I’ll miss the way you comfort me with crowds. I’ll miss the smells of your streets. I’ll miss your alleys and their stories. I’ll miss your mix of classical and contemporary. I’ll miss the diversity of your food.
You made me feel comfortable, like I belonged somewhere, and with all your rich and somewhat mysterious culture, renewed my pride in being Chinese.
It’ll be a long time before I see you again.
Goodbye, you beautiful city. I miss you already.
Few people in my family seem to understand my art.
When they look at my pictures, they make comments about the quality, or whether or not they’re smiling, or ask how much money I make. It’s never about the meaning, or my intent, or what I’m trying to express. Only one of them saw what I was going for in composing this photo of my grandma and aunt with the poster in the background.
They also talk through my videos when watching them, when every bit of pacing is important, missing significant establishing shots.
Maybe it’s the culture. Very few Chinese kids are allowed to be artists, as it’s seen as too risky or impractical. My generation of family seems to be full of accountants, and engineers, programmers, or anything else with security. Even though piano or violin lessons are common (I can’t think of a single Chinese friend who didn’t take piano lessons at one point), it’s more of a status symbol to be able say that you can afford the private lessons and instrument.
This is probably why I feel like I don’t relate or can’t speak to most of my family. When they don’t understand my art, they don’t understand me.
Tung Choi Street (or Ladies’ Market), as seen in my Hong Kong: Markets video as the area covered with blue tarp, is for the ladies, and opened all day.
Temple Street, on the other hand, only starts to come alive at night, and is also known as Men’s Street. There are no stalls out during the day. This is the street that one of my favourite Stephen Chow movies, God of Cookery, is based on, so it was awesome to be able to see it in person.
Instead of handbags, clothes, and posters sold in Ladies’ Market, they sell cheap men-oriented trinkets like batteries, lighters, baseball caps, electronics, camera gear, and sex toys. There’s also a section with rows of stalls for fortune telling (at 2:12), offered in both Chinese and English languages, and European (tarot) and Asian (face, palm reading) flavours.
Temple street is also known for it’s roadside dining, where you can order pots stuffed with meat or deep fried delicacies. I was warned not to eat anything on temple street though, as the standards are too low now1. One might get away with an upset stomach at best, and end up with a trip to the hospital at worst.
Since Temple Street is notoriously shady, where there’s more open prostitution, drug dealings, and other unsavoury activities, I limited my filming on the off-chance that I may have captured something I shouldn’t2. Can you spot the two hookers?
My cousin brought over some Japanese apples that cost $90 HKD ($15 CAD) for a pair. They were light green and quite large, but they didn’t taste that unique. My uncle believes the cost comes from the way the apples are grown: all the branches but one are cut from the apple tree, so all the nutrients go into one apple.
I’m so glad my family knows how to eat; I get to partake in all the amazing food they buy or cook. Even snacks — cookies, candy, ice cream, and drinks — are of a particular quality. I’m wondering how much weight I’ve gained so far.
I’ve been getting to know one of my aunts.
Aside from annual holiday parties where the families would gather, we never spoke. But then again, I never spoke with any of the “grown-ups”1, as they offered little of interest to someone my age.
We’ve become sounding boards for each other. She tells me about how she’s approaching my grandmother’s treatments — the types of therapy, the medications, decisions on when to go to see the doctor — and I tell her about my relationships with my mom and dad.
I find it quite amazing that she’s so aware of the influence of Chinese culture in her life. She seems to be adapting to the generation gap and culture differences, or perhaps keeping them in mind, when it comes to treating her own Canadian-born daughter, which is far beyond what my parents were capable of. Until I really started talking with her, I believed that all Chinese parents were the same; too blind or too stubborn to understand how to raise first-generation Canadian children.
It amazes me how strong she is. She’s the one who makes sure my grandmother eats, drinks, takes her pills, sleeps, and walks. The one who cleans up after grandma when she has to go, but can’t make it to the bathroom in time. She dropped everything — her husband, her daughter, her real estate practice — to be here indefinitely, and has taken charge of all my grandmother’s care.
I tried to tell her that I admired her for everything she’s doing, but she wouldn’t let me continue. She’s having a hard time keeping it together, and is afraid that grandma may see her crying and realize how serious her sickness is. I wish I could give her some relief, a hug even, or just 15 minutes to let it all out. I guess there will be plenty of time for that soon enough.
For now, we have each other.
Grandma has been handling the chemo well. We’re trying to slow the growth of the major tumor so that there are no blockages. She’s not supposed to eat meat, but we want her to enjoy life (along with the fact that we’re glad she’s eating at all because she has no appetite) so we let her.
Most days are unplanned, just seeing how she’s feeling before we decide to do anything.
I’m beginning to sleep a little better now. For the first week and a half, I’d still wake up in the middle of the night, unable to fall asleep again even though I’d be completely exhausted from jet lag and walking around all day. I’m not sure if I’m just getting used to the day/night pattern, or the fact that I’m tapering off one of my colitis medications which has sleeplessness as one of the side effects.
