Aylissa Penn譯

（「台美人」在我的認知，是1971台灣被蔣介石悍然退出聯合國、1978美國承認中華人民共和國這兩個事件的影響，台灣人懷抱「五月花號」尋找新天地，或是猶太人「出埃及記」尋找生命歸依的一種生命認同、土地認同的情懷。這篇文章深刻的寫出這種無法言喻的炙熱的感情。「台美人」是百分百的、最棒的台灣人！）

我們不會被根除——教堂槍殺案引發的台美人認同/Jocelyn Chung

當我的家族移民美國，兩位橘郡福爾摩沙長老教會(台灣又名福爾摩沙)成員幫我們安頓下來，與南加的台灣社區交流。

當我想到教堂，我想到家。我想到每週教堂午餐的蒸高麗菜菜香和超大桶滷肉飯。

我想到一個長長的白色折疊桌，周圍圍繞坐輪椅的阿公和阿嬤，一起吃東西，聊聊近來小孩或孫子的近況，化療進展如何，還有誰家的鰥夫寡婦需要幫忙或者送餐，和最新的台灣消息。

我想到叔叔阿姨大聲嚷嚷“哇嘎哩共”，接著隨之而起的笑聲環繞教堂走道。這是家；我們一起築起的家。

發生的事

當我想到星期日Geneva 長老教會發生的事 - 當時Irvine台灣長老教會有活動，那個牧師是我的家族的前牧師，那位從台灣來的牧師是我母親的青年領袖 - 一切就像在我身邊一樣。

警察說犯人是一名68歲的亞裔男子，一人死亡、四人受傷，地點Laguna Wood的教堂，距離洛杉磯市中心西南方的45英里處。官方表示犯人因為中國和台灣的緊張情勢因此鎖定教堂的台灣社區。

對太多的移民來說，教堂、廟宇、清真寺和其他社區的聚會不是只是宗教或一般社交的地點，他是我們社區燦爛的心跳。

這個叔叔是你的牙醫；那個阿姨的哥哥是你孩子的小兒科醫師；這個阿姨帶領其他阿姨跳舞和做運動；這個叔叔是社區的水電；這個阿嬤教大家彈鋼琴。

社區教堂就像家庭聯絡簿，緊急聯絡人，是台語：台灣福建話可以被自由大聲交流使用的場合。

現在我看到阿嬤在教堂外啜泣的照片，身旁圍繞著社工安慰他們，我非常哀傷。

當想到為了保護別人失去生命的鄭醫師 Dr. John Cheng 是喪父後第一次陪媽媽上教堂，我無法不想起他媽媽。

台灣人一直以來承受的暴力和壓迫

當我還小，我完全不懂為何祖父母迫切地希望我們維持台灣認同，背後的複雜原因。我只知道我以身為台灣人為傲，因為他們以身為台灣人為傲。他們告訴我「絕對不要說你是中國人，我們是台灣人」

慢慢長大後，透過口傳故事和祖父母親身經歷的50年日治台灣我開始了解。

二戰日本投降後，我的祖父母目睹同盟國把台灣交給國民黨“中國國民黨”的恐怖時代。1947年中國國民黨軍隊暴力鎮壓和殺害數以千計台灣民眾。他們系統性針對台灣菁英，害怕菁英會策劃對抗中國國民黨。

我父親那邊的祖父是個婦產科醫師，回憶起許多他的朋友和同事慘遭中國國民黨暴行。他聽說中國國民黨在搜索他，所以逃到鄉下躲藏因此倖存。

中國國民黨在那個時期殺害上至28000名台灣人，是為人熟知的228事件。接著黨的領導人組織長達40年的戒嚴，禁止談論大屠殺。

中國國民黨實行當地語言壓制，強迫使用華語進行文化同化和清洗。直到今日，只要談到228，我的祖父母或那個年代的老人家，40年隱埋，吞下和沈默的傷口、悲傷和無助都開始浮上表面。

