[Speech given on June 6, 2026 at the 40th Anniversary of the Chinese Program at Puget Sound, Trimble Forum]
One of the occupational hazards of being a professor is that when you spend your life surrounded by college students, you become very aware of everyone else’s growth while somehow failing to notice the passing of time yourself.
Then suddenly, there is a 40th anniversary celebration for you — and reality sets in.
Seeing everyone gathered here is both humbling and deeply meaningful. While this celebration may be marking my 40 years, it reflects the collective effort of many people who helped build the Chinese Program over the years. What we have accomplished together has always been a shared effort, and I am grateful for the chance to celebrate that with all of you today.
Before I continue, I would like to thank President Crawford for his generous remarks, and Jen Neighbors and the Office of Alumni and Parent Relations for organizing today’s gathering.
Many of you may not know that I come from a family of teachers and scholars. I grew up in Taiwan, in faculty housing at Tunghai University, where my father taught and later retired, and spent many weekends visiting my maternal grandfather at National Chengchi University, where he taught and retired.
I was truly a campus brat. So perhaps what came next was inevitable.
Ironically, when my brother, sister, and I were young, all three of us declared that we would become anything except teachers. To us, teaching seemed like the most predictable and boring profession imaginable.
But somewhere along the way, I discovered that teaching was never only about lesson plans or delivering information. It was about people — their uncertainty, growth, humor, resilience, and potential. The classroom became a place of constant energy and surprise — in other words, the exact opposite of the “boring profession” I once imagined it would be. No two days were ever quite the same, and I soon realized that teaching was itself a continual process of learning.
Well, destiny — or perhaps family conditioning — clearly had other plans. Somehow all three of us siblings became college professors anyway, and I have now been here since 1986.
Coming to this position was itself something of an accident. I had just finished my master’s degree in comparative literature and had decided to delay continuing into a Ph.D. program because I thought I needed some “real life” experience first.
I was not actively looking for a job when someone I had been tutoring mentioned this opening to me. I remember thinking, “Why not?” So I applied — imagining this would simply be a temporary stop before returning to academia “for real.”
As it turned out, this was the only academic position — actually the only job — I ever applied for. At the time, I had very little sense of where saying yes to that one decision might lead.
From the very beginning, I received tremendous support from my colleagues in Foreign Languages and Asian Studies. The work was challenging, demanding at times, but deeply rewarding and incredibly fun.
I eventually came to understand that the “real life experience” I came looking for was here all along.
Looking back, I realize how fortunate I have been to work alongside so many great people who helped shape the Chinese Program over the years.
Being part of the Asian Studies community broadened my perspective and helped me grow as an educator. My colleagues Karl Fields, Zaixin Hong, my fellow instructors, Judy Tyson [who started a successfuly Japanese program 4 years before Chinese], and Mikiko Ludden, shaped my understanding of liberal arts education through their generosity and commitment to its ideals. I especially want to thank Professor Suzanne Barnett for her mentorship and wisdom, and my longtime team teacher, office mate, and life coach, Elizabeth Chen, whose friendship and example continue to inspire me.
Later in my career, a new generation of colleagues: Mengjun Li, Yu Luo, Tina Huynh, and Sam Liao brought fresh ideas and expanded expertise to the Asian Studies Department. Teaching assistants from the Confucius Institute [Yingqi Zheng is here] and those from the Taiwan Fulbright Program energized our work with their enthusiasm and cultural insights. Watching them strengthen and expand the Chinese Program while building on the foundation laid by earlier generations gives me great hope for its future.
Many of these opportunities were made possible by the support and leadership of our department chairs — Karl Fields, Jan Leuchtenberger, Jonathan Stockdale, and now Jen Neighbors — as well as Nick Knotogeorgopoulos, who championed the program first as department chair and later in university leadership. I am also grateful for the support of the Provost Office, and our many administrative offices and campus partners. Your encouragement and shared commitment helped make so much of what we accomplished possible.
In 1989, as soon as I became a full-time faculty member, I organized our first group of students to study at Tunghai University in Taiwan. At the time, I could not have anticipated how much those opportunities and partnerships would grow.
But the motivation behind that first program remained unchanged: I always believed that students should not only study the world, but experience it directly.
And for me personally, sending students to Taiwan carried special meaning as well. Tunghai University was both the campus where I grew up and my alma mater. In many ways, it felt like bringing together different parts of my own journey — my childhood, my education, and my work as a teacher.
Those experiences — traveling, learning across cultures, building relationships, and watching students gain new insights and confidence — became some of the most rewarding parts of my career.
I also spent many years working with professional organizations and community groups here in Tacoma. One of them, the Chinese Reconciliation Project Foundation, has been a major focus of my volunteer work. Through public engagement and community service, I found additional ways to put those same values into practice. I hope that involving students in some of those projects outside the classroom helped demonstrate the importance of giving back and staying engaged in their communities.
Like any long career, there were certainly ups and downs along the way. Whenever I needed to recharge, you could usually find me working in my garden — a place where I found balance and time to reflect.
In many ways, gardening and teaching are not all that different.
Building programs, mentoring students, and nurturing communities across cultures all require patience, persistence, and a trust that growth often takes place unseen, as roots deepen long before anything blossoms.
And both require plenty of TLC, tender loving care.
My garden consists mostly of flowering trees and perennials — nothing edible — along with fourteen different varieties of roses. Over the years, I have become especially fond of them. As many gardeners know, roses require a great deal of attention and care. I brought some today to share with you — another result of this labor of love.
I’ve learned that in France, vineyards often plant roses at the ends of vine rows because roses are often the first to reveal signs of stress or trouble. They remind gardeners to notice problems early and respond in time before those problems deepen.
Good teaching, I’ve found, requires much the same instinct.
The students I’ve worked with over the years are not all that different. Some flourish quickly, while others need more time, encouragement, and support. And sometimes, what matters most is simply having someone who sees their potential before they can fully see it themselves.
This is indeed part of the gift of teaching — helping students grow into possibilities they may not yet fully recognize.
One of the greatest rewards of teaching has been watching students — including many in this room today — grow into thoughtful, capable, and compassionate people doing meaningful work throughout the world, much like the satisfaction a gardener feels watching years of care come into full bloom.
Well, forty years may sound like a long time, but in Chinese culture, a full celebratory cycle is actually sixty years, not forty — so I may still have a few more years to go.
Perhaps, in this later chapter of my career, I can take on the challenge of demystifying “Chinamaxxing” on TikTok — and hopefully help younger generations approach Chinese culture with genuine curiosity, nuance, and understanding.
And when I do finally reach the end of my career, I hope I will be able to say:
“I did my best.
I contributed something meaningful.
I cared enough.”
And if that is true, it is only because so many people, like you, shared this journey with me over the years.
