Postcard from a Hongkonger-in-Between

 

“Next!”

 

“I’m Mira and I’m from Hong Kong!”

 

Before I knew it, my first day of school rolled around the corner. On the quad, international students stood in a circle, playing an activity known as “icebreakers.” We took turns introducing ourselves and where we were from.

 

Each time the word “Hong Kong” comes out of my mouth, I cannot help but feel immense pride for my identity as a Hongkonger. However, slight doubt always accompanies this pride: does “from Hong Kong” fully depict my identity? Am I really considered a “true” Hongkonger? Most often, I keep things simple, but, faced with the afterthought that I might be misunderstood, hesitation uncontrollably creeps in.

 

Even though I speak two languages natively, Mandarin and English, people routinely ask me if I speak a third. “Do you speak Cantonese?” The answer, unfortunately, is no. I know only the name of my school and my house address because I used to commute by taxi almost every day. I also know simple terms, such as “hello”, “excuse me”, and “thank you”, but nothing else. I still remember a few months ago when I returned to Hong Kong for Spring Break and successfully managed to ask for the bathroom in Cantonese. That was a true moment of pride…for me, at least. 

 

Born and raised in Hong Kong, I never fully assimilated into the culture through speaking the local language. I was in the international school bubble where English is the main language of instruction. I spoke Mandarin at home with my parents. I’ve always thought this was a major impediment to truly defining myself as being “from Hong Kong”, hence my hesitation answering the question during orientation. 

 

How is “belonging to a culture” defined? Does it mean speaking the local language fluently? What are the standards for one to truly call a place “their home”? 

 

My lack of exposure to the language is due, in part, to the growing population who find conversing in English more effective for business and government dealings. Bustling tourist sites such as the streets of Central and Causeway Bay are mainly dominated by English signs. Only a handful of local restaurants in these districts communicate in Cantonese. Sometimes, as I pass bakeries selling authentic French Croissants, international clothing stores and office workers greeting each other in perfect American English (“How’s your day?” and “Fine, just fine,”), I almost forget that Cantonese is one of the main dialects spoken in Hong Kong. 

 

In fact, I have come to the realization that, as Hong Kong evolves into a more cosmopolitan city in the modern ages, I do not need any Cantonese. Language is not a barrier to my love for my city—for any city! 

 

If I could only describe Hong Kong in one word, it would be “multifaceted”. We usually say that scrolling through reels is a bad habit, but this isn’t always the case. I may have forgotten most of the hundreds, maybe thousands of reels I’ve scrolled through, but one reel remains in my heart. It was past lights out, and I was doing my usual “scrolling before bed” habit, when I came across a reel that showed a photo of what looked like Tokyo's Shibuya Street: “This isn’t Japan, this is Hong Kong!” Another photo quickly appeared, revealing what looked like the beaches of Thailand: “This isn’t Thailand, this is Hong Kong!” The next photo resembled an ancient Chinese tower: “This isn’t China, this is Hong Kong!” I gave that reel an immediate like. Having grown up in HK, I understood the point. What looked like Tokyo’s Shibuya Street was really Causeway Bay’s crossing on a lively Friday night; what appeared to be Thailand’s white sand beaches was actually Cheung Chau’s pristine beaches. The ancient Chinese tower was nothing other than Man Wo Temple where people still go to pay respects to their ancestors.

 

Indeed, this reel was true. Hong Kong is a melting pot of cultural influences. Though it has a clear cosmopolitan side, such as the bustling streets and malls of Central and Causeway Bay, it is also known for the local sites and islands, including Cheung Chau, Tai O and Mui Wo.

 

This fairly small city is filled with character. 

 

Like the city I come from, I also contain fragments of different cultures and places. After school, I would venture to the more commercial, westernized streets of Causeway Bay with my friends. On weekends or camp, however, I would visit the rural fishing villages dotting the outlying islands, where Cantonese was mostly spoken. Though these neighborhoods are but an hour apart, they feel like different worlds. Just as both have left an indelible mark on Hong Kong, their presence lives in me – the thirst for neon lights, the hustle and bustle of the cosmopolitan city, and the craving for a more relaxed local getaway.

