I have three names.

 

The first was given by my aunt at birth, a name that carries the imprint of Han Chinese culture and its strong current of assimilation. The second, a nickname from my elementary school teacher, served as a classroom epithet in the Taiwanese Hokkien dialect––I guess he wanted to use his mother tongue to cast an environment that he felt was more comfortable and familiar.

 

The third name came after I married an American and became a U.S. citizen, following the pre-1970s practice of taking a husband’s surname. I knew I wouldn’t have to take my husband’s surname had I been in Taiwan, as it carried a strong connotation of patriarchy.¹ But as a new green card holder, I wasn’t so sure. There was a fear of separation, especially given the climate at the time, when immigrants faced an unwelcoming society and leadership.

 

I wrestled with the decision for years before finally changing my legal name. As a first-time family-based green card holder with my Taiwanese name, I had little luck finding professional jobs as a designer. As I had in Taiwan, I expected to live as an independent woman, but that independence proved elusive when I first arrived. It wasn’t until I changed my legal name after gaining citizenship that my professional opportunities improved. Yet, I still choose to use my maiden name in my professional career, as it remains deeply tied to my connection with Taiwan.

 

Wen-Li Chen, To My Unborn Child, artist book (7”x9”x1”, 296 pages), digital prints with texts and images, hardcover, thread binding, 2018. Image courtesy of the artist.

 

As for the experience of being a Taiwanese American, I remember a family member here in the States asking where I was from. When I said, “Taiwan,” she responded enthusiastically, “I know Thailand; I heard about that place.” I had to explain to her that they are different countries. Speaking of the country, if you search Wikipedia, it lists Taiwan’s official name as the Republic of China (ROC), which only adds to the confusion with the People’s Republic of China (PRC), especially for outsiders. I wish Taiwan could be internationally recognized as an independent country to avoid this constant mix-up.

 

In Taiwan, I was raised between two distinct sociocultural systems. My maternal side, rooted in Han Chinese traditions, brought with it Confucian values that imposed rigid expectations on gender roles—how women should behave, dress, and observe hierarchies based on age and gender. Under these constraints, it was often difficult to fully express who I was or who I aspired to become. In contrast, my paternal side comes from Taiwan’s Indigenous culture, which places greater emphasis on maternal lineage and social structures. This cultural distinction is evident even in my last name, Chen, which I inherited from my grandmother––a notable departure from the Han Chinese patriarchal tradition of carrying on the paternal surname.

 

While working on my second book, To My Unborn Child (2018), I started thinking about what I’d name my future child and how to remind them of their Kavalan heritage. So, I called up my grandmother to see if she or the women before her—my great Kavalan foremothers—ever had Kavalan names. To my surprise, they all had traditional Kavalan female names, something I didn’t know until I asked. I told my grandmother I wished I had one too, but she didn’t say anything in response.

 

Wen-Li Chen: To My Unborn Child (September 14 – November 10, 2018). Exhibition view at Richmond Art Gallery, British Columbia. Photo by Michael Love. Courtesy of the artist and Richmond Art Gallery.

 

My grandmother has three names, too. I didn’t learn about her Kavalan heritage until I was in middle school. She once had a Japanese name, Masako (まさこ), given to her at birth during the Japanese occupation. In 1949, the household registration officer changed her name amid the KMT government’s retreat from China to Taiwan. Although she never learned to read or write in any of the languages she spoke, she was fluent in listening, speaking, and asking questions in Japanese, Mandarin Chinese, Taiwanese Hokkien, Amis, and Kavalan. Sadly, due to ageing and illness, she has now lost the ability to speak, even forgetting her own Kavalan name.

 

When people in the West inquire about how to pronounce my name, I always try to speak slowly, allowing them to practice until they get it right. Some seek reassurance, while others don’t. I remember a moment when a friend asked how to pronounce my last name—Chen—and whether she had it right. To me, it didn’t really matter, as the name isn’t tied to my grandmother’s Kavalan heritage. It was arbitrarily assigned by a household registration officer, following common Han Chinese naming conventions. Yet, paradoxically, in the U.S., this last name is the only part that connects me to my grandmother.

 

Since 1987, the Kavalan people have fought for nearly four decades to reclaim our names. Although the Kavalan was officially recognized as an Indigenous group by the state in 2002, many individuals within the community—including my grandmother and me—continue to face obstacles in obtaining legal Indigenous status. Unlike Native Nations in the United States, where identity is often determined by DNA or blood quantum, Indigenous identity in Taiwan is based on colonial-era household registration records before 1945, alongside anthropological classifications of Indigenous peoples developed by Japanese scholars. These classifications, primarily based on geography, divided Indigenous groups into “mountain” and “plains” peoples, reinforcing a colonial framework of civilization imposed by the dominant culture. Many plains Indigenous nations today remain without official status, despite their continued existence with distinct languages, clothing, arts, sacrificial ceremonies, and spiritual traditions that honor ancestors and nature.

 

As a Kavalan member, the ability to represent one’s culture and heritage in a name, or in any aspect of identity, suggests a source of empowerment from having to compromise how one belongs and the pressures of assimilation. As an individual and a member of a minority, bestowing a name still carries the weight of legacy—a bridge to past generations that may, in turn, extend into the future. A name holds the complex hopes and fulfillments that stretch across time, becoming a thread for future generations to trace their ancestors, to understand where they came from and the stories they will inherit. It is a beginning, a cycle, and an existence that can speak of bravery and survival with sorrow, joy, and honor. 

 

Wen-Li Chen, Wisp, Single-channel video, 12 min 30 sec, 2019. Image courtesy of the artist.

 

Passed in 2007, the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples recognizes the right of Indigenous peoples to self-determination and to belong to a community or nation according to their own traditions. Yet, in countries like Taiwan, colonial-era laws continue to dictate who gets to be legally recognized as Indigenous. Taiwan’s “Plains Indigenous Peoples” are caught in this legal limbo, with many communities fighting for formal recognition despite their vibrant cultures and histories. This issue isn’t isolated to Taiwan alone—across the world, Indigenous peoples are grappling with similar struggles, including the denial of their right to shape their own development, a lack of political representation, and limited access to social services.

 

In 2016, then-Taiwanese President Tsai Ing-wen officially apologized to the island’s Indigenous Peoples and pledged to reform the relevant laws. Still, today, my grandmother and I cannot be legally recognized as Indigenous under these laws. When I visited the household registration office to reclaim my Kavalan identity under the post-2002 legal reforms, I was asked to provide a “family record” documenting our Indigenous status. Despite the fact that my grandmother speaks the language, that we are blood relatives, and that her image is featured in books and places that celebrate Kavalan culture, we remain unrecognized. The only reason we can’t be legally recognized as Kavalan is because our last name isn’t associated with the mark of Indigenous status in the written records.²

 

This makes me question who has the authority to decide who receives that mark. Who designed the system, and why do they have the power to determine whether Indigenous People can be legally recognized as Indigenous? I’m not interested in institutional welfare. I care because it’s part of who I am. I want to honor my grandparents, who were, are, and will always be Indigenous. And so am I.