short amount of time, but just knew it was going to make me more devastated. I briskly walked into a bluish, gray car with shiny windows. The driver was my Dad’s best friend, Uncle Tong. Yet another friend we would lose when we move to America. The car was about to burst with our luggage—we all held our breath to see if everything would fit until the trunk finally slammed shut over the last suitcase. The driver began to turn the key to start the car and stop my heart, my breath, and everything about my life for all twelve years of it so far. I took one long, regretful look at our apartment as we began to drive away, the engine humming, into my new life.

It’s not an exaggeration when I say the airport was extremely packed when we got there—it buzzed with more people than even the densest street of the crowded city I was born in. The hustle and bustle made me feel like part of a huge ant colony. Just as we made it through the final security checkpoint, an announcer called through the speakers: “Passengers of Flight 224, we will start boarding the plane soon for Miami, Florida.”

After endless hours of being trapped in the sweaty plastic chair along with all the other airplane passengers, finally, that same voice jerked me to attention from the stupor I’d fallen into. “Attention all passengers, please gather your belongings, we are approaching our destination.” We were here, in the dreadful place I had only imagined months before.

I peered out the window. America sure looked less crowded than home, but it was nothing like my home halfway across the globe. People started to file themselves out of the plane, and we followed. When we got to the airport terminal, my dad decided we would sit down and eat lunch. I expected soup dumplings, noodles or roast duck, but instead there were hamburgers and french fries. When I tried the bun, my taste buds were left disappointed by the lack of flavor. As I bit into an over-salted fry, this time, I also bit back tears.

A week later…

My stomach wasn’t just doing cartwheels now: it was double backflips, and handstands. I walked into the front doors of my new school. Everything seemed foreign. The school was a big cement building with newly polished windows, unlike the tinted windows in my old school. Kids turned around to look at me. They started magnetizing into groups and whispering. Suddenly, I was in the middle of the hallway while clusters of other kids gathered on the sides. I caught some people saying, “Who is she?” and, “ Is she a new kid?” I blushed. Then, a strange noise rang out and everybody started walking to different rooms.

Nervously, I cast around for someone to ask. I spotted another kid, who had almond-colored hair and blue eyes, similarly to many of my classmates. What she didn’t seem to have, and which set her apart, was friends. My throat dry, I whispered, “Why’s everybody leaving?”

The girl looked over at me. “They are going to their classes.”

What did that mean? I gave her an inquisitive look. She somehow understood that I was not American and I didn’t speak much English. Then, she all of a sudden said hi in Chinese.

“Ni hao ma?” She could speak Chinese?

At my astounded expression, she added, “Wozai xue Zhongwen.” I am learning Chinese.

I don’t know what triggered me to do this, but I started a full-blown conversation filled with laughs and smiles. We smiled at each other and went to our rooms. There! I had found my first friend. Already! Maybe this wasn’t that bad after all.

The rest of the day flew by. Amelia talked and laughed with me and we had a lot of fun. As we walked home together, I felt a warm feeling spread over me. This was the beginning of a new adventure.

By Angela Xue, age 10, Florida. She writes, “Both of my parents are from China and so are my grandparents. I was born in the US. I regularly visit China to see my grandparents every year. I am fascinated by the cultural difference between the two countries. I imagine instead of being born here in the US, if I were born in China, how my life would be different. I sometimes dream about this. In school, I visualize and put myself in the shoes of students who came from China. Their life and perspective must be very different from mine. This multiple culture comparison fascinates me and drives me to write this story about Ming.”

King of the Soup Dumplings: Yang Bing-Yi

By Fanny Wong, New York.

During the Chinese civil war in 1948, Yang Bing-Yi was an ambitious 21-year-old man. He decided to leave his home in southern China and embark on a new life. With only $20 in his pocket, Bing-Yi stepped into a boat to escape the war. He worried whether the rickety boat would make it to Taipei, the capital of Taiwan.

The boat arrived safely and Bing-Yi’s life changed.

He met and married a young woman, Lai Pen-Mei. They started a new business together.