So the current schedule is:
It’s been an endless cycle of people coming through the house, whether it’s family or friends, dinner or tea, a chat or a visit. Spending time with them leaves me somewhat lackadaisical. I don’t want to be anti-social and get up to do something else, but I’m rarely involved in any of the conversations, and the topics are often vapid.
Unfortunately, I haven’t had a chance to hang out with my Uncle Joe much because I’m trying spend as much time with grandma as possible, but next week should offer a better opportunity. I hope to do more exploring then.
It’s certainly a bittersweet existence here. Being in Hong Kong again fills me with wonder, but seeing my poor grandmother going through so much breaks my heart.
As a Taoist, I felt it was only natural that I visit the most famous Taoist temple in Hong Kong while here.
Maybe I was being naïve, but I was picturing something like Washington Square Park, except instead of chess board tables, there would be people sitting around, discussing Chuang Tzu’s parables, or sprightly conversations about the happiness of fish. Instead, it was more like a gigantic fortune-telling, wishing well extravaganza. People go there to worship Taoist deities by burning incense, praying to them for their wishes to come true, and have their fortunes told through the practice of kau cim, which is when they shake a container full of bamboo sticks until one falls out, and the character on the stick is interpreted by a soothsayer1.
It amazes me how vastly different the Taoist philosophy is from the religion. I couldn’t relate to any of this at all. The Taoists here are trying to get a holiday — on Lau Tzu’s birthday, if I understand correctly — because other religions get a day off. This strikes me as somewhat strange, since Lao Tzu is still disputed to be a mythical figure, with an unknown date of birth. I also have to wonder if Lao Tzu would approve of such a ritual.
At one point, there was an old lady worshiping at the entrance of a building, and a woman came out and said, “Ma’am, this is the information booth. You don’t need to worship us.” My uncle and I couldn’t stop laughing.
(This was a quiet day in the middle of the afternoon. Apparently, on special days of the Chinese lunar calendar, it’s packed, and the incense smoke too thick to breathe. Superstition has always been a part of the Chinese culture.)
Pretty much everyone I’ve met so far has said one or more of the following things to me:
You have a lot of white hair. They see it mainly in the sides of my head, where it’s shorter and more obvious. It seems like most people in my family dye their hair black, so my grey stands out, even though I’m youngest.
Are you dating anyone? This is usually followed by, “Are there any girls are after you?”, which is a sort of way of figuring out if you want to date, or just don’t have the option.
Is your Tai Chi teacher white? Except instead of white, it’s “guai” or “ghost”. This is the only question I resent, because I feel like I have to defend the fact that he’s a competent teacher, even though he’s a “foreigner”.
You’re a handsome boy. The word for handsome in Chinese — “leng” — is the same word for pretty when applied to girls. This one is good. I like this one. More people need to say this to me.
Aren’t you cold? It’s getting very hot and somewhat muggy, so I’m wearing as little clothing as possible. This is in contrast to everyone else, who are still wearing scarves and coats.
Do your tattoos come off? Although the literal translation is more like “Do your tattoos wipe off?”. Many people here don’t know how tattoos work, which is understandable, since they’re so uncommon. Related to this is, “Did you draw it yourself?”. This question surprises me, because the character was drawn by arguably the most famous Chinese calligrapher, Yan Zhenqing, and is so beautiful and perfect and far beyond something that I could have done myself.
I’ve decided to break up my food photos by week, since there’s so much to write about. I’m an extremely picky eater, but I’ve ravenously consumed everything that’s come across my plate (aside from one type of fish, and a dish involving bitter melon). I’m not sure if it’s because the food is fresh, cooked well, or because I can’t cook Chinese food myself and have been without for a long time, but everything tastes so good. And these aren’t photos of all the food I’ve eaten so far; there have been a few times I didn’t have my still camera with me.
Fish is bought fresh every day since the markets are so close. I don’t get a chance to eat fish very often, but now it seems to be in every meal. I don’t think I’ve had the same dish more than twice. This is the reason why I was going to come with Pat and Jen last year, who are gourmands beyond me. And Bronwen, because she loves trying new things, especially food related.
If you want descriptions and explanations on each dish, you’re going to have to break out of your feed readers and use lightbox to see the captions. They look so much better on black anyway.
It’s the maid’s day off.
To be honest, her brief absence has shown that I already got used to having her around.
But then again, it’s not hard to get used to such a luxury. You wake up and feel like eating something, and she’ll have it ready by the time you’re dressed and finished brushing your teeth. She draws your bath water. She irons your clothes while you wait. She picks up the groceries for dinner when you decide what to eat. Some of the dishes are so complicated that she begins cooking the night before, and has her niece (my aunt and uncle’s maid) come over to help.
Nothing needs to be said when it comes to chores around the house. When a meal is finished, everyone gets up and heads to the living room. The next time you come back, the dishes are gone and the table wiped clean1. I fold my sheets before leaving the house, and when I get back they’re refolded, only neater.