星期日我們看到的只是這一連串複雜、緊張、歷史背景的一小扇窗。

1978年12月15日總統卡特宣布美國正式認可中華人民共和國，與台灣斷交。美國從1949年拒絕承認共產黨，但直到1970年代，華盛頓認為北京是政治上和經濟上有利的那方。

三分之一在外國出生的台灣人在1980年代來到美國。我的家族就是這群在卡特宣布後來到美國的一群。我的阿嬤記憶曾祖父告訴他們「這裡從此對我們不再安全」。

台美人的故事

對我來說，了解歷史的背景是了解我身為台美人認同和存在非常重要的部分，為什麼台灣長老教會多年來的聚會象徵著堅持和反抗。還有為什麼我的阿嬤和阿公要我知道歷史，說台語，了解跨世代的興榮是我們所有的興榮。

當我想到過去的這個週末發生的八起射殺事件。我油然而生快要超過可以負荷的程度。這種隱藏沸騰的集體槍殺暴力的傷痛 - 種族動機的暴力、政治動機的暴力，我感受周邊被奪走生命的這種失去。

這種集體的心痛是私人的，也是政治性的，歷史性的，並且一直持續。這種失去就像我見到我阿嬤握起拳頭拍打自己胸口在痛苦中啜泣。台美人的故事經常在被計算下的地緣政治模糊和暴力合併台灣認同和中國認同給覆蓋。

我們的老人家忍受了幾十年造就他們生命被噤聲的傷痛，拒絕語言清洗，移民到新天地，在這裡，他們把韌性傳承給後代。我們承受著他們的希望、聲音、苦痛、堅持和故事。

我們拒絕被根除。

 

We won't be erased.Church shooting strikes at our identity as Taiwanese Americans.

 

We come from elders who endured decades of silencing of the trauma that shaped their lives. We refuse to be erased.

Jocelyn Chung

When my family immigrated to the United States, a couple from the Formosan Presbyterian Church of Orange County (Formosa is another name for Taiwan) helped us settle in and get connected with the Taiwanese community in Southern California.

When I think of that church, I think of home. I think of the aroma of steamed napa cabbage and giant pots of "lo ba bung" (braised pork over rice) that are ladled out potluck-style for weekly church lunches.

I think of the long white folding tables surrounded by wheelchairs of "agongs" and "amas" (grandpas and grandmas) eating together and catching up on how each other’s children and grandchildren are doing, how chemo treatment is going, which widow needs extra support or a meal delivery this week, and the latest news from Taiwan.

As a 50-year-old nurse educator — a job she’s done for eight years after two decades working as an emergency room nurse — Katrina knows she’ll be on her feet for hours.

I think of the aunties and uncles loudly saying, “Goa Ga Li Gong!” ("Let me tell you!") as their laughter echoes down church hallways. It is home; it is simultaneously our recreation of home. 

What happened in Laguna Woods

When I think of what happened Sunday at the Geneva Presbyterian Church – which hosts the Irvine Taiwanese Presbyterian Church, where the pastor is our family's former pastor, how the pastor they were honoring from Taiwan was my mom's youth leader – it's all so deeply personal. 

Police said a gunman, a 68-year-old Asian man, killed one person and injured five at the church in Laguna Woods, about 45 miles southeast of downtown Los Angeles. Authorities said the shooter targeted the Taiwanese community at the church over political grievances on tensions between China and Taiwan.

The art written in Taiwanese Hokkien reads: "Have you eaten yet? Make sure to drink water, ok?"
For many immigrant communities, churches, temples, mosques and other community gatherings are so much more than just locations for religious or regular social gathering – they are the heartbeat of our communal flourishing.

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This uncle is your dentist; that auntie’s brother is your child’s pediatrician; this auntie leads praise dance and exercise for the other aunties; that uncle is the community mechanic; this ama taught everyone piano. 

The church community doubles as your family phone book, your emergency contacts and the place of linguistic safety where Tâi-gí, Taiwanese Hokkien, is freely and loudly spoken.

Now when I see the photos of amas weeping outside the church while being comforted by social workers, I feel deep grief.