Young and hard-working, the couple sold cooking oil in glass bottles. This supported their growing family, until oil in tins became popular and business slowed.

Bing-Yi worried. What else could he do to support his growing family? His education was disrupted when Japanese troops occupied China. Without a good education, he still could work hard and make something of himself. He started another business.

He recalled he had learned how to make noodles from relatives. That was something he did rather well. So he opened a store to sell noodles.

He made very good noodles. Business was brisk but there was a lot of competing noodle makers. What could he do to bring in more customers? How could his noodles stand out? He had no idea. Then a loyal customer encouraged him to make something else, a soup dumpling (Xiao Long Bao) that was popular in China.

“At first,” Bing-Yi explained. “I knew nothing about the skills of making dumplings, but I set out to learn.”

He had a lot to learn!

First, he created the soup with pork bones. Then he mixed the filling of pork, water, minced ginger, and then seasoned it with soy sauce and pepper.

The flour dough was easy to make. Bing-Yi rolled out each piece to a round disc about 3 inches in diameter.

The challenge was how to fill the dough with soup. He formed it into a pouch, but the soup was too thin. It didn’t stay inside.

He experimented and experimented with the dough. It was either too thick or too thin. Even when the dough was just right, nothing worked. But he persisted and came to the conclusion that the problem could not be the consistency of the dough.

He started to experiment with the soup.

He boiled chicken and pig bones for a long time until the soup was gelatin-like, which was easier to handle than liquid soup. He filled the soup gelatin into the pouch and pinched it close, making pleats on top. When he steamed the dumplings in a wok, the gelatin soup melted. Viola! Soup filled dumpling! After so many trials, he had found the solution!

The aroma made Bing-Yi’s mouth water. He waited impatiently for the dumplings to be cooked. He lifted the wok cover to check on the progress frequently. Finaly, dumplings were ready. He poked a hole on the top of a dumpling to let out the steam. He bit first into the skin, then delicately slurped up the hot soup. He closed his eyes to savor the soup and the filling. An explosion of flavors and texture! Delicious! His customers would love it.

Word of mouth from appreciative customers brought more people that overflowed his store front. In 1972, at age of 45, Bing-Yi took a bold step and opened his first restaurant in Taipei, Taiwan. He named it Din Tai Fung. He chose those words because din means a cooking vessel and tai fung mean peace and abundance. It was an auspicious name for a restaurant that would open branches first in Tokyo, then in Arcadia, California, and then in New York City.

Each restaurant uses the same high standard, down to the diameter of the dough and the weight of each soup dumpling. Each one must weigh 21 grams, about three-quarters of an ounce. Through glass windows in the restaurants, customers can watch the white-uniformed cooks prepare the dumplings in a brightly lit kitchen. They can see the amount of work and the technique of making a soup dumpling. Their consistent high quality of the dumplings and level of service bring new and repeat customers.

In 1993, the New York Times published a feature about the restaurant. In 2010, it received a Michelin Star, a prestigious award to a restaurant offering outstanding cooking. Food tasting experts have raved about the dumplings, spreading the restaurant’s fame far and wide.

In 2023, Yang Bing-Yi passed away at the ripe age of 96. But his two sons continue their father’s legacy, serving the popular Xiao Long Boa in Din Tai Fung restaurants in many cities all over the world.

Two years ago, I visited my brother-in-law in Taipei, Taiwan. He took me to a Din Tai Fung in a shopping mall. We had to take a number and wait on a bench outside. My brother-in-law ordered not only the dumplings, but also small side dishes and a cucumber salad. I still remember how delicious the dumplings were. Surely worth the 30-minute wait!

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong has been a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.

Making Wontons

By Drew Choy, age 12, grade 6, California.

The cold water welcomed my fingertips as I dipped them into the bowl. I gently lathered the water onto the wrapper so I wouldn’t rip it. The meat inside of the wrapper felt like a golf ball—smooth, spherical and heavy for its small size. I connected the two opposite corners of the wrapper and folded the wonton* into an envelope.

