/ This blog is the English version of the travel blog; for the Chinese travel blog, please click on the link below )：I Used to Call Myself a Proud Banana — A Taste of Cultural Redemption
I used to call myself a proud banana — yellow on the outside, white at heart — peeled, polished, and proudly Westernized.
Raised in the land of maple syrup and politeness, I grew up thinking the West was the center of civilization and Taiwan was just… an ugly accidental birthmark on my passport.
When I relocated back to Taiwan after my hemorrhagic stroke, I thought I’d “tolerate” it — like gluten-free bread: necessary, but emotionally unfulfilling.
Then the pandemic hit.
The social butterfly in me moulted into a shut-in moth.
My only window to the world became TikTok.
Swipe, scroll, scroll, swipe — dopamine hits faster than any boyfriend ever could.
I laughed at the Chinese content. Mocked it, even.
Because that’s what we bananas do — we inherit Western arrogance with free shipping.
We believe that if it’s not trending in L.A., it’s not worth knowing.
Until that fateful 24-hour U.S. TikTok ban.
Oh, how poetic karma can be.
The Americans — my digital idols — panicked, screamed, and fled like exiled influencers.
And where did they go?
And where did they go? To Red Note — a popular Chinese social media platform, often considered a paradise for content creators, wrapped in red pixels.
And suddenly, my entire Western-fueled belief system cracked harder than my iPhone screen.
The Americans, my holy race of “freedom and frappuccinos,” started posting:
- “OMG, China is so clean!”
- “Why are their malls nicer than ours?”
- “The technology is so advanced in China! It’s like they’re living in the future!”
One day, when I am scrolling through Red Note, bored and lonely, there it is—a shimmering sphere of promise, rolling across my screen like a disco ball of destiny. I am a tai-wanna-be, a banana on the inside, living in a post-pandemic haze of tears and TikTok algorithms, when this little round emissary from the motherland piques my appetite. My heart is pounding. I am tapping the screen, barely breathing, as the video glows: a Chinese mukbanger on a neon backdrop unwraps a“6-Treasure Healthy Sesame Ball.“
In this moment, I am living in slow motion. I am three thousand kilometres away, but teleported by hunger and sheer idiocy. I am drooling like a cartoon when the mukbanger cracks open the sesame ball. The crisp crack sound BOOM in my ears. My mind is chanting its own mantra, “Sesame ball, sesame ball, please roll into my life.”
At that moment, I realized:
- I’ve been gaslit.
- I’ve been brainwashed.
- I’ve been… Western-washed.
So I, a reformed banana on a mission of cultural redemption, began my search.
But of course, it’s “only available in China.”
Cue dramatic sigh.
Cue melodramatic “feeling lost.”
Cue me scrolling group chats like a desperate ex stalking her old sugar daddy.
And then — like divine intervention — my VIP-only group-buy chat lights up:
✨”6-Treasure Healthy Sesame Balls!” Snap up NOW! ✨
I slam that “+1” faster than my heartbeat after caffeine.
If enlightenment had a sound, it would be the click of that “+1” button.
Days later, the package arrives.
Each ball, perfectly round, is individually wrapped like tiny orbs of Chinese wisdom.
And there it was.
The object of my unexpected enlightenment.
The Six Treasures Sesame Ball.
Shiny, nutty, glistening like the forbidden fruit of socialism.
I unwrap one.
It stares back — black sesame shimmering, red date blushing, goji berry whispering ancient secrets.
I bite.
The crunch — oh, that crunch—is a love confession between tradition and science.
The black sesame oozes smoky depth; the malt syrup coats my tongue like warm nostalgia.
The walnuts crackle like applause in my mouth; the red dates flirt with my molars.
The goji berries? They don’t just nourish — they redeem.
They whisper,“Welcome back, child. You’ve been gone too long.” This simple, yet profound, message from the goji berries resonated with me, connecting me to my roots and a sense of belonging.
