The Pig Festival

An excerpt from Grace Loh Prasad's beautiful forthcoming book; and some links!

Jan 28, 2024

Hello dear readers,

We’re so happy to share with you an excerpt from Grace Loh Prasad’s book, The Translator’s Daughter, forthcoming in March with Mad Creek Books, an imprint of The Ohio State University Press.

But first, a few links. Michelle spent a lovely afternoon with NPR’s All Things Considered team, speaking with Ailsa Chang (!), Jonaki Mehta, Mallory Yu, Patrick Jarenwattananon, and Hugo Peng. They talked about the recent wave of Taiwanese Americans who are moving to Taiwan.

Meanwhile, the effervescent Yascha Mounk spent time in Taiwan last year. Yascha graciously invited Albert on his podcast at Persuasion to talk about the elections in Taiwan. Besides analyzing the election results, they talked quite a bit about Taiwanese history.

Back to our excerpt today. Born in Taiwan, Grace moved to the United States when she was two years old because her family feared persecution under Chiang Kai-shek’s dictatorship. This beautiful memoir contains meditations on a wide range of issues—immigration, language, dislocation, aging, politics, and art. The excerpt we’re running today vividly captures the bustling vibrancy (熱鬧 renao) of Taiwanese democracy in 2000, an aspect that Albert also wrote about briefly in his post-election reflection.

Michelle was lucky to read an advanced copy of the book, and had this to say about it:

The Translator’s Daughter is a soulful and profound meditation on family, diaspora, and grief. How do we construct a life far away from our loved ones, and what do we lose? How do we preserve all that we have been given? Grace Loh Prasad tackles these questions with honesty and beauty, while also illuminating Taiwan’s culture, history, and hard-won path to democracy.

A Note From Grace

I was proud to see Taiwan's healthy and thriving democracy on display during the recent election on January 13. As a Taiwanese American in the US, caring about an election in the country you come from but no longer live in is such a distinct diasporic feeling. In this excerpt from my book, I wrote about visiting Taiwan just before the historic election of 2000 during the exciting early days of Taiwan's democracy. Although I realize Abian is a divisive figure, it is important to remember that free elections are a relatively recent development in Taiwan's history, one that we can't take for granted. Thanks for reading.

Excerpt from “The Pig Festival”

I was awakened at eight o’clock on a holiday morning by what sounded like sirens in the street beneath my parents’ fourth floor apartment in Sanhsia. The piercing melodies of a Chinese trumpet orchestra were being pumped out of loudspeakers mounted on a truck.

A few months earlier, when I told my dad that I wanted to visit Taiwan during Lunar New Year, he said, “Good! There’s a special festival in Sanhsia during that time and we can go together.”

Every year, he explained, several prominent families in the Sanhsia area compete to see who can raise the fattest pig. On the sixth day of Lunar New Year, the fattened pigs are paraded around town on the backs of trucks and then displayed in front of Qingshui Zushi Temple, famous throughout Taiwan for its exquisite sculptures and ornate temple art. Officially called the Seven Families Festival but more prosaically referred to as the Pig Festival, Sanhsia holds one of the biggest events in Taiwan.

I was excited to see the Pig Festival partly because it was in my dad’s hometown and partly because I had always wanted to observe a Taiwanese holiday celebration up close. My parents and relatives never took part in these rituals; as Christians they did not celebrate holidays other than Christmas and Easter, and they dismissed the beliefs underlying these traditions as superstition. While I maintained a certain distance from these practices, like my parents did, I was still curious about them because I hadn’t lived in Taiwan since I was two years old, and I yearned for more experience with Taiwanese culture.

That morning, the news was dominated by stories about Taiwan’s upcoming presidential election and the three leading candidates: Lien Chan of the Kuomintang party (KMT), independent candidate James Soong, and former Taipei mayor Chen Shui-bian of the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP).

Lien, currently serving as vice president under Lee Teng-hui, was a safe but unexciting choice for the ruling KMT. Despite its history of repression and corruption, the KMT was still by far the largest, richest, and most powerful party, and polls had shown a majority of Taiwanese favored the status quo over the risks of political change. Soong had been a high-ranking KMT official until he went his own way after losing the party’s nomination to Lien. With a solid political base and a more charismatic personality than his rival, he was considered a genuine threat to the KMT even though he declared his candidacy without any party affiliation.

In my parents’ eyes, Soong offered no significant differences in ideology from the KMT since both were open to eventual reunification with mainland China. I knew that the only candidate they would consider voting for was Chen Shui-bian because of his ties to the Taiwan independence movement. Chen had created a name for himself as the youthful, vigorous, and populist mayor of Taipei, where he cleaned up city streets and streamlined the bloated administration of his KMT predecessors. But his pro-independence views were controversial; mainland China portrayed him as a troublemaker and threatened military action if Taiwanese voters chose a “separatist” candidate.