I’m a third generation American and making wontons is something that connects me to my culture. My parents are pretty good at it, but I’m just starting, so sometimes I make small mistakes. We make them at random times. Sometimes I get home from soccer practice and the wontons are waiting for me, and other times, I get to make a couple of them, too.

Chinese cuisine is a lot different than many other cuisines in that you rarely ever get to eat the dish you ordered. Most of the time, you share all of the food with everyone at the table, even if you only ordered one item. When I share these meals with my parents, it helps me bond with them.

I set the wonton down on the platter where many of the wontons my parents had previously made were sitting. Journey (the music band) played in the background. My mom, who was preparing the vegetables for dinner, said something to my dad in Chinese which I didn’t understand.

As my dad pulled the first batch of wontons out of the pot, the aroma filled the room, and my mouth watered.

I refocused on my task, but I was having trouble closing the wrappers tight. So I dropped the wonton onto the plate, sat back in my chair, and crossed my arms.

My dad got up from his chair and crouched down next to me. He then calmly walked me through how to find the right amount of meat and how to seal the wrappers well.

When I visit China, I’m the only person in my family who doesn’t speak any Chinese. Whenever we’re shopping at street markets, vendors are shouting out items in Chinese, and at restaurants the menus are all written in Chinese. This makes me feel separated from my culture because I can’t do the basic things that Chinese people can do. But when we’re back home in California, making Chinese food is one of the only things that makes me feel Chinese.

“It’s okay,” my dad tells me. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

My mom, still standing over the boiling pot of water, says, “Yeah, as a kid, I didn’t understand how to make wontons right away. It takes time to learn new things.”

A smile crept onto my face. When the wontons were finished boiling, I made a sauce containing soy sauce, sesame sauce and rice vinegar. I bit into the first wonton and the juice from the meat burst inside my mouth in a flavorful explosion.

Immersing in Chinese culture isn’t just about speaking the language. Food and my parents are equally important things that connect me to it. In China, I may have felt awkward being around a lot of the people, but through participating in small cultural practices here in the U.S., I hope to fill the gap between Chinese culture and me.

* Wonton is a Chinese dumpling that is commonly found across many regional cuisines of China.

—Drew Choy, age 12, grade 6, California. Drew writes, “I’m Chinese-American, and I am the second generation of my family born in the U.S. I only speak English right now, but I used to be fluent in Chinese. The most important thing to me is my parents. They are the ones that support you and guide you through all aspects of your lifetime. My parents are my best friends and I wouldn’t be who I am without them. In the future, my dream is to become a professional soccer player. I am a very athletic kid, and sports are something that always cheer me up.”

The Girl who Saved the American Pilot

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York.

On February 11, 1941, Ah Ying watched a parachute float down from the sky. It draped the roof and the side of a small building in their village of Shatin, in the outskirts of Hong Kong.

The adults of the village were frightened and ran off. Ah Ying was nervous too, but she was more curious than frightened. She walked closer and saw a White pilot. She was relieved the pilot was not a Japanese. The Japanese had occupied Hong Kong and she was used to seeing them strutting around, sometimes on horseback.

His leg was hurt. He was limping. Could she trust him?

The pilot showed a Chinese flag sewn on the inside of his jacket. Ah Ying breathed a sigh of relief.

It was all right. He was not an enemy. He was working with the Chinese against the Japanese invaders. She must hide him from the Japanese soldiers.

Ah Ying led the pilot from the village to the cow pastures on a small path. As they climbed the steep path, he could hardly follow her with his hurt leg and a burned arm. They went up a steep path, Ah Ying pulling him by the good right hand.

There was no way of avoiding a Japanese sentry post below. They hurried as fast as they could. But the Japanese spotted them.

Crack! Wheeeee! Crack! Two Japanese soldiers fired shots and others were running toward them. They raced up a hill and down the other side. The pilot could not follow fast enough and Ah Ying lost sight of him. The Japanese soldiers were quite a distance away when she reached the top of a hill and raced down the other side. She looked back once and saw the pilot half hidden by a boulder surrounded by scrawny weeds.

For the next few hours, until the sun set, Ah Ying dared not look for the pilot. The Japanese soldiers were still searching for him on the hillside. She had to help him somehow. Her parents were against her going back to help.

