Watching Ben Gates defend his family’s name in National Treasure felt eerily familiar — like watching someone wrestle with the same questions of heritage and credibility that many Taiwanese Americans quietly face.
I know… National Treasure probably isn’t the first film you’d expect to spark a reflection on identity. But beneath the puzzles and chase scenes, it’s a story about legacy, belief, and the search for meaning, themes that have quietly shaped my own journey.
“This room is real, Ben. And that means the treasure is real. We’re in the company of some of the most brilliant minds in history because you found what they left behind for us to find, and understood the meaning of it.”
That line never fails to move me. Every time I rewatch National Treasure, that moment still gives me chills. It’s not really about gold or riches, it’s about the objects of your faith. It’s about finally realizing that the stories and legacies passed down through generations actually mean something. When Ben Gates proves that his family’s long-dismissed legend was true all along, he restores a sense of dignity not just for himself, but for his family name.
Legacy and Lineage
My grandfather’s diplomatic career shaped much of my own life and career. He represented the Republic of China in an era when Taiwan’s global standing was constantly in flux, and he carried that quiet, unshakable dignity of someone who believed that serving the public — especially under challenging circumstances — mattered.
My grandfather’s diplomatic career shaped much of my own life and career. To understand him — and in many ways, myself — I had to trace our family’s path through modern Chinese and Taiwanese history. This story begins at Kaifeng, Henan Province, where two generations of my family served as public officials for the Nationalist government after the Second Sino-Japanese War. Like many families, mine fled to Taiwan during the Communist takeover. The story of that migration, and later, the Kuomintang’s association with authoritarian rule, is often sidelined due to its rocky history. My decision to pursue a career in public service here in the U.S. sometimes draws criticism from cultural peers who view that legacy with skepticism. I’ve felt a bit like Ben Gates, who saw the “treasure” as an opportunity to prove himself, even when his family’s name was misunderstood.
Why National Treasure Spoke to Me
Ben Gates is ridiculed for his obsession with a lost treasure, and internet rumors claim the Gates family hides a conspiracy about the Founding Fathers. In the second movie, a black market dealer claims his great-grandfather planned Lincoln’s assassination. His lineage is a punchline — until he proves that what he believed was real all along. That theme resonated deeply with me as a Taiwanese American.
In many ways, Taiwanese Americans inherit a complicated legacy. Taiwan’s history is marked by displacement, transformation, and constant reinvention. We grow up hearing different versions of who we are — Chinese, Taiwanese, American — each one shaped by politics, migration, and identity. Sometimes, that history is doubted or dismissed, both within and outside our communities.
Watching Ben defend his family’s name felt familiar. Like him, I’ve felt the tension between pride and doubt within the community, between wanting to honor where I come from and wanting to define myself anew. His determination to uncover the truth reminded me that history isn’t just something written in textbooks; it’s something we find, protect, and keep alive.
The Treasure of Identity
As I embark on my own diplomatic career, I often think about what “treasure” I’m searching for. This past year tested the resilience of public servants everywhere. It isn’t gold or museum collections, of course. It’s a sense of belonging: the kind my grandfather found through service.
Diplomacy, like treasure hunting in the movies, is about faith: believing in the value of dialogue, in the power of connection, in the idea that nations and people can understand each other better if they look closely enough at the past. My grandfather used diplomacy to build bridges in a world that was always shifting beneath him. I hope to do the same, in my own generation’s way.
For Taiwanese Americans, I think our collective treasure is identity itself. It’s in the stories our parents tell in kitchens, the faded photographs tucked into albums, the moments when we realize that our heritage isn’t something we need to “prove.” It’s already real, already ours. We just have to claim it.
For waishengren families like mine, that treasure also includes the effort to make sense of a legacy often seen as complicated or inconvenient. But the more I’ve met Taiwanese Americans from all walks of life — Hoklo, Hakka, Indigenous, mixed, and beyond — the more I’ve realized that our stories all orbit the same truth: we are all still searching, still defining, believing in what connects us.
Belief as a Bridge
At its core, National Treasure is about belief in family, in history, in the possibility that the past still matters. When Ben’s father says, “Okay. We’ll just keep looking for it,” it’s a line that lingers. It’s what every generation says to the next.
For Taiwanese Americans, that’s our ongoing task, too. We keep looking for understanding, for representation, for connection. We keep piecing together the fragments of our histories to build something meaningful in the present.
When I think about my living grandfather in his nineties, about Taiwan’s uncertain place in the world, about what it means to be both Asian and American, I realize that the search itself — the act of looking — is the treasure. It’s what connects us to those who came before and those who will come after.
“This room is real, Ben.”
Watching Ben finally prove that the treasure was real reminded me that belief itself is the bridge between the past and the present. For my family, that belief carried us across oceans and through uncertainty. For me, it continues to light the way, a quiet reminder that our stories, too, are real and always worth finding.
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