 

The city is like a mirror of who I have become. It exemplifies my constant desire to strike a balance within myself: should I pursue English and Chinese, liveliness and peace, novelty and tradition, city and nature? Indeed, I find myself sharing the identity crisis Hong Kong has long felt. And, when holidays roll around, I am reminded of yet another fragment of my identity – my second home at my grandparents’ village.

 

My friends always ask me how I spent my break. “I went back to my hometown in China!” I say. The most common response I get is, “Wow, I thought you were from Hong Kong!”

 

It’s true: I do have a second home. Every year, I go back to my hometown in China — a rural village just an hour drive from Shanghai—to visit my grandparents and my wider family. Whereas Hong Kong is a populated, bustling city with tall skyscrapers, the village was quite the opposite. The impersonal honk of passing city cars gave way to the “cock-a-doodle-do” of the rooster’s morning cry. I would spend the day feeding the lamb, taking a slow walk along the village, watching the chickens lay their eggs, or sitting on the balcony swing, gazing at the sky full of stars I could never imagine myself seeing under Hong Kong’s light pollution.

 

China is a large country, split into multiple provinces, with a steadily growing population. Every region has its own dialect. Though I speak Mandarin fluently, I don’t know the local dialect of my village. During conversations, even when I cannot understand fully, I still feel included. I feel that I belong to this beautiful village, the rural side of what I would define as home. 

 

Coming to the US has made me realize the importance of cherishing every opportunity to return home. I now no longer have the luxury of spending significant time in either Hong Kong or China — only occasionally during school breaks. On top of that, I love traveling around the world, and the many places I have on my bucket list will inevitably reduce even further the amount of time I can spend back home. 

 

Scarcity, I learned, makes me value the things I used to take for granted more. The less time spent at home in both Hong Kong and China has made me cherish every trip back. Growing up, I never had the chance to realize how grateful I should be to be where I am.

 

Every time I walk past the aisles of H-Mart, an Asian supermarket near my school with all my favorite childhood delicacies, I think about how lucky I would be if I were at home. 

 

I spend days waiting for the Weekend Activities Association to organize an H-Mart trip, a 30-minute drive from campus, only to discover that it has run out of strawberry milk, a product that cost more than twice as much as it does in Hong Kong. Back home, the supermarket would be just a two minute walk away. 

 

Nonetheless, when I do end up getting the strawberry milk from H-Mart, I feel immense satisfaction for being able to taste the feeling of home. Still, it doesn’t taste as good as it would if I were back at home with my sister on a weekend afternoon.

 

Home is not just a destination. It can really be defined as anything. It is an era of my life, a sensation of nostalgia.

 

I have, of course, undoubtedly wished that I had the ability to communicate in the local language of both cities. But did it really matter after all? Did growing up in Hong Kong, having a hometown in China, and studying in the U.S ever conflict with each other? The answer is no. Not being taught Cantonese did not prevent me from enjoying many elements of Hong Kong’s culture, from colonial-style trams and ferries to street dim sum. In fact, as I sip on strawberry milk in my dormitory 8,000 miles away from ‘home’, it dawns on me that home isn’t so much a destination, like a pin on Google Maps. It is a sensation, a fragment of memory I cling to. Calling my family, eating something in the dining hall that remotely resembles Chinese food, or watching a Chinese show ignites a warmth in me. It beckons to home and revives past memories I never knew existed. 

 

I used to think home was confined to strict borders. Within those borders, I thought, people spoke dialects that I had trouble understanding. As I go into the second semester of my sophomore year studying abroad in the U.S., I now look back on my separate lives in HK and China differently. I am able to capture home no matter where I am, through vivid memories and relationships with loved ones. That transcends every language barrier. Home has no borders, as long as it becomes a part of me and my memory. 

 

Whether I wake up to the rooster’s crow in the heart of the village, to the sun kissed bedsheets in my bedroom, or to my roommate’s shuffling at the other side of the room, I can call my location home. 

 

Looking out the window, I see my home not in one place but in many destinations– the rustic farmland of my grandparent’s village, the skyline view of a vibrant city, and the snow-capped school dormitories… 

 

Being raised not just in one culture has cultivated my growing open mindness to explore new possibilities while still reminiscing about the previous homes I’ve had.

 

The next time I introduce myself, I’ll do it the same way: “I’m Mira and I’m from Hong Kong!” I will, however, keep in mind the multiple places I call home that piece together who I am today.