“The Japanese is our enemy, not the pilot. If he’s caught, the Japanese will treat him cruelly,” she said to her parents, who knew too well the cruelty of the soldiers.

As Ah Ying searched the hillside, she sang a folk song to let the pilot know she was looking for him. He emerged from behind the boulder. She led him through bushes and grass to a tall shrubbery on another hillside. She pulled the shrubbery aside and shoved the pilot down a foot or two onto a straw floor in a hole about eight feet in diameter.

Ah Ying turned on a flashlight. The hole was underground. It must have been used as an oven for burning charcoal. The past fire had baked the walls into hardness and sealed off dampness. She pounded two nails into the rock at the entrance and hung a blanket to block the light from inside the cave.

The next morning, Ah Ying brought food. It was plain rice with pickled cabbage. She watched him scoop them into his mouth hungrily with the chopsticks.
The pilot wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand and pointed to his chest to introduced himself, “Donald Kerr.”

Ah Ying introduced herself he same way. She motioned with her palm that he should stay there and left.

It was too dangerous to visit the pilot in daytime. The next night, Ah Ying brought hard boiled eggs, boiled sweet potatoes, and a thermos of hot water. She pointed toward the outside and brought in an old man dressed in dark clothes and western hat.

Peering at the pilot through thick glasses, the old man said, “Good morning, sir. I am happy to know you. I am Y.T.”

“My name is Donald Kerr. I’m glad we can talk in English”

The children did not understand what the two men discussed in English. When the discussion was over, Ah Ying left with Y.T.

During the three days that Kerr hid in the cave, Ah Ying supplied him with food. On the fourth day, she brought along a young Chinese woman.

“Friend, friend,” the woman whispered, while removing the bushes and crawled in.

“My name is Miss Li,” she said. “I speak some English. Someone will come for you in a few days.”

She left with Ah Ying.

Several nights later, Y.T., the woman, and Ah Ying arrived with more food.

“Eat fast. We go to another place,” he said.

They hiked in silence up a long slope. At the top of the hill, water shimmered in the distance.

“Now you go with Ah Ying,” Y.T. said and disappeared with Miss Li into the darkness.

They walked and walked, up and down hills, on large paths and tiny trails. It was rough going. There were rocky patches and narrow gullies.

At the bottom of a hill was a town with dim lights. Ah Ying left him on the hill to sleep among the weeds, with his rolled-up coat for a pillow.

The weather was sunny the next day. After dark, Ah Ying came back to the waiting pilot with a note in English, “I bring you home now.”

They traveled silently into another valley and reached a long Chinese house. A wooden door opened a little to let them in. A room was full of people, young and old men and Miss Li.

“Who are all these people?’ Kerr asked.

“Guerillas,” Miss Li said. “We’ll keep you safe. The Japanese are only a few miles away. Sleep here until we are ready to leave.”

Around midnight, Miss Li woke the pilot sleeping on a bamboo bed. “We take you to China by boat.”

Miss Li and Ah Ying shook hands with the pilot.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Kerr said.

The pilot was taken to his base in Guilin, China. Back home in Shatin, Ah Ying never forgot the pilot and her courageous story became proud lore of her family.

By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York. Ms. Wong has been a frequent contributor to Skipping Stones Magazine.

American Born Taiwanese

By Alyssa Huang, age 15, freshman, California

I have two identities, as reflected in my name. My first name originates from the West and contains Greek, English, and Irish roots. It means “rational thinker” and “prospering flower.” By contrast, my last name comes from the Far East. It means “yellow” in Mandarin—an imperial color that symbolizes beauty and balance. When pronounced in Mandarin, my last name flows off the tongue, like a gentle breeze blowing over green meadows in warm sunlight. However, in America, its symbolism and beauty become completely lost. The Phonetic English pronunciation of my last name, “Hawaaaang”, steam rolls over its naturally melodious tone and sounds like a rusty bell, jarring and dissonant.

