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This little light of mine

On what was then Children’s Day in Taiwan, the Republic of China, on 4 April 1988, I was born in Tainan. I had a mop of black hair which, once dried, stood upwards and fierce. The adults nicknamed me ‘fireworks’.

Mama told me her favourite food while she was pregnant with me was hot pot. A hot broth sitting in a pot over portable heat (sometimes gas, sometimes convection), filled with delicious things like mung bean noodles, corn on the cob, pork and seafood balls, Chinese cabbage and other vegetables, a variety of mushrooms and tofu, as well as thinly sliced meat that you would poach in the soup right before eating, adding more and more flavour as everyone ate.

My mama went against Taiwanese naming tradition. Instead of giving my sister and I names where the first of the two words would match for a same-sex child, she decided to be creative. The interesting thing about having matching words with your same-sex siblings is that, in our culture, you are able to track which generation you were part of in the family tree. My mama’s name is Chen Hui-li, her sister is Chen Hui-jao, and their brothers are Chen Chih-chao and Chen Chih-jong. My generation in my household didn’t carry this tradition forward. My sister was named Lin Jye, and I was Lin Cheau. Cheau is rad. I like it. They called me Cheau Cheau. Why? For no real reason other than it was cute. It’s like adding a ‘y’ or ‘ie’ to a name here in South Africa. Cheau has many definitions depending on the context it’s used in but my mama liked it for serendipity and creativity.

Around my first birthday, I had bad diarrhoea. My nanny, who was rather superstitious in folk culture, took me to an interpreter at the local temple. Ji Gong spoke through.

Ji Gong is a pretty cool guy in Chinese folk culture. He was training to be a monk but got kicked out of the temple he was training at for his lack of commitment to the Buddhist monk lifestyle, which is a meat- and alcohol-free one. He did, however, live kindly and helped those in need, so he was known as a rebel with a kind heart. Later he would be recognised by Taoist and Buddhist religions as a deity for his compassionate efforts, and he is often depicted with a bottle of wine, tattered clothes and a hat adorned by the word 佛, which means ‘Buddha’.

The interpreter said Ji Gong said my name wasn’t balanced. Ji Gong chose ‘Ming’ to be added, as the first word. And so that was how I came to be named Ming-Cheau.

Not only did mama have to balance my name – she was also crapped out for going against tradition and, embarrassingly, was told off for this transgression while everyone around the temple was watching.

In Taiwan, changing a name is quite a process. Papa told me my maternal grandfather was not happy about what had happened, but because he (and my parents) didn’t want to disrespect Ji Gong after the advice had already been given, he used his connections to balance my name. ‘Ming’, in the context of my name, means ‘light’. It’s a combination of the two words ‘day’ (日) and ‘moon’ (月). Being an infant at the time, I don’t remember anything … a name was just a name … but about two decades later it became the very foundation of what I (this very confused Taiwanese immigrant) needed in order to make sense of myself.

My name showed me the light in my journey to reclaim a lost identity.

To me, this combination of two words forming one represents a concept – balance. The balance of being both Taiwanese and South African, but also the balance between conditioned ignorance and a thirst to unlearn and learn. ‘Ming’ (明) has many definitions, including ‘light’, ‘bright’, ‘clear’, ‘apparent’ and ‘next’, and all of them feel relevant to the way I am and want to be, and I feel the connection.

I would come to realise that I couldn’t achieve balance without putting in the work.

I would learn how important it is to challenge and educate ourselves so that we don’t maintain limited views from the past.

We can learn much from another person’s experience, and we need to try and see the world from their different perspective. But we also need to understand that one person’s lived experience isn’t the same as another’s and we don’t always have to try to relate – sometimes we just can’t, and we shouldn’t force it. You don’t have to be able to relate in order to sympathise or empathise.

I also read as much as I can, and in educating myself I try to learn about cultural and social differences between people, which helps me to better understand different reactions. Social media, in its different guises, can be valuable too. Twitter is a great platform to learn about different views. It allows you to exercise your mind the way you would your body – to be stronger, healthier and continuously striving to find balance.

Admittedly, I find I make bigger efforts with my ambitions to exercise my mind than I do my physical body, which isn’t exactly ideal … but I want to move forward. I want to be in a constant state of awakening. I want to reach further towards the light of consciousness.