Searching for Home

This March, I will go home for the first time in nearly three years. The funny thing is that I never intended to go home even once during my four-year program at HKU. Why not spend my limited money and vacation leave exploring more interesting places I’ve never visited before? If it weren’t for my alma mater inviting me to present a paper at a conference, I wouldn’t have gone home at all during these four years.

I’ve never missed home, nor do I miss it now, and I don’t feel I’ll miss it anytime soon. It’s not that I come from a place that’s particularly dangerous or boring; on the contrary, Vancouver is quite famous for its natural beauty and cosmopolitan flavour, and it’s long been a favoured destination for immigrants from all over the world (especially THIS part of the world). Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I’ve fallen so deeply in love with Hong Kong that I don’t want to leave. Actually, Hong Kong can be quite a despicable place, with the greatest income disparity in the developed world; a terrible sub-tropical climate that’s definitely not suitable for people from more temperate areas; the stresses of living in one of the world’s most cramped cities; and people who can come off as frosty, extremely competitive, and rather callous. What’s more, I’ve been feeling, rather paradoxically, increasingly lonely in this large, crowded city. Still, there are worse places to be, and I do like Hong Kong most of the time.

I should also point out that I’m not estranged from my family. We get along fine. It’s just that we’re now used to not seeing each other for long periods of time, especially me. My parents and I even seem to get along better when we communicate by email. Though it’s not the same as seeing each other in person or talking over the phone, I still let my mom nag me as much as she wants to. I do miss my parents, but I also don’t mind not having them around to nag me on a daily basis. Sometimes, though, it occurs to me that I might never live in the same city as them again, and this does make me feel a bit sad.

‘Home’ is merely the place where I hang my hat at the end of each day, no matter where I might be. I’m not even that fussy about it. I’ve lived in some crummy places in my life, and Graduate House definitely isn’t one of them: my cramped, filthy, mosquito and roach-infested dorm in Taipei was far, far worse; I’ve also lived in a dank, poorly-lit Mao-era fifth floor walk-up in Beijing; and an illegal rooftop structure in Taipei near an old red-light district. It didn’t matter that these places weren’t ideal. What mattered was that at the end of each day, I was able to bathe and to curl up in a bed that was mine. This sense of sanctuary provided me with a ‘home’. These experiences also toughened me up and gave me the courage to leave home without fear.

I still have a vague-and-fading attachment to the place where I grew up, where my family still lives. It’s comforting to know that the house where I grew up is still there, that my parents will likely spend the rest of their lives there, and that I even have a place to go back to if I’m truly down-and-out, or even just feel homesick. Still, home is different now. The exterior has been painted, the electronic appliances have been upgraded, and most tangibly, my sister has annexed my bedroom, having turned it into a study room. I was quite sad and angry the day she told me, on MSN Messenger, how she planned to throw out most of my “junk” (her choice of words, not mine). I probably won’t wear the clothes, read the books, or pay any attention to the “junk” I’ve accumulated in my room over the years, but knowing that this stuff was there gave me a sense of comfort, the feeling that no matter what kind of hardships I’d have to deal with, no matter how crappy my living conditions might be, there is a familiar place somewhere in the world. This is a feeling I can no longer enjoy. In this sense, I am homeless.

To tell you the truth, my ‘identity’ hasn’t been much of a consideration for me. No, I’m not a die-hard patriot, but I do feel a strong sense of gratitude for what Canada has given me. I’m not just talking about the subsidized education and health care, but also being made to feel welcome and included as an ethnic minority. I’m also thankful for the fundamental humanistic values that have been imbued in me over the years. Having said this, I’m not the kind of Canadian who sews a Canadian flag on his backpack, constantly espouses the virtues of Canada in the company of non-Canadians, and lives for beer and hockey. And no, I don’t feel guilty for leaving Canada to explore and understand the rest of the world. I can feel comfort in knowing that in lieu of tax revenue, Canada’s investment in me will probably pay off in the form of projection of Canadian values and in different forms of mutually-beneficial transnational linkages.

As for the other major identity of mine, I myself know that I’m Chinese, even though many China-born Chinese people in Hong Kong, Taiwan, and the Mainland constantly try to convince me otherwise. Conversely, I feel no need to deny my Chineseness like I used to do when I was bullied by Caucasian kids in primary school. I’ve already gone through all that cliché Joy Luck Club “exploring my roots” 寻根 bullshit after feeling deep shame about feeling ashamed to be Chinese when I was younger. I’ve put some time into learning Cantonese and Putonghua; have been studying Chinese history and culture; have a strong desire to see the rise of a proud, strong, prosperous, and responsible China; and for the rest of my life, will try to do what I can to make that happen.

I’m not sure how I will feel when I go home in March. I have no clue where I will want to live or settle after graduation. Even when I’m ready to settle down, I don’t know when I’ll be able to buy property, and when fate will deal me the luck to meet and marry the girl of my dreams. On the one hand, I feel very fortunate to enjoy the amount of mobility accorded to me, but on the other hand, I sometimes feel jealous of those who have a very clear idea of where ‘home’ is, even if it means being stuck somewhere. In any case, I’m beginning to long for an anchor, imagined or real, that I can call ‘home’. It seems I do miss ‘home’ after all, though I’m less clear on where or what ‘home’ is, and where or what ‘home’ will be.