Crunch. Textured rocks smash across the Earth’s pavement. Every second graders’ hands enthusiastically create “skin colored paints” from chocolate brown and cream-colored rocks. All but mine. I squint and scrutinize the creek bed, searching desperately for tan-yellow rocks that match my skin color. None exist, so I settle on a cocoa-colored rock and forcefully grind it into paint to fulfill the mandatory assignment: a self portrait made using “rock paint.” Later that afternoon, classmates bustle around the classroom taping up their masterpieces. I find myself encircled by a perfectly-matching array of smiling, white-faced portraits. After struggling to find a space on the wall, I hide my solemn-faced, dark-skinned image in the corner. That summer, I avoid the sun, duck behind shadows, and slather on thick white sunscreen to protect my delicate, thin skin. But my complexion remains yellow and tanned. Nothing changes.

For two years, I coexist with my school classmates as a foreigner. When fourth grade finally ends, I feel relieved and ready for my anticipated summer vacation— visiting my grandparents in Washington DC. “Nai Nai!” I shout as I run into Grandma’s warm, outstretched arms. As she envelopes me in her unconditional love, a calm peace washes over my small frame. I tilt my head back to admire Nai Nai’s dark brown, almond-shaped eyes. They appear kind and gentle, strong and wise. I notice my own reflection in her eyes, sigh deeply, and entwine my fingers with Nai Nai’s, creating a seamless blend of golden-brown. Later that day, Nai Nai ushers me to visit her friends. “Let me introduce you to my Garden Group,” she says. We approach an elderly circle of Taiwanese ladies who peer at me curiously and ask, “Ni shi shei?” (Who are you?) Nai Nai responds, “Wo de sun nu.” (My granddaughter). I survey the wise elders, who share my ancestry and heritage, and feel emboldened. Having spent the year learning Mandarin as my World Language, I prepare to show off. ”Knee howe, woe jiow Huwang Leeshawn,” I enunciate slowly, trying to capture the correct tones. The women’s happy, squinting eyes grow big and round. “Ta bu jiang guo yu?” (She doesn’t speak Mandarin?), Nai Nai rescues me and responds in fluent Mandarin, “Ta shi mei guo shen de.” (She is American-born). The women nod politely, but look away to conceal their disappointment. To them, I am an American foreigner. Not Taiwanese enough.

In the fall of sixth grade, Social Emotional Learning class begins to address the previously taboo topics of race and ethnicity. At my table, two Minority students describe hateful words and years of feeling like outcasts. I empathize with their pain and begin sharing my own story, but they cut me off. “You don’t know anything about racism!” they exclaim. A statement, not a question. “You’re Asian, so you’ve never experienced discrimination in your life!” My jaw drops, but no words emerge. I feel so paralyzed that I cannot muster a response. “Asian racism doesn’t exist,” they announce, then walk away, leaving me isolated yet again. Later that afternoon, I greet a new Asian classmate before entering my advisory. She complains about her “Asian Tiger Mother’s tough expectations.” “My mom can be tough, too,” I comment, trying to empathize. The Asian classmate suddenly steps away from me. “What do you mean? You’re not….” she hesitates before pursing her lips. “I’m not what?” I ask. “Well,” she stammers, “You’re not really…. Never mind, you don’t get it.” We stand side-by-side in awkward silence. My classmate never completes her sentence aloud, but her facial expression is clairvoyant, for I have encountered this scenario before. My classmate speaks Mandarin at home, whereas I speak English. In her eyes, I am a fake Asian, or a “Twinkie”—someone who is yellow (Asian) on the outside but intrinsically white (American) on the inside. I pull my hoodie over my head and walk towards the carpool circle.

Eighth grade ends, and summer finally arrives. For the first time since COVID, I attend summer camp—a week-long Taiwanese cultural camp called Taiwanese American Next Generation (TANG). While unpacking my clothes in my dormitory room, I hear a hollow knock at the wooden entryway. The door swings open, and my assigned roommate steps into our shared space. My eyes widen because it feels like I am staring at a mirror. Like me, she dons an NBA athletic T-shirt and Nike basketball sliders ; a crooked ponytail keeps her long, black hair away from her sun-tanned face. “I’m Audrey,” she announces, then offers me a fist pump. For the next half an hour, my New Jersey-born “ABC” roommate and I speak in excited tones, sharing stories about our families as we walk towards the camp’s opening ceremony. Once at the auditorium, a speaker begins addressing all two hundred campers in Mandarin. I glance sideways at Audrey and notice her head tilt in a confused manner. Creased lines appear on both our golden-skinned foreheads. “Do you understand this?” she giggles, “Because I don’t!”

