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“I’m not really sure what I call home… and maybe I don’t see that as a bad thing.”
Roger’s story begins in Santiago, Chile, where he was born to Taiwanese parents. From an early age, he lived between cultures, languages, and expectations. “I kind of have a non-traditional background,” he explains, describing the mix of Latin American and East Asian influences that shaped his upbringing.
At nine, his family made a bold move to the United States, settling in Southern California in search of more opportunities. The transition was smoother than it might have been for others. Thanks to his international schooling in Chile, Roger already spoke English. Still, he immediately noticed how different life was in the U.S. “It was just such a different environment,” he said. “Strip malls, highways, cookie-cutter houses. Chile had a kind of beautiful chaos—everything was always moving.” In comparison, suburban California felt still and unfamiliar.
Yet the adjustment wasn’t painful, it was quiet. Roger didn’t immediately feel the weight of being an immigrant. “I didn’t really feel my immigrant status right away,” he reflected. “It came later, in subtle ways.” Over time, he noticed how his mom struggled with English, how he was expected to translate official documents at a young age, how the people around him didn’t quite know what to make of his Taiwanese-Chilean identity. He often felt like he existed in the “in-between”—not fully Taiwanese, not fully Chilean, and never fully American either.
Still, he didn’t see that uncertainty as a weakness. “I’ve never really felt like I fully belong anywhere,” he admitted, “but I’ve also felt little pieces of belonging in a lot of different places.” That fluidity has become one of his strengths. He’s learned to navigate spaces where others might feel lost, to find connection in unexpected places.
One such place was UCLA, where he studied music. It was there, at a campus club icebreaker, that he met someone else from Santiago—another Taiwanese student who had also attended their old international school. “That’s insane,” Roger remembered saying. “I didn’t think there was anyone else like me.” The moment was small, but significant, a reminder that even identities that feel scattered can overlap in surprising ways.
As a grad student in music at the University of Washington, Roger began teaching undergraduates. Occasionally, students would approach him after class to say it was nice to see someone like them at the front of the room. “I never saw myself as someone who represented anything,” he said. “But hearing that made me think that maybe I’m more part of that community than I realized.”
Roger speaks often about his mother, whose courage and sacrifice made his path possible. “She gave up everything so my sister and I could have opportunities,” he said. “It’s kind of the classic story, but it’s real. I wouldn’t be here without her.”
For Roger, home isn’t a single place, language, or memory. It’s a collection of fragments, buildings in Santiago, sidewalks in Southern California, music classrooms in Seattle. “Maybe home is less a dot on the map and more a feeling you carry with you,” he mused. “I think I’ve found it in people, in moments, in myself.”
I AM A MUSICIAN.
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Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
“I’m not really sure what I call home… and maybe I don’t see that as a bad thing.”
Roger’s story begins in Santiago, Chile, where he was born to Taiwanese parents. From an early age, he lived between cultures, languages, and expectations. “I kind of have a non-traditional background,” he explains, describing the mix of Latin American and East Asian influences that shaped his upbringing.
At nine, his family made a bold move to the United States, settling in Southern California in search of more opportunities.
The transition was smoother than it might have been for others. Thanks to his international schooling in Chile, Roger already spoke English. Still, he immediately noticed how different life was in the U.S. “It was just such a different environment,” he said.
“Strip malls, highways, cookie-cutter houses. Chile had a kind of beautiful chaos—everything was always moving.” In comparison, suburban California felt still and unfamiliar.
Yet the adjustment wasn’t painful—it was quiet. Roger didn’t immediately feel the weight of being an immigrant. “I didn’t really feel my immigrant status right away,” he reflected. “It came later, in subtle ways.” Over time, he noticed how his mom struggled with English, how he was expected to translate official documents at a young age, how the people around him didn’t quite know what to make of his Taiwanese-Chilean identity. He often felt like he existed in the “in-between”—not fully Taiwanese, not fully Chilean, and never fully American either.
Still, he didn’t see that uncertainty as a weakness. “I’ve never really felt like I fully belong anywhere,” he admitted, “but I’ve also felt little pieces of belonging in a lot of different places.” That fluidity has become one of his strengths. He’s learned to navigate spaces where others might feel lost, to find connection in unexpected places.
One such place was UCLA, where he studied music. It was there, at a campus club icebreaker, that he met someone else from Santiago—another Taiwanese student who had also attended their old international school. “That’s insane,” Roger remembered saying. “I didn’t think there was anyone else like me.” The moment was small, but significant: a reminder that even identities that feel scattered can overlap in surprising ways.
As a grad student in music at the University of Washington, Roger began teaching undergraduates. Occasionally, students would approach him after class to say it was nice to see someone like them at the front of the room. “I never saw myself as someone who represented anything,” he said. “But hearing that made me think—maybe I’m more part of that community than I realized.”
Roger speaks often about his mother, whose courage and sacrifice made his path possible. “She gave up everything so my sister and I could have opportunities,” he said. “It’s kind of the classic story, but it’s real. I wouldn’t be here without her.”
For Roger, home isn’t a single place, language, or memory. It’s a collection of fragments—buildings in Santiago, sidewalks in Southern California, music classrooms in Seattle. “Maybe home is less a dot on the map and more a feeling you carry with you,” he mused. “I think I’ve found it in people, in moments, in myself.”
I AM A MUSICIAN.