“It will be very crowded,” my dad warned as we readied to go out. “It’s best not to carry a purse.” I stuffed a few hundred NTD into the pocket of my jacket and grabbed my camera, careful to wind the strap securely around my wrist. My dad zipped up his parka, my mom knotted a silk scarf around her neck, and then the three of us walked into town.

We turned left onto the main drag, Zhongshan Road, where dozens of street vendors had set up temporary booths. Carts filled with stuffed animals, cheap nylon jackets, cell phone accessories, pirated music CDs, handbags, hats, scarves, and various kinds of fruit and snacks lined each side of the street. Walking single file between the carts and moving vehicles (sidewalks are considered superfluous here), we made our way to Ren Ai Road and turned right.

“This way,” my dad said, pointing across the street. “There’s a shortcut to the temple.” We entered a narrow alley lined with crumbling brick and cement houses. A thin, elderly man with sun-browned skin and a bent back was sweeping in front of one of the run-down dwellings. My dad stopped to ask if this alley would lead us to the temple.

The old man looked us over and nodded. Seeing our cameras and city clothes, he said in a tobacco-tinged voice, “Lí Tâi-pak lâng. Góa khòaⁿ-tio̍h tō chai (You’re from Taipei. I knew as soon as I saw you).” I was pleased that I knew enough Taiwanese to understand him, even if his comment was a slight insult.

We followed the smell of burning incense and barbecued meat down another alley, and emerged in the southwest corner of the temple square, where we were greeted by more Chinese trumpets, clashing cymbals, the pop-pop-pop of firecrackers, and festive crowds.

The first thing I noticed was an explosion of color—red, magenta, green, and gold—from the row of decorated trucks parked in the square. The back of each truck held an elaborate metal-framed façade with flashing lights, mirrors, and hundreds of small moving parts, like a gigantic pachinko machine. Underneath the neon splendor of the façades, the main compartments appeared like theater stage sets with elaborate carved panels framing the edges of a large round opening for the pig. I slipped my camera out of its case and took a few pictures.

The crowd was growing by the minute. Toddlers balanced on their fathers’ shoulders; one little boy in a red jacket put his hands over his ears to drown out the din of trumpets and exploding firecrackers. My mom grabbed my hand. My dad, already several feet in front of us, became a bobbing head of silver-white hair in the crowd.

We pushed our way forward, and I got my first glimpse of one of the pigs up close. Its skin was carefully displayed to give the illusion of a still living animal. I couldn’t believe how big it was—the skin was at least six feet across, stretched over a rounded frame to make it look three-dimensional, like an enormous pink balloon with a tiny face at the bottom. Some of the pigs had their black bristles shaved into decorative swirls and waves, while others had small pineapples or apples tucked into their jaws as another flourish. Bright red paper lanterns and red and blue Republic of China flags completed the garish décor.

“They’re huge!” I said, catching up to my dad. “How much do they weigh?”

“The biggest ones are over a thousand pounds, maybe fifteen hundred.”

My dad explained that the pigs are fattened up over the preceding months—some to such gross proportions that they can no longer stand on their own legs. They simply lie on their sides and eat all day. The wealthier families who participate in the competition often hire professional breeders to force-feed the pigs for them. Although the festival was undeniably unique and exciting, I was aghast at how the animals were treated.

The trucks were parked side by side, in three rows of four. We tried to get to the inner row, nearest the temple, where we thought the first-place pig would be. We moved forward as best we could, but there was no order to the flow of people; every person seemed to be rushing in a different direction.

“Grace!” my dad shouted over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” I struggled past a young man in a knit cap who nearly stepped on my foot.

“I think some presidential candidates may be coming here today.”

“Really?” I smiled, even as I noticed a middle-aged woman wrinkling her brow at me, probably wondering why we were speaking English.

The presidential election was less than six weeks away, and the local news channels documented every move made by the frontrunners. At the time, they reported no consistent lead by any candidate. It appeared to be a three-way tie with Lien, Soong, and Chen each receiving support from roughly 25 percent of those polled, while the remaining 25 percent of Taiwanese voters remained undecided.

Moments later, the pushing became more intense, and it was hard to propel myself forward. My mom was now several feet behind me as people continued to squeeze between us. I could no longer move independently of the crowd. I drifted sideways, then forward, then sideways again. I gripped my camera tightly.

Several men in somber uniforms materialized in front of me. Then I noticed a couple of green and white banners moving toward me. I couldn’t read the Chinese characters on the banners, but my dad recognized them immediately.