Immediately, I smile. “Me neither,” I reply.

—Alyssa Huang, age 15, freshman, California. She adds: “My name is Alyssa… I am a Taiwanese-American.

“California is typically thought of as a melting pot of cultures, but I grew up in an overwhelming homogeneous Caucasian neighborhood. When asked about my nationality, well-meaning neighbors have shockingly confused Taiwan with Thailand, or insisted that Taiwan is the same thing as China (The People’s Republic of China). (But, it’s not).

“As a child, I felt embarrassed about my ethnicity and dark colored skin. It was a huge relief to me when middle school arrived, and new Asian students enrolled in my sixth grade classroom. However, those new students were fluent in Mandarin, and I found myself being teased for choosing to take Mandarin as my “foreign language.”

“The first time I ever felt truly accepted was at Taiwanese American Next Generation (TANG). TANG is a week-long, multi-generational, Taiwanese cultural camp that I attend with my brother, cousins, parents, and grandparents. We engage in fun Taiwanese games, listen to Taiwanese speakers like Arthur Chu (an eleven-time Jeopardy! winner), and learn about Taiwanese culture. At TANG, we share an appreciation for Taiwanese food and also a deep value of family, relationships, and community. TANG openly welcomes non-Taiwanese (my co-campers include Indian, Haitian, European, and Korean-Americans). I love that Taiwanese culture is warm, welcoming, and inclusive.

“Nowadays, I confidently bring Taiwanese pineapple cakes to social events and gladly compare cultures with my European, Latino, Indian, and Persian friends. I recognize that building an inclusive community requires honesty, insight, and sharing. It’s important for me to listen to my peers, but also contribute my part. I’m finally able to share about myself and my background—because I’m finally proud of my Taiwanese-American heritage.”

Save Them Bears

By Ya-Ting Yu, Taiwan

Black Bear recently moved north for climate change research. During the festive season, Black Bear’s colleague, Polar Bear, invited him to her family dinner. “No Bear should be alone on Christmas Eve,” she said when she heard the un-partnered Black Bear planned to hibernate in his cave. With no excuse to say no, Black Bear obliged.

That evening, Black Bear arrived at Polar Bear’s home with a basket of cloudberries in his paws. He’d agonized over the gift, unsure what to bring. Though he’d seen Polar Bear’s lunch boxes: ringed seals, whale carcasses, geese eggs, he still preferred chestnuts and persimmons. Honey and beetle larvae were rare treats he savoured after long hours of foraging through data at the lab, but to be inclusive, a value Polar Bear emphasized, he chose cloudberries, safe for vegans, vegetarians, and the nut-allergic.

Polar Bear’s family welcomed Black Bear warmly, hugging, kissing and thanking him profusely for the cloudberries. Flustered by the sudden physical contact, Black Bear forced a courteous smile and awkwardly patted Polar Bear’s Mom’s back, relieved when she finally let go of his paw. It was his first time receiving kisses from complete strangers. Where he came from, in the East, Bears rarely even shook paws, sniffing was usually as close as they got.

But their habitat differences didn’t stop there. For an occasion like Christmas Eve, Polar Bear’s family usually indulged in seal and whale fat. Vegetation was more for decoration, except for the hippie Cousin who’d recently turned vegan to combat the melting ice.

Before dinner, the family gathered in prayer positions, bowing their fluffy heads to say grace. Black Bear, unfamiliar with their faith, looked from left to right at the table and hurried to mimic their gestures.

“Amen,” Black Bear echoed, a pace too slow.

“Do Bears in your forest also celebrate Christmas?” Polar Bear’s Mom asked.

