Faith, Family, and Identity in Immigrant Lives

Ernie Hsiung

So, when I think back to the Chinese for Christ Church in Berkeley, it’s, uh, kind of like... a time capsule, you know? The whole place just felt like it was frozen in this very specific, almost sacred, state of being. I mean, the gray short-thread carpet? That wasn’t just carpet; that was _every_ church carpet, right? Worn down by decades of potlucks and awkward conversations in the doorway while your mom tries to leave but keeps getting stopped.

Ernie Hsiung

And the metal cross on the wall, right next to that framed poster with the Chinese translation of Psalms 23—Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—it’s like those decorations were saying, "Hey, this isn’t just a space; this is tradition." It’s meant to wrap around you, you know, like a blanket… but, but sometimes it also squeezes you a little too tight.

Ernie Hsiung

And, uh, in the corner of that multipurpose room, there was this baby blue hot tub. Yeah—just, just sitting there. No jets, no bubbles, nothing. And I remember it had this plywood cover on it most Sundays, so it kinda just blended in with the room. But when the cover came off—like on Baptism Sundays—man, suddenly it wasn’t this inert object anymore. It became this… this weird focal point. Like, "Oh, this is where transformation happens. This right here."

Ernie Hsiung

What always stuck out to me, though, was how... I don’t know, unassuming it all felt? This mix of elements—the baptismal pool, those folding chairs with just enough wobble to them, the hymns sung in awkward Mandarin—it was all rooted in tradition, but, but there was this tension to it, too. Like, was this someone’s idea of belonging? Or was it a reminder of how _we_ hadn’t really found a space of our own yet?

Ernie Hsiung

Actually, it reminded me of this one tech Meetup I went to. It was held in a decommissioned church—same kind of carpet, same kind of long wooden benches, but instead of baptisms, there were whiteboards covered in diagrams of Kubernetes clusters, you know? And I, I remember thinking how weirdly comfortable yet alien that was. Like, these were my people professionally, but this didn’t feel like home either. It, it’s the same feeling I had at the church: Like I belonged, but also like I didn’t.

Ernie Hsiung

And, honestly, I think that’s, uh, kinda the story of being the child of immigrants, right? Especially when you’re walking that tightrope of holding onto tradition but trying to make sense of it through this, like, modern, fragmented lens. The room, the decorations, even that baptismal pool they brought out—it all said something. Something both comforting and stifling at the same time.

Ernie Hsiung

Anyway, that day, the room felt... off to me, even more so than usual. The light seemed too harsh, and I couldn’t shake this one thought: Something was... about to happen. And it wasn’t exactly a good feeling.

Ernie Hsiung

So, picture this: rows of metal folding chairs all lined up in front of that baby blue baptismal tub, the kind you’d maybe see on sale at a home improvement store. My family was sitting near the front, Grandma next to me, her fingers already wrapped tight around her prayer beads. And then, out comes my sister, wearing this, like, canvas-colored tunic. It hung loosely on her, kinda shapeless, and it made her look... I don’t know, smaller somehow. Like she wasn’t herself, you know?

Ernie Hsiung

And she stood there at the edge of the pool, head bent down like she was trying to disappear into it, and I—I actually remember thinking, "This doesn’t look right." Like, everything about her felt off—her posture, the way her hair fell over her face. It was like someone had swapped her out for a different version of herself, but not, not in a way that was comforting. And the room? The room was so quiet. Too quiet. Everyone was watching, but nobody really knew what to say—or if they should say anything at all.

Ernie Hsiung

Except for Grandma. She was muttering prayers under her breath, the same three phrases again and again: 感謝耶穌, 感謝耶穌, 哈利路亞. Thanks be to Jesus, Hallelujah. Her voice was soft but steady, like a metronome, while next to her, I was just... squirming in my seat. The silence in the rest of the room was deafening, but she seemed completely unbothered by it, like there was nothing to question here. Nothing to worry about.