My grandmother has a history of live-in servants, although there haven’t been any wet nurses, gardeners, or chauffeurs for a while. Ever since her children grew up and left the house (or country), she’s only needed one maid at a time. It seems to be a great relationship, as there’s a respect that goes both ways; the maid is extremely good at her job, and we treat her like family. When the last maid died after 30 years of service, all her funeral arrangements were taken care of. In the last years of her life she had gone blind from diabetes, and was then served herself. That’s how we found the current maid, who’s been with my grandma ever since.
One of my favourite rituals2 is the way the maid is given dinner. After all the food is cooked, the maid lays the dishes out on the dinner table, but doesn’t take any for herself. So my grandma will take a plate, pile food onto it, and bring it to her.
My family always ask me if I’m dating anyone right now. They assume I prefer Caucasian girls. I tell them I don’t mind either way (the other side of “either” being Chinese girls). That’s when they warn me about mainland girls. Chinese mainlanders are commonly viewed by Hong Kong people as being low-class, crude, and provincial. It’s said that even if a girl from there is pretty, they lose all attractiveness as soon as she opens her mouth. On top of that, they’re gold-diggers, just looking for a way to get money or a green card.
They tell me I’ll be fine as long as I don’t marry a mainland girl.
My grandma used to tell me to find a Chinese girl, because Chinese girls treat their men better, or to find someone who loves me more than I love them. She’s filled with all sorts of funny aphorisms, like “Women are to be loved, not hit.”
If you beat a dog, don’t be surprised if he runs away.
—letter to my uncle, March 2008
When I was a child my mom would always ask me if I’d let her live in a nursing home. She would do this as a form of reassurance, a way of addressing her insecurity about dying alone. To Chinese people, this is a fate worse than death. I understand that there may be medical conditions or other circumstances that make it impractical for a family member to live in your house, but that doesn’t change the fact that being put in a nursing home is like waiting to die.
At the time, I was too young to understand the gravity of such a question, so I would always reassure her, no. Maybe I even loved her at that point, and meant it. But I’ve since cut off all ties with her, and after the divorce, she has no one left. Her relatives lead their own lives, and she’s never had enough of a personality to make any friends. I’ve lived with her long enough to understand what a hollow, empty existence she has.
Now I’m old enough to know that she’ll die alone.
And that it’ll be exactly what she deserves.
Both my Tai Chi teachers eschew the title of “Master”, and prefer to be called by their first names. As I’ve had it explained to me, even the true masters feel like they need a couple extra lifetimes to completely master Tai Chi. This is what my teachers compare themselves to, so I suspect they feel it erroneous to use the same title, even though they’ve been teaching for decades.
I find it very awkward. In Chinese, the word “Master” or “Sifu” implies a teacher, not necessarily a level of skill.
When I was young, I called my cousin by his Chinese name, because I thought it was insulting to address him by his relational title of biu dai for “maternal younger male cousin” (or “mother’s siblings’ son who is younger than me”). I thought the “dai” part referred to someone as “under”, the way “junior” could be used pejoratively in English. The thing I didn’t understand was that it was appropriate, perhaps even more appropriate than addressing him by name. I’ve since become privy to the complex rules of Chinese names and titles, especially relational family ones.
People continue this tradition though, and even as parents, they’ll address their elders the same way. It’s a way of recognizing and respecting the roles in the family. Even though my Tai Chi teacher is Occidental, I feel compelled to address my teacher as “Master”, instead of “Mike”.
And it’s hard habit for me to break.
“One or separate bills?”, the waitress asks us. She has a slight Japanese accent, but aside from her raven hair, her features are distinctly Occidental.
“One please”.
“We’re treating, Jeff”.
“Nope. You guys are in my town.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”, they ask, and threaten to leave if I pay. It does nothing to convince me or change my conviction.
“You guys are a lot more behaved than when I was your age”, says the man sitting next to us.
When the bill comes around, we wrench the tray from each others hands.
“Must be odd”, the man whispers to his wife, who’s laughing at us.
But it’s not odd to me. It’s the Chinese way. Like having too much food when you’re hosting a party because to run out is the ultimate embarrassment.
The same way it’s odd to hear North American people complain about their jobs. To the Chinese, a job is how you take care of your family. It doesn’t matter that it’s mindless, stressful, or hard physical labour. You’re just happy to have that opportunity. All my Canadian Chinese friends feel the same1.
This is how we were raised. It wasn’t a rule that was spoken. We learned it by watching our parents, who would clip coupons for groceries, only buy clothes on sale, re-use paper by writing over again with different coloured inks, but go out to feast with ten people then fight to pay the bill. Sometimes, they’d even get up to find the server to make a preemptive, surreptitious payment. Occasionally there were spilled drinks and soiled clothes, as the fight became physical2. I think it’s nice part of the culture to be so adamant about friendship and company.
And I’m glad to be a part of it.
