Root Metaphors: How Plants Describe People and Their Hidden Meanings in Taiwan's Cultural Landscape
The language we use to describe human identity and belonging is often rich with metaphors drawn from the natural world. Among the most evocative are those that liken people to plants, particularly their roots. In Taiwan, the sweet potato (hóngshǔ) serves as a poignant example, colloquially describing those who arrived on the island before 1949, implying a deep, indigenous connection to the land. This linguistic choice isn't arbitrary; it taps into profound anthropological and cultural meanings embedded in our understanding of roots.
The Sweet Potato and Taro in Taiwan: A Rooted and Transplanted Identity
In Taiwan, "sweet potato" (蕃薯) became a powerful symbol to distinguish early Hokkien and Hakka immigrants who settled the island. It implied a long-standing, organic relationship with the soil, a local authenticity. This symbolic association stems from the sweet potato's hardy, sprawling nature and its ability to thrive almost anywhere on the island, embodying the resilience and deep-seated connection of those who had put down roots generations ago.
The arrival of the Nationalist government in 1949, bringing with it a large number of mainland Chinese, predominantly soldiers, led to a new linguistic distinction. These newcomers, distinct from the local Taiwanese, were informally dubbed "taro" (芋仔). This choice was not random; "old taro" (老芋仔) became a natural counterpoint to the "sweet potato" due to the taro's similar underground growth, but perhaps also subtly hinting at a different kind of origin or less immediate "rootedness" compared to those who had been on the island for generations. Interestingly, many of these "mainlanders" had been diverse in their provincial origins before arriving in Taiwan, but once they crossed the strait, they were all collectively called "taro" by the locals.
This metaphor highlights a fundamental human need: to define who belongs and who doesn't, who is "from here" and who is "from away." The "roots" become a marker of nativeness, authenticity, and historical presence.
Why Roots? An Anthropological Perspective
From an anthropological viewpoint, the consistent use of root metaphors to describe human groupings isn't coincidental.
Anchoring and Stability: Roots are fundamental to a plant's survival, anchoring it firmly to the ground. This symbolizes stability, belonging, and an enduring presence in a particular place. To be "rooted" implies a deep, unshakeable connection that withstands the tests of time and change.
Origin and Ancestry: Roots are the origin point, drawing sustenance from the earth to nourish the entire plant. This naturally extends to metaphors of ancestry, heritage, and foundational identity. Our "roots" connect us to our forebears, our place of origin, and the cultural traditions passed down through generations. To speak of "uprooting" is to describe profound displacement, loss of identity, and severed connections.
Hidden Strength and Resilience: Much like the sweet potato or taro, roots often grow unseen beneath the surface, yet they are the source of the plant's strength and resilience. This hidden aspect mirrors the enduring, often unspoken bonds of community and shared history that define a group. It suggests a strength that isn't always visible but is vital for survival, especially in challenging times.
Organic Growth and Adaptation: Plants adapt to their environment through their roots, finding nutrients even in difficult conditions. This adaptability can be mirrored in how immigrant groups, over generations, become deeply integrated into a new land, developing unique cultural forms that are both new and rooted in their new environment.
The Integration of "Sweet Potatoes" and "Taro": The Emergence of "Sweetaro"
The story of "sweet potatoes" and "taro" in Taiwan isn't just about distinction; it's also about integration. The subsequent generation, born from intermarriages between "mainlanders" and "locals," humorously earned the nickname "sweetaro" (蕃芋). This blended term itself signifies a new, evolving identity that transcends the initial rigid categories.
These terms, "sweet potato" and "taro," despite lacking formal academic definitions, became widely accepted vernaculars. They also fostered intriguing, albeit sometimes stereotypical, perceptions: "sweet potatoes" were rumored to be traditional, perhaps even practiced "ninjutsu" due to Taiwan's historical Japanese colonial rule, while "taro" were thought to love garlic, chili, dog meat, and to spoil their wives, despite having notoriously bad tempers. These stereotypes, whether accurate or not, illustrate the human tendency to categorize and simplify complex group dynamics.
Yet, over forty years, "sweet potatoes" and "taro" coexisted, and many formed "sweetaro" families. They gradually discovered that stereotypes didn't always hold true: not all "taro" loved chili, and the "ninjutsu" idea was laughable. Just as not all mainlanders were KMT members, nor all Taiwanese voted for the DPP.
Take, for example, a "sweetaro" couple where the husband is from Hebei and the wife is a Hakka from Miaoli. Their deep affection for each other exists despite stark differences in past experiences. The wife, educated under Japanese rule, loves Japanese customs and songs, longing to visit Japan. The husband, having served in the underground during the Anti-Japanese War and bearing fire scars from Japanese soldiers, despises everything Japanese. When she hums a Japanese tune, he can't help but sing loudly the "Big Sword Song" or "The Trilogy of the Exiles" in defiance. Yet, they understand the unspoken rule: "Singing is singing, family is family." They might disagree on songs, but they haven't fought over it in decades of marriage. Their "sweetaro" household embraces a fusion of eating habits: Taiwanese-style plain porridge and side dishes, complemented by large mainland-style steamed buns. This "sweetaro" family thrives in this seemingly contradictory yet integrated manner.