Ernie Hsiung

And that contrast—between Grandma’s unshakable faith and... everything else—it made me realize just how differently we all processed moments like this. For her, what was happening was sacred. It was this step toward salvation, right? Like, beyond anything physically uncomfortable. But for me? For me, all I could feel was unease. Like, did this really belong to us? Or were we just, like, trying on someone else’s clothes and hoping they’d fit?

Ernie Hsiung

And it’s not just about the baptism, you know? That room, that day—it was this flashpoint for how immigrant families, especially ones like ours, try to repaint these cultural rituals to mean something personal, something adaptable. But honestly, it never quite fits perfectly. There’s always rough edges, always parts of the ritual that feel like they’re supposed to mean more than they actually do in the moment itself.

Ernie Hsiung

And my sister standing there, face half-hidden, being eased into the water by Pastor Tien—it didn’t look like salvation. It looked like hesitation. Resistance, even. And then when they brought her back up? She was shivering, shaking, like the whole thing had pulled something out of her that she couldn’t put back in. I remember her covering her face with her hands, first to wipe the water away, but, but then she started sobbing. Like, really crying, you know? Not the kind of crying you can ignore.

Ernie Hsiung

And the room… the room reacted, but not in words. People shifted in their seats. They looked down. Nobody knew if they should clap or sit quietly or—well, I don’t even know what else. It wasn’t the kind of crying anyone expected. And in the middle of all this, Grandma? She just kept praying, eyes shut tight.

Ernie Hsiung

My sister didn’t come back to sit with the rest of us after the baptism. Instead, she disappeared through those double doors to change, and I—I remember watching them swing shut, thinking how strange it felt. Like, nothing had really changed, but everything had, you know? We never talked about it afterward. Not about the tears, not about why she was crying, not even about what it all meant to her—or to us. There was just... silence.

Ernie Hsiung

And maybe that’s, uh, kinda the point. A lot of things in immigrant families are like that—unspoken, unaddressed. Like this invisible weight that just settles over you. Did her tears mean something profound? Was she overcome, or—or was she just overwhelmed? I don’t know. I mean, I was a kid, too young to ask questions like that. But looking back, it feels like those tears were more than just, you know, chlorine water and nerves. They, they said something. We just didn’t have the words to understand it.

Ernie Hsiung

And, uh, that silence—it wasn’t like an empty silence. It was more like... the kind of quiet that stretches between people who care about each other, right? Like, we all knew something shifted that day, but naming it would’ve, I don’t know, made it too real. So we just... didn’t.

Ernie Hsiung

Honestly, I think that’s one of the hardest parts of growing up in a space like this one. These rituals—the baptisms, the hymns, the folding chairs—they’re supposed to hold so much meaning. They’re supposed to anchor you, give you a foundation, but for kids like my sister and me, they can just as easily unmoor you. You’re constantly trying to reconcile what these moments mean to your family and culture with what they mean to you, personally.

Ernie Hsiung

And, yeah, I still think about my grandma that day, sitting there, praying while my sister cried. Her faith—so solid, so sure—gave her this kind of peace, but it also created this weird gulf between us. Because I—I didn’t have that same peace. I wanted to, but I just... couldn’t find it.

Ernie Hsiung

And maybe that’s where the tension comes in, you know? Immigrant families, we hold so tightly to traditions, to rituals, hoping they’ll, like, tether us to something concrete in a world that feels like it’s constantly shifting. But what happens when those rituals don’t feel like they fit anymore? When the meaning doesn’t translate? You end up carrying the weight of it anyway, even if it doesn’t make sense.

Ernie Hsiung

In the end, though, maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s not about the rituals fitting perfectly, but about trying to make sense of them together. My sister’s baptism—that day—we didn’t have any big revelations or profound conversations afterward, but we still had the silence. And in its own way, that silence was enough. It let us hold onto the pieces we could understand, while letting the rest... just be.

Ernie Hsiung

And that’s all for today. Thanks for listening. I, I really appreciate you sharing this space with me. Until next time, take care.