Black Bear scratched his ear. “I guess so? But it’s more of a time when Bears hunt for deals—shopping sprees, fancy meals. We don’t get the day off, you see. Lunar New Year, now that’s a feast worth hibernating in Taiwan.”

“Oh, are you from Taiwan?” Polar Bear’s Aunt leaned closer, her snout twitching. “My son volunteered to build homes for the poor children in rural parts of your forest. Right, Cubby? He, sorry—they have an igloo architectural license.”

Mortified, Polar Bear injected, “Auntie, Cousin went to Thailand, not Taiwan.” Her fur bristled as she glanced at Black Bear.

“That’s cool,” Black Bear said. “But igloos? My Sun Bear friend told me they melt once the volunteers take off. At the end, it seems easier for them to sleep in trees.”

“In trees!” Polar Bear’s Aunt gasped. “Son, you must go back and build them un-meltable igloos next time. The poor cubs. Just imagine—they don’t even have blackout curtains!” She sighed sympathetically and turned to Black Bear. “Do you have blackout curtains in Taiwan? Don’t tell me you also sleep in trees.”

“Oh no,“ Black Bear said with an uneasy laugh. ”Mostly caves or tree cavities. The only time I climb trees is when I’m hungry—for honey and bee larvae. Have you tried them?”

“Bee larvae? That sounds disgusting,” Polar Bear’s Cousin said, wrinkling their nose, unfazed by Polar Bear’s death glare across the table. “Thailand fed us Pad Thai and Green Curry every day.”

“Son,” Polar Bear’s Uncle rumbled as he lumbered over with a platter of barbecued seal fat. “Don’t you know Formosan Black Bears are battling Giant Pandas to protect their territory? What propaganda are you watching all day on TikTok? Read the news.”

Polar Bear’s Aunt sniffled. “I heard about that conflict. Is that why you left, Black Bear? It must be so dangerous back home. Don’t worry. Stay here in the Arctic as long as you want. We’ll sponsor you.”

No longer able to tolerate her extended family’s political incorrectness, Polar Bear tried to stir the conversation. “So, Black Bear, how’s your research? Any insights to share?”

“Yes, actually,” Black Bear said. “Before coming here, I thought Taiwan did a terrible job on climate change initiatives. Sure, we mostly rely on fossil fuels, but imagine squeezing Australia’s population into an area the size of Switzerland. Add typhoons and earthquakes to the mix. Our islands need to generate energy for millions and the semiconductor industry, which, by the way,” he added, fixing his gaze on Polar Bear’s Cousin, “powers your AI, EVs, solar panels, and wind turbines. Charity case, eh?”

A beat of silence followed as Polar Bear’s family exchanged looks. The Cousin shifted in their seat, ears flattening. Minutes passed. Polar Bear cleared her throat.

“Did you know Taiwan is smaller than many of our icebergs?” she asked, her voice tentative, like a kind schoolteacher. “Every Bear does what they can with what they have. And really, isn’t that what this is about? Climate change affects us all—even those big-headed humans. Here we are, just bears trying to adapt.”

She surveyed her family, looking each in the eye, and finally at Black Bear. “And if Black Bear can adapt to seal fat and bear kisses, maybe we can try a little harder too.”

For the first time that evening, Black Bear felt the tension in his shoulders ease, melting faster than glaciers. Maybe he didn’t fully belong in the Arctic yet, but any bear could find a caring companion who understood, even in this icy corner of the world. He leaned in to sniff the barbecue seal fat and said, “Hold up. Let me get my soy sauce.”

Story and illustration by Ya-Ting Yu is a Taiwanese writer based in Taipei, with roots stretching to Toronto and Edinburgh. Writing in English as her second language, she weaves themes of identity and belonging, drawing on her background in counseling and psychology to tell the stories of East Asian expatriates and international students.

Save Them Bears was inspired by my own experience as a Taiwanese expat, navigating the nuances of cultural assimilation and identity. I hope to highlight how cultural misunderstandings can be wrapped in well-meaning gestures. By anthropomorphizing the characters, I aim to create a story that is somewhat ‘trigger-free’ yet thought-provoking.