Marriage and the Evolution of Identity: A New Root System
In the traditional mainland Chinese society, fifty li was considered "another land." Many mainlanders who retreated to Taiwan in 1949 could never have imagined this island's existence. Approximately 910,000 military personnel and civilians, constituting 14% of Taiwan's population at the time, arrived between 1948 and 1950. Most harbored dreams of returning home. As days turned into years, their homeland seemed more distant, forcing them to make new plans, often marrying locals with the hope of taking their families back someday.
The nature of this military and political migration led to a severe gender imbalance, with roughly three men for every woman. This disparity, coupled with initial cultural and linguistic barriers, made it difficult for first-generation mainlanders to marry within their own diverse "mainlander" group. Many thus turned to marrying local Taiwanese. The early post-Restoration period saw significant tensions, including the infamous February 28 Incident of 1947. First-generation "sweetaro" marriages were often challenging due to these cultural and psychological gaps, leading to unhappiness in many cases.
Early on, mainlanders created their own enclaves in military dependents' villages. As Taiwanese wives gradually entered these communities, they became the largest base for ethnic integration. The "buying" of wives, often involving financially disadvantaged mainland veterans marrying marginalized local women (widows, disabled individuals, or Indigenous people), was a tragic reality, frequently leading to wives leaving or children suffering psychological distress due to a lack of emotional foundation.
While many first-generation intermarriages were driven by circumstances, some were rooted in genuine affection. Despite societal disapproval and obstacles, these unions often found a sweeter outcome. For instance, the marriage of Xiong Shuhua's father, a Hubei native, and her mother, a Hakka from Pingxi, was the first cross-provincial marriage in Pingxi. To avoid gossip, the groom even enlisted the local police chief to propose. The success of such unions even led to a saying that "mainlanders spoil their wives," sparking a trend of local women wanting to marry mainlanders.
The Blurring of Lines: New Ancestries, New Loyalties
Forty years later, when "mainlanders" revisited their ancestral homes, they often found themselves viewed as distinct "outsiders" by their own kin, having adapted to Taiwanese life.
Studies from Academia Sinica show that intermarriage rates between locals and mainlanders hovered around 16% to 19% since 1944. Initially, there was a clear imbalance in first-generation marriages: 1.5% were Hokkien men marrying mainlander women, while 7.4% were mainlander men marrying Hokkien women, highlighting the market pressure on mainlander men. By the second generation, the percentages became much closer (5.3% for local men/mainlander women; 5.2% for local women/mainlander men), indicating reduced structural pressure and greater potential for genuine ethnic integration.
While first-generation unions often resulted from circumstance, second-generation relationships were more likely based on emotion. However, differing backgrounds still presented challenges when interacting with the older generation.
The "sweetaro" families often became bilingual. Children of these unions frequently possessed language advantages, speaking both Mandarin and Hokkien fluently, and some even English. This linguistic versatility proved beneficial in navigating Taiwan's diverse social landscape. Moreover, research indicates that the "provincial consciousness" of "sweetaro" children tends to be lower than that of children from ethnically homogenous families, supporting the theory that intermarriage promotes ethnic integration.
Yet, as provincial identities become more politicized, the "sweetaro" generation often feels caught in the middle. They resist being labeled, expressing frustration at being forced to "choose sides" between their parents' origins. Their "homesickness" can also differ markedly from their parents'. For example, someone whose father spoke of a beautiful mainland homeland might, after growing up in Taiwan and traveling globally, find themselves missing Taipei's streets more than a distant "homeland" they've never truly known.
The Fusion of Flavors: Taiwan's Unique "Sweetaro" Culture
Taiwan today has become a unique melting pot of diverse Chinese regional characteristics, yet it has forged a distinct local flavor. While Sichuan restaurants abound, the food here is less intensely spicy than in authentic Sichuan cuisine. Taiwanese have adapted to a milder spice level, and even Sichuanese residents in Taiwan have adjusted their palates. Food habits have blended, and so have the people.
One elderly veteran, upon returning to his mainland hometown after decades in Taiwan, recounted feeling like an "outsider" again, having grown accustomed to Taiwanese life. Similarly, Mrs. Fang Yu, wife of former Premier Lien Chan, born in Chongqing, stated that despite being a mainlander, she doesn't miss the current mainland and prefers Taiwan, where she has lived for decades, seeing herself as a Chinese person in Taiwan.
Professor Liao Zhongshan, from Henan, arrived in Taiwan at 15 with the military and still struggles with fluent Hokkien. His marriage to his wife, Lin Lichai from Kaohsiung, was born not of grand romance but circumstance. As an orphan, his wife sought a mainlander without family burdens, while he, alone in Taiwan, needed a wife. Despite their differing backgrounds and culinary preferences—she loving pig intestine noodles, he preferring large steamed buns—their bond is strong, rooted in a shared love for the land. As Liao puts it, "Given enough time, a foreign land becomes home." He views China as his "birth mother" and Taiwan as his "adoptive mother," declaring himself a "Taiwanese person" after forty years.
Do you realize? While Taiwanese affectionately call themselves "sweet potatoes" and mainlanders "taro," neither plant is indigenous to Taiwan. Yet, both have thrived on this land, becoming common sights. Just like these plants, over time, "taro" transforms into "sweet potato," and "sweet potato" increasingly resembles "taro." And what of the "sweetaro" offspring? As one "sweetaro" parent sighed, observing their children's preference for American fast food, "Alas! How did sweet potatoes and taro give birth to potatoes?!" In today's Taiwan, perhaps there are no longer "sweet potatoes" or "taro," only "potatoes."
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