I AM A MUSICIAN.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Scroll to read more
“I’m not really sure what I call home… and maybe I don’t see that as a bad thing.”
Roger’s story begins in Santiago, Chile, where he was born to Taiwanese parents. From an early age, he lived between cultures, languages, and expectations. “I kind of have a non-traditional background,” he explains, describing the mix of Latin American and East Asian influences that shaped his upbringing.
At nine, his family made a bold move to the United States, settling in Southern California in search of more opportunities. The transition was smoother than it might have been for others. Thanks to his international schooling in Chile, Roger already spoke English. Still, he immediately noticed how different life was in the U.S. “It was just such a different environment,” he said. “Strip malls, highways, cookie-cutter houses. Chile had a kind of beautiful chaos—everything was always moving.” In comparison, suburban California felt still and unfamiliar.
Yet the adjustment wasn’t painful, it was quiet. Roger didn’t immediately feel the weight of being an immigrant. “I didn’t really feel my immigrant status right away,” he reflected. “It came later, in subtle ways.” Over time, he noticed how his mom struggled with English, how he was expected to translate official documents at a young age, how the people around him didn’t quite know what to make of his Taiwanese-Chilean identity. He often felt like he existed in the “in-between”—not fully Taiwanese, not fully Chilean, and never fully American either.
Still, he didn’t see that uncertainty as a weakness. “I’ve never really felt like I fully belong anywhere,” he admitted, “but I’ve also felt little pieces of belonging in a lot of different places.” That fluidity has become one of his strengths. He’s learned to navigate spaces where others might feel lost, to find connection in unexpected places.
One such place was UCLA, where he studied music. It was there, at a campus club icebreaker, that he met someone else from Santiago—another Taiwanese student who had also attended their old international school. “That’s insane,” Roger remembered saying. “I didn’t think there was anyone else like me.” The moment was small, but significant, a reminder that even identities that feel scattered can overlap in surprising ways.
As a grad student in music at the University of Washington, Roger began teaching undergraduates. Occasionally, students would approach him after class to say it was nice to see someone like them at the front of the room. “I never saw myself as someone who represented anything,” he said. “But hearing that made me think that maybe I’m more part of that community than I realized.”
Roger speaks often about his mother, whose courage and sacrifice made his path possible. “She gave up everything so my sister and I could have opportunities,” he said. “It’s kind of the classic story, but it’s real. I wouldn’t be here without her.”
For Roger, home isn’t a single place, language, or memory. It’s a collection of fragments, buildings in Santiago, sidewalks in Southern California, music classrooms in Seattle. “Maybe home is less a dot on the map and more a feeling you carry with you,” he mused. “I think I’ve found it in people, in moments, in myself.”
The struggle that it took my parents to come here and become successful in a foreign place is something that is always on my mind.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
Holding space for the stories that built us and the voices that move us forward.
“I’m not really sure what I call home… and maybe I don’t see that as a bad thing.”
Roger’s story begins in Santiago, Chile, where he was born to Taiwanese parents. From an early age, he lived between cultures, languages, and expectations. “I kind of have a non-traditional background,” he explains, describing the mix of Latin American and East Asian influences that shaped his upbringing.
At nine, his family made a bold move to the United States, settling in Southern California in search of more opportunities. The transition was smoother than it might have been for others. Thanks to his international schooling in Chile, Roger already spoke English. Still, he immediately noticed how different life was in the U.S. “It was just such a different environment,” he said. “Strip malls, highways, cookie-cutter houses. Chile had a kind of beautiful chaos—everything was always moving.” In comparison, suburban California felt still and unfamiliar.
Yet the adjustment wasn’t painful, it was quiet. Roger didn’t immediately feel the weight of being an immigrant. “I didn’t really feel my immigrant status right away,” he reflected. “It came later, in subtle ways.” Over time, he noticed how his mom struggled with English, how he was expected to translate official documents at a young age, how the people around him didn’t quite know what to make of his Taiwanese-Chilean identity. He often felt like he existed in the “in-between”—not fully Taiwanese, not fully Chilean, and never fully American either.
Still, he didn’t see that uncertainty as a weakness. “I’ve never really felt like I fully belong anywhere,” he admitted, “but I’ve also felt little pieces of belonging in a lot of different places.” That fluidity has become one of his strengths. He’s learned to navigate spaces where others might feel lost, to find connection in unexpected places.
One such place was UCLA, where he studied music. It was there, at a campus club icebreaker, that he met someone else from Santiago—another Taiwanese student who had also attended their old international school. “That’s insane,” Roger remembered saying. “I didn’t think there was anyone else like me.” The moment was small, but significant, a reminder that even identities that feel scattered can overlap in surprising ways.
As a grad student in music at the University of Washington, Roger began teaching undergraduates. Occasionally, students would approach him after class to say it was nice to see someone like them at the front of the room. “I never saw myself as someone who represented anything,” he said. “But hearing that made me think that maybe I’m more part of that community than I realized.”
Roger speaks often about his mother, whose courage and sacrifice made his path possible. “She gave up everything so my sister and I could have opportunities,” he said. “It’s kind of the classic story, but it’s real. I wouldn’t be here without her.”
For Roger, home isn’t a single place, language, or memory. It’s a collection of fragments, buildings in Santiago, sidewalks in Southern California, music classrooms in Seattle. “Maybe home is less a dot on the map and more a feeling you carry with you,” he mused. “I think I’ve found it in people, in moments, in myself.”
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