The theme of the most recent 79th United Nations General Assembly is “Leaving No One Behind.” Ironically, on this day, hundreds of Taiwanese Americans march for a seat at the United Nations. Every year, two of these marchers are my grandparents. Like many mixed-race individuals, particularly Asian Americans, I have been defined by the title “Asian American.” For most of my life, I have happily, even proudly, embraced this identity, but its vagueness is palpable.

In 6th grade, I opened an atlas and was shocked to find my country, Taiwan, missing. “Why isn’t Taiwan in the atlas?” I asked. While I wasn’t fully aware of the significance of this question at the time, it remains unanswered. I am part of a small community of indigenous Taiwanese citizens, and yet, how can I fully identify with a country that is not officially recognized? How can I embrace a community that the world's governing body refuses to acknowledge?

U.N. Resolution 2758, adopted in 1971, recognizes the People’s Republic of China (PRC) as the “only lawful representative of China.” As a result, my family, along with many others, is not globally recognized for our heritage—a heritage that embodies innovation, creation, and a strong desire to succeed. Despite this, I remain proud of my heritage. I am part of a community that does not officially exist, and yet, I do.

My grandparents receive a paper copy of the New York Times each day in their small apartment in Kaohsiung, searching intently for the word Taiwan and praying for peaceful change. I observed this routine during the summer of 2018, the summer I lived in the land without a name. That summer, I taught English and attended school, conversing with students who, despite their radically different experiences, looked like me. The rich cultural heritage that had always been a part of my childhood became increasingly apparent and unique. I began to question my identity as “Asian American.”

My place in this ever-evolving community is more than my outward appearance or my mother’s heritage. It is more than a single summer or a specific title. It is a constant reminder that, like my grandparents, I have an obligation to continue marching and fighting for a seat at the table, to reject the atlas’s limitations and acknowledge the unique traditions my community bears.