Orange County Sheriff's Sgt. Scott Steinle displays a photo of Dr. John Cheng, who was killed on May 15, 2022, at  the Geneva Presbyterian Church in Laguna Woods, Calif.
When I think of Dr. John Cheng, who lost his life protecting others after tackling the gunman, who took his mom to church for the first time since his father passed, I can’t stop thinking of his mom. 

Taiwanese have long known violence and repression

When I was younger, I didn’t understand all the complexity behind my grandparents' adamance that we retain our Taiwanese identity. I just knew I was proud to be Taiwanese because they were proud to be Taiwanese. They would tell us, “Never say you are Chinese. We are Taiwanese." "Goan shi Taiwan lang.”

But as I grew older, I learned through oral story and history that my great-grandparents and grandparents had lived through 50 years of Japanese occupation in Taiwan.

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After the surrender of Japan at the end of World War II, my grandparents witnessed the terror that ensued after the Allies handed Taiwan over to the Kuomintang, the Chinese Nationalist political party. In 1947, the KMT troops violently suppressed and killed thousands of Taiwanese civilians. They systematically targeted elite Taiwanese, in fear that elites would conspire against the KMT. 

My paternal grandfather, a gynecologist, recalled losing many of his friends and colleagues to KMT violence. He had received word that the KMT was searching for him, so he fled to the countryside to hide and was spared.

The KMT killed as many as 28,000 Taiwanese people during this period, known as the "228 Incident." Its leaders then institutionalized four decades of martial law, and it was forbidden to speak about the massacre. 

The KMT implemented severe linguistic suppression of the use of local languages and enforced the use of Mandarin for the purpose of cultural assimilation and erasure. To this day, when 228 is brought up to my grandparents or elders in their generation, decades of submerged, swallowed and silenced trauma, grief and helplessness erupt to the surface. 

This is a small window into the complicated, tense, historical context behind what we saw on Sunday.

On Dec. 15, 1978, President Jimmy Carter announced that the United States would formally recognize the People’s Republic of China and sever its diplomatic relations with Taiwan. The United States had refused to recognize the communist regime since 1949. But by the 1970s, Washington saw recognition of Beijing as a politically and economically beneficial move.

Jocelyn Chung with her 86-year-old grandmother who is very active in the Presbyterian Church and taught all the kids piano.

 

A third of all foreign-born Taiwanese came to America in the 1980s. My family was among those who left Taiwan after President Carter’s announcement. My ama (grandma) recounts my great-grandpa telling them, “It’s no longer safe for us here.”

Taiwanese American stories

This historical context was pivotal for me in understanding my Taiwanese American identity and existence; why the Taiwanese Presbyterian churches are in many ways gatherings of resilience and resistance. And why my ama and agong made sure I knew history, spoke Tâi gí and understood that intergenerational flourishing is the flourishing of us all.

When I think about this past weekend and the eight shootings across this country, I feel overwhelmed by the sense that it is all too much. The seething collective pain of gun violence – racially motivated violence, politically motivated violence – has left me at a loss for the stolen breath around us. 

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The collective heartbreak is personal and political, historical and ongoing. The loss can only be communicated by the way I’ve seen my ama pound her chest with her fist and wail in pain. Taiwanese American stories have too often been shrouded by a calculated maze of geopolitical ambiguity and violent conflation of Taiwanese and Chinese identity.

We come from elders who endured decades of silencing of the trauma that shaped their lives, resisted linguistic erasure and immigrated to a new land where they passed their resilient hope to their descendants. We carry their forged hopes, voices, pain, resistance and stories with us.

We refuse to be erased.

 

Jocelyn Chung is a lettering artist, graphic designer, author and a master’s candidate in Asian American Studies at San Francisco State University. Her forthcoming children’s book, "When Love is More Than Words," is about the ways her Taiwanese American family shows love through food, sacrifice, presence and intergenerational care.

< 資料來源：USA TODAY《今日美國報》｜ 引用網址 >