I chew, I sigh, I question my entire identity.
Is this what patriotism tastes like?
Is this what healing feels like?
Or maybe it’s just the sesame oil lubricating my soul.
I am biting in. Crunch! The shell shatters, and rainbows explode in my brain. This is more than a sesame ball: it is a crisis conquest. I am overcome. Each sensory detail bursts forth:
Texture: The crispy outer shell gives way to a warm, gooey heart. I am chewing, and the crust crackles under my teeth like fireworks. The inside is deliciously sticky and elastic, like a sweet fitness instructor hugging me from the inside out. I am pulling golden threads of maltose, stretching into the sky like architectural wonders in my kitchen.
Flavour: I am tasting every layer of China’s pantry. First black sesame – deep, nutty, almost chocolatey, but grown from dirt, chewing on twilight. Then maltose – like an ancient caramel wave kissed by sunrise. Then, walnut – earthy crunch, as if a tiny squirrel high-fived me in the mouth. Red dates – sweet and subtly spiced, like someone lit a candle in my skull. Goji – tart and proud, shouting “I’m healthy and exotic, heathen!” Black rice – a trace of grainy mystery. Black mulberry – gentle jammy sweetness with a pinch of salt to tie it all together, like a zesty glue. All of these flavours are doing a conga line on my tongue.
I am living in the sensory present, fully immersed. My eyes are closed; I am grinning at the ceiling. I am probably drooling a bit, and I’ve noticed my neighbours might hear me moaning softly. Shameless. Doesn’t matter.
My brain is singing “Ode to Joy” in Mandarin. I am speaking out loud to the sesame ball, half-whispering: “Oh dear sesame orb, you have fixed everything. You are the love poem to my pain, the therapy to my diaspora heart.” Possibly my ghost of Grandma is cheering. In this moment, I am content.
Meanwhile, as I savour the last gory remnants of this first bite, reality sinks in: this is only one. But I am still religiously chewing. This moment tastes of triumph. I am tingling with pride. I am no longer a nobody IT girl; I am the hero of my own snack saga.
I am in present continuous: I am chewing, I am flirting with my taste buds, I am floating. Each ball I eat flies out of the wrapper as if possessed by ancestral snack spirits. My hands are shaking as if from a mild caffeinated seizure.
Finally, as the last sesame seed escapes between my teeth, I sigh out, satisfied beyond measure. I am blinking in semi-bliss, stomach happy, soul tickled. I feel drunk on sesame and success. I, a foolish banana, have found my empowerment in six tiny treasure balls.
I used to roll my eyes at the phrase “Dong fang de zhihui [translate:”Asian wisdom“].
Now, I’m licking sesame crumbs off my fingers, whispering, “Forgive me, ancestors.”
Who knew redemption could come in a 60g bag of round black balls?
Who knew healing from colonial brainwashing could be so crunchy?
As I swallow the last bite, I feel something strange bubbling up inside —
not indigestion —
But pride.
And maybe “being “healthy“ starts with the healing of one’s inner self.
Not just the superfoods,
But the humility to admit I’ve been wrong.
That maybe — just maybe —
China‘s not the villain,
And the banana can finally ripen into something whole.
Final Verdict:
- 🌕 Cultural epiphany: 10/10
- 🥹 Flavour: sinful yet holy
- 😂 Self-respect regained: slightly, but I’ll probably relapse next time Starbucks drops a limited drink.
The Viral TikTok Snack That Made Me Realize I’m Being Gaslit by The Government and Question Everything I Knew About Identity
The Viral TikTok Snack That Made Me Realize I’m Being Gaslit by The Government and Question Everything I Knew About Identity
The Viral TikTok Snack That Made Me Realize I’m Being Gaslit by The Government and Question Everything I Knew About Identity
The Viral TikTok Snack That Made Me Realize I’m Being Gaslit by The Government and Question Everything I Knew About Identity
