It is a common misconception among non-Asian people that dumplings in East Asia are all the same; they’re just dumplings, and dumplings taste good. However, the differences are important. Jiaozi is a historical dish from Taiwan and China, eaten by Chinese people as far back as the Tang Dynasty. Its Japanese counterpart, however, is a more recent creation. It is said that while Japanese soldiers occupied countries like Taiwan and China, they enjoyed the local jiaozi so much that when they returned to Japan, they made their own version: gyoza. As a result of this seemingly small cultural exchange, my life began in May of 1895, when the Japanese occupation of Taiwan began, years before I was physically born.
My grandparents lived in Taiwan during colonization, and thus, they quickly became fluent in Japanese as a survival tactic. Born over 20 years after Japan’s imperial rule of Taiwan ended, my parents did not learn Japanese, but through their will, I became and remain fluent. My parents’ reason for putting me through Japanese school was born out of a deep respect for their own parents: They wanted me to have my own unique way to communicate with my grandparents. However, their dream could not be fully realized, as all of my grandparents passed away while I was only an infant. As I continued in Japanese school, and my Japanese skills began to overtake my Taiwanese skills, I felt a growing disconnect from my family and heritage. I felt ashamed, even, for learning the language of my ancestors’ tormentors while only retaining the fluency of a toddler in Taiwanese. At the same time that my other Taiwanese American friends went to Chinese school on the weekends, I went to Japanese school. My friends and family frequented Taiwan as much as they could over breaks, but I spent those same days studying abroad in Japan. And so, every time my parents conversed in rapid-fire Taiwanese and every time I even thought in Japanese, I felt a wall build up between us.
On the culinary level, though, we remained determined to keep a solid grasp of our culture. Despite living in a predominantly white suburban neighborhood in the Deep South of the United States, my mother and I have made dumplings together since I was a toddler. My childhood consisted of the intimacy of my mother’s hands cradling mine, coaxing my inexperienced fingers in properly folding the dumplings; her laughter as my dumpling fell apart; and her smile as I ate them, freshly cooked, and asked for more. Later, when my sisters came along, the tradition of two became the tradition of four, and the same intimacies brought us all closer together.
This bliss came to a sudden stop in March 2020. During the pandemic, I fell into the depths of anorexia and anxiety, and anything I deemed “unsafe,” I refused to eat. Unfortunately, such “unsafe” food included the entirety of my mother’s cooking repertoire, and I rejected my family’s traditions around food and the love and connection that came with them. Even after hospitalization, therapy, and countless exposures to my “unsafe” foods, I refused to touch my family’s recipes. I even refused to allow my mother to make dumplings for herself or my sisters.
As Lunar New Year came along in 2022, I realized that I had not touched my mother’s food in nearly two years despite being surrounded by it every day. There was a sadness in my mother’s eyes when she came to ask me if I was comfortable with her making dumplings that year; it was as if I had already said no and stormed away in a fit of rage. I couldn’t bear it anymore. My mother, who had sacrificed so much — her family, her home, her money, her time, and so much more — for me… I could not allow my selfishness to sever the only connection she had with her homeland any longer. I told her with resolve that I wanted to give dumplings another go. My mother’s eyes lit up with happiness, and despite the growing anxiety within me, I knew I had made the right decision. As I watched her make the dumplings that year, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: My mother used both jiaozi wrappers and gyoza wrappers. Perhaps she used both because she liked both the thick feel of the jiaozi wrappers and the springy texture of the gyoza ones, or perhaps she didn’t have enough of one type of wrapper for all the filling she’d made. But it felt like my mother was doing her best to reach me through the thick wall that had been built between us.
Curious, I asked, “Mom, why did you use both jiaozi and gyoza wrappers?”
My mother shrugged and simply replied, “I’ve always used both.”
This took me by surprise because I had never noticed the difference. All I knew was that the dumplings I was putting in my mouth were made with love only my mother could give me: the kind of unconditional love that transcended all language and cultural barriers. As we made dumplings together that day, I felt like a child again: My mother’s deft hands moved back and forth like a wave, leaving behind perfectly folded dumplings in her wake. She then stopped her magic to help guide my hands. From these flour-coated touches, a far-from-perfect little dumpling formed. We continued to fold them, talking about the future, laughing, reminiscing. As I looked at the little variations (some more pronounced in mine) in how each dumpling was folded, I realized something. These variations were where my mother’s — no, my family’s — love resided; the small mistakes were proof of a laugh, a guiding hand, a loving glance, and so many I-love-yous. The mix of jiaozi and gyoza, created by my mother’s skilled hands and my lousy ones, looked beautiful to me as they slept on the counter, shining under the light, and waiting to be cooked.
As I continue to work on myself and my recovery, I plan to keep working on my jiaozi and gyoza, shaping them just as they should be, keeping the folds crisp and neat while appreciating the little imperfections and variances that make each bite unique and beautiful. I want to be able to match my mother’s skills in dumpling-making, and recognize the little nuances between jiaozi and gyoza. As I continue down the path of life, my mother’s dumplings and the lessons I learned from them will follow me, reminding me of home, and providing me with strength.
Illustration by Lisa Wakiyama.