“Chen Shui-bian is here!” he shouted back to me.

More banners and several bulky TV news cameras floated toward us. I noticed men wearing green and white windbreakers and realized those must be Chen’s campaign colors. Up close, I saw the faces of Chen and his vice presidential running mate, Annette Lu, on the banners.

I was excited at the prospect of seeing the candidate my parents would vote for. They shared more than a belief in Taiwan’s independent future; they were connected by a historical event that took place more than twenty years ago. Chen’s political career took off in 1980 when he served as one of the lawyers for the Kaohsiung Eight, a group of prominent political activists who were arrested during a peaceful demonstration commemorating International Human Rights Day on December 10, 1979. In what became known as the Kaohsiung Incident, dozens of protesters calling for a democratic government and an end to martial law were arrested and thrown into prison.

Among those detained were several church leaders, including my mom’s uncle, Rev. Kao Chun-ming. A respected minister and general secretary of the Presbyterian Church in Taiwan, Rev. Kao was sentenced to seven years in prison and served four of them for sheltering one of the organizers of the demonstration, veteran activist Shih Ming-teh. In 1987 martial law was lifted after almost forty years (at the time, the longest period of martial law in the world), and Rev. Kao was finally released from prison. I vaguely remember going to a banquet in his honor the summer after I graduated from high school. I didn’t know much about Rev. Kao’s political involvement back then, but I recognized his face from photos my mom had shown me and understood that my “Great Uncle the Dissident” was a hero to many.

Another Kaohsiung defendant and political prisoner was Chen’s running mate Annette Lu, a Harvard-educated activist and feminist leader who was one of the founders, along with Chen and Shih, of the opposition Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) in 1986. She was now the highest-ranking female in the DPP.

We were squeezed between the parked trucks and a row of shops lining the square, about twenty feet from the temple entrance. It occurred to me that if Chen was here, he was going to walk right past me.

The crowd surged forward, slowed, then advanced again.

Looking in the direction of the news cameras, I glimpsed Chen Shui-bian. Just ten feet away, he was smiling and shaking outstretched hands. His lips were moving, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying above the commotion. At first I saw only his head—his shiny combed-back hair and square wire-rimmed glasses. Then I saw his dark gray suit accented by a bright red and gold tie—perfect for Lunar New Year. Cameras flashed all around him. I aimed my camera above and in front of me. Snap. Snap.

I couldn’t see my mom anywhere. My dad was far ahead of me. I was only a few feet from Chen now. I could see beads of sweat on his brow. He wasn’t much taller than me, perhaps five foot six inches. I stuck my hand out and tried to think of something to say . . . I came all the way from California! I can’t vote, but if I could, I’d vote for you! Taiwanese Americans support you! Nothing seemed quite appropriate, and I realized he wouldn’t be able to hear me anyway.

The heat and noise of the throbbing crowd felt exhilarating. It was the opposite of how I had felt just a few days ago—lonely, cold, and alienated in the trenches of CKS airport. Now I was at the center of a colorful Taiwanese festival, an arms’ length away from one of the most controversial and closely observed politicians in Taiwan’s history, a man whose victory in the presidential election could spell revolution for this country of 22 million people. This time, I was in the right place at the right time.

My view was blocked by dozens of outstretched arms straining for Chen Shui-bian’s hand. One by one, each greedy hand was rewarded with a brief but firm shake. When Chen’s fingers finally gripped mine, for a split second, I looked him in the eye and mouthed the words: please win.

Excerpted from Grace Loh Prasad’s The Translator’s Daughter: A Memoir, published by Mad Creek Books, an imprint of The Ohio State University Press.

If you pre-order the book, Mad Creek Books has generously offered our readers a discount code. Once you add the book to their shopping cart, you can “apply code.”

For our US readers: ROAD gets users 30% off and free U.S. shipping.
For our international readers: DAUGHTER gets users 40% off the hard copy or 20% off the ebook. (Please note, the ebook won’t be available to purchase until the book’s pub date of 3/5.)

One last note from Albert and Michelle. The force-feeding of the pig today in Taiwan is beginning to disappear as a ritual, as more people have recognized it as torture. Animal rights’ and other activists are fighting to end it.

Book Club

For February, we're looking forward to talking to you all about HOMEGOING on Friday, February 23rd 6 PM EST / Saturday, February 24th 7 AM (Taiwan time). For March 29th-30th, we'll read the "first" Korean-American novel, Younghill Kang's EAST GOES WEST. For April, we'll read Abraham Verghese's THE COVENANT OF WATER. All are welcome!

A Broad and Ample Road

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