The wind blew through her hair, whipping it up and getting some sand into her already sandy-colored locks. Although we were on the beach, her eyes looked down and out into the water with a sense of insecurity and vulnerability, her arms wrