When my project ended after 3 long, gruesome months, I took the opportunity to visit the Origin, the "hometown" that I remember only faintly and, inaccurately.
Whenever I'm asked the question "where are you from," I hesitate for 3 seconds before I randomly choose an answer--Shanghai, or Hong Kong, but I always feel slightly guilty because it feels like a lie. In fact, most people think this question has a clear answer, and there's supposed to be only one hometown. For me, however, I've never been clear about the definition of "hometown." Is it the town where you were born? Where you spent the most formative years? Or the town that you're emotionally most attached to?
In many ways, I've never had a hometown that I identify with, which is ironic because Chinese culture attaches such importance to "hometown," which is the place where your ancestors came from. In Taiwan, the young people still have towns in China written on their ID card as their "hometown" even though these people were born and raised in Taiwan and most likely have never set foot in mainland China.
But according to conventional definition, my hometown is this 4-tier (or is it 5-tier?) city 4 hours away from Shanghai by train. Its historical claim to fame being the hometown of one of the four most famous beauties in history, Xi Shi. A decade ago, it was a famous silk manufacturing town. Today, however, it derives its fame from the largest "sock city" where hundreds of sock manufacturers and wholesalers have set up stalls, and the gigantic "pearl city" where cultured freshwater pearls are sold in tonnes.
Being back here felt surreal. This place felt foreign to me. I didn't know my way around. At a time when all metropolis seem and feel the same, I can basically find my way around most cities, be it Shanghai, or Tokyo, or New York, or Paris. I can find my coffee, my fresh fruits, my cocktails, and favorite shoe makers, wherever I am. I've moved so many times, that I've gained a confidence around big cities. But this place was different. It had no Starbucks (though there was a KFC). It had no luxury brands (though I saw some posters of hairstylists who supposedly were trained in the trendiest cities in China). It had no Wholefoods-like, clean, bright, spacious supermarkets (the open market had plenty of ultra-fresh produce, but also stank of freshly slaughtered corpses). I also couldn't find any taxis around.
Worst of all, I didn't speak the language. I consider myself pretty multilingual. I speak many variants of Chinese--mandarin, Cantonese, Shanghaiese, Wuhanese--as well as English and Japanese. But I don't understand the dialect that is spoken by my sister, my biological father, my paternal cousins, and their family. At family dinner, they happily chatted on and celebrated my return, but I sat there and didn't understand a thing. The after dinner conversations were awkward. I didn't know the family gossips or even who they were, and they weren't interested in American politics, marketing, psychology, or Mario Vargas Lhosa, whom i was reading.
Never before had I been so conscious of the fact that in the garden of forking paths, I've come so far from the origin, the place where I started. Being there was a reminder that "I" was but a fabrication. I couldn't help but wonder, who else could "I" have been? If I had taken a different turn somewhere down that journey, I'd have a different identity, different personality, different attitude, in a different place. Who, then, am "I"?
Whenever I'm asked the question "where are you from," I hesitate for 3 seconds before I randomly choose an answer--Shanghai, or Hong Kong, but I always feel slightly guilty because it feels like a lie. In fact, most people think this question has a clear answer, and there's supposed to be only one hometown. For me, however, I've never been clear about the definition of "hometown." Is it the town where you were born? Where you spent the most formative years? Or the town that you're emotionally most attached to?
In many ways, I've never had a hometown that I identify with, which is ironic because Chinese culture attaches such importance to "hometown," which is the place where your ancestors came from. In Taiwan, the young people still have towns in China written on their ID card as their "hometown" even though these people were born and raised in Taiwan and most likely have never set foot in mainland China.
But according to conventional definition, my hometown is this 4-tier (or is it 5-tier?) city 4 hours away from Shanghai by train. Its historical claim to fame being the hometown of one of the four most famous beauties in history, Xi Shi. A decade ago, it was a famous silk manufacturing town. Today, however, it derives its fame from the largest "sock city" where hundreds of sock manufacturers and wholesalers have set up stalls, and the gigantic "pearl city" where cultured freshwater pearls are sold in tonnes.
Being back here felt surreal. This place felt foreign to me. I didn't know my way around. At a time when all metropolis seem and feel the same, I can basically find my way around most cities, be it Shanghai, or Tokyo, or New York, or Paris. I can find my coffee, my fresh fruits, my cocktails, and favorite shoe makers, wherever I am. I've moved so many times, that I've gained a confidence around big cities. But this place was different. It had no Starbucks (though there was a KFC). It had no luxury brands (though I saw some posters of hairstylists who supposedly were trained in the trendiest cities in China). It had no Wholefoods-like, clean, bright, spacious supermarkets (the open market had plenty of ultra-fresh produce, but also stank of freshly slaughtered corpses). I also couldn't find any taxis around.
Worst of all, I didn't speak the language. I consider myself pretty multilingual. I speak many variants of Chinese--mandarin, Cantonese, Shanghaiese, Wuhanese--as well as English and Japanese. But I don't understand the dialect that is spoken by my sister, my biological father, my paternal cousins, and their family. At family dinner, they happily chatted on and celebrated my return, but I sat there and didn't understand a thing. The after dinner conversations were awkward. I didn't know the family gossips or even who they were, and they weren't interested in American politics, marketing, psychology, or Mario Vargas Lhosa, whom i was reading.
Never before had I been so conscious of the fact that in the garden of forking paths, I've come so far from the origin, the place where I started. Being there was a reminder that "I" was but a fabrication. I couldn't help but wonder, who else could "I" have been? If I had taken a different turn somewhere down that journey, I'd have a different identity, different personality, different attitude, in a different place. Who, then, am "I"?
