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    Carrying the weight of two worlds

    Online Niel Posted on

    As a 7-year-old boy in Concord, Mass., I stood at attention, eyes fixed on the American flag fluttering in the biting wind. I recited the Pledge of Allegiance with a fervor that only a child can muster, hoping that each syllable would transform me into something quintessentially American. But even though I spoke the words flawlessly, the reflection staring back at me in the window told a different story. I was unmistakably, irrevocably different.

    Growing up as one of the few Asian kids in a town steeped in Revolutionary War history, I was always straddling two worlds. At home, my Taiwanese immigrant parents instilled values ​​of hard work, respect and filial piety. Outside, I tried desperately to blend in, playing hockey and memorizing baseball cards. However, the occasional comments – “Where are you really from?” or “You speak English so well!” — served as constant reminders that I would always be viewed as an outsider.

    When we moved to Cupertino, California in my teenage years, I was surrounded by Asian faces for the first time. But even there, I felt equally unmoored. The relentless pressure to excel academically, to embody the perfect Asian child, was suffocating. I rebelled, adopting a goth style and constantly stealing—a silent scream in a culture that valued conformity and quiet obedience.

    The author as a child playing with his sister outside their home in Concord, Massachusetts, 1984. (Courtesy of Gene Yu)
    The author as a child playing with his sister outside their home in Concord, Massachusetts, 1984. (Courtesy of Gene Yu)

    In the pages of a stolen book I found an unexpected beacon. “Honor and Duty” by Gus Lee a novel about a Chinese-American cadet at West Point, resonated deeply. Here was an Asian who was strong, who led, who served a higher purpose. It was a vision of myself that I had never dared to dream.

    West Point has become my obsession, my ticket to breaking the stereotypes that hold me back. However, even as I threw myself into the application process, doubts plagued me. I didn’t know anyone who had joined the military, and my friends were busy applying to Berkeley and UCLA, setting their sights on paths I was supposed to want, paths that seemed safe and prestigious. Could I really belong in a place like West Point? Did I have what it took to lead, to break free from the roles people expected me to fill? I wrestled with those questions, unsure if this was ambition or just a stubborn attempt to defy expectations to be like every other Asian kid.

    The day I received the acceptance letter, my parents’ reaction was a mixture of disapproval and concern. “You wouldn’t use good iron to make nails,” my father said, quoting an old Chinese proverb that suggested the soldier was a waste of talent. But I pictured myself in training—the grueling drills, the crisp uniforms, the discipline—and felt a pull that ran deeper than mere ambition. It was a chance to redefine myself, to step outside the expectations that had shaped me and find out what I was really made of. It wasn’t about pleasing someone else; it was about proving something to me.

    I began to see how much of an asset it was to charge between two worlds in many areas of my life.

    My junior year at the academy was a crucible of cultural conflicts. As one of the few Asian cadets, I felt isolated and out of place. The physical demands were as exhausting as expected, but it was the psychological toll that nearly broke me. Each day brought a new way to fail – a deficit on the push-up test, a meals task I just couldn’t do well, or a slightly overdone uniform crease. Each misstep was magnified, each as confirmation of the worst stereotypes about Asians: weak, passive, unfit for leadership. These repeated failures drew the ire of the upperclassmen like a moth to a flame, some seeing me as a target for humiliation, others trying to crack me under pressure. I was just hanging on, just trying to get through each day.

    But it was in the boxing ring, of all places, that I began to discover my true self—in my first year at the academy, during compulsory physical education class. After a humiliating knockout in my first match that sent me to the hospital for days, I found myself questioning everything. I could have walked away from West Point, avoided the pain and the bruises. But something deeper than pride drives me to voluntarily return and compete in the ring for years to come. Every kick thrown and taken was an act of defiance against every voice that said I didn’t belong, including my own. Last year, when I defeated four formidable opponents and won the Academy-level Brigade Open Box Championship, it wasn’t just a personal victory – it was a statement to me and to all those who doubted that I had earned my place, that I could be tough, that I could also be a fighter.

    The author in the boxing ring as a cadet at West Point (left) and the author in uniform at the 2001 graduation from the United States Military Academy at West Point, described as "one of the happiest moments of my life" (correct). (Courtesy of Gene Yu)
    The author in the boxing ring as a cadet at West Point (left) and the author in uniform at his graduation from the United States Military Academy at West Point in 2001, described as “one of the happiest moments of my life” (right). (Courtesy of Gene Yu)

    Even after West Point, as a Green Beret, I pushed myself to the limits of human endurance. And yet, even as I helped lead teams of America’s most cunning warriors in Iraq and the Philippines over four combat tours, there were still moments when I wondered if I really belonged in this world of iron discipline and care relentless. Not that others doubted me – at this level, everyone is tested. The real challenge was confronting the doubts that crept into me in the quiet moments. It wasn’t until years later, after my time in uniform and during a high-stakes rescue mission in the Philippines, that these two halves of my identity began to reconcile.

    When I volunteered to help rescue Evelyn Chang, a Taiwanese family friend kidnapped by Abu Sayyaf terrorists, I realized that my bicultural background was far from a weakness. In fact, it was my greatest strength. My understanding of Asian cultural nuances helped me navigate the intricate web of relationships needed to design the rescue. My years of military training provided the tactical skills needed to execute the operation.

    For the first time, I wasn’t trying to be pure American or pure Asian. It wasn’t a choice between identities – it was the power to hold both, a fusion of strength and perspective. I remember the relief, the feeling of belonging in my own skin, as if I had finally unlocked a part of me that had been split down the middle. I began to see how much of an asset it was to charge between two worlds in many areas of my life. It led me to found Blackpanda, a leading venture-backed cybersecurity company based in Singapore that bridges East and West, combining the strategic thinking I honed in the US military with the Asian cultural competence I developed -a lifetime of navigating two worlds.

    From where I stand now, I see a world slowly changing for the next generation, one where stories like mine are becoming more common, the face of American heroism is becoming more diverse. After all, the greatest battle I fought was not on foreign soil or in the boardroom, but within myself. It’s one I’m finally winning. Every day I work to be an example, hoping that I can inspire others to add their voices to a new narrative where Asian children, growing up like I did, can stand up, pledging faith with gratitude and pride, both towards his country. their birth and the cultures that shape them.

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