Hong Kong feels so much like home, I don’t know whether to be repelled or find comfort. There is almost no culture shock having grown up in Markham, which part remembrance, part reimagining and a perpetual act of translation of the original. Those who didn’t want to stick around to see what would happen when the city was returned to China, immigrated to Canada and tried to convince themselves they were still one and the same. Markham tried to stay relevant through television, summer trips and importing the latest fashions. Markham tried to stay Hong Kong.
I’m probably not a good judge whether Markham is a good imitation of Hong Kong. I’ve only been back in Hong Kong, the city where I was born, for three days. Since my preteen years I’ve been willfully ignorant about the Chinese culture in Markham, or as much as I could be. Timing lunch for odd hours in order to get discounted dim sum feels like home when I do it in Hong Kong or London. It may be an obvious shorthand for Chinese culture worldwide but these past few days here, I feel like I could walk out of the restaurant, through the uniform, glass-box mall and into a suburban parking lot.
Taking the MTR subway system and walking through the streets I hear names of places I have heard before. The English names are ones we have in Canada, both named after the same colonial namesakes. The Chinese ones I’ve heard before on the Cantonese television and from my parents. It’s like being somewhere you’ve never been and discovering you have before but only in your head. Being here in person, I find it so crowded, it’s uncomfortable. You can’t walk down the street–you weave. People seem to be wheeling merchandise to and from stores at all times, always requiring me to step aside and into the way of someone else. Buses, taxis and cars are handled maniacally, leading to a nagging fear of getting run over.
I find myself people watching, scanning the crowds and wondering which of these people would be my friends and which of this people would be me if I had grown up here. Physically, I only half fit in. I’m bigger and taller than the typical Hong Kong woman. Smooth-talking shopkeepers almost trip up trying to sell me on their one-size-fit-all clothing (that you’re not allowed to try on) without accidentally insulting me. Envy about my height must be played up at all times. I’m not sure if it’s genuine or one of those empty compliments you give when you don’t know what to say. Before I leave for Taipei, I’ll be picking up my Hong Kong identity card. Still I’m not sure how much how of a native I am or if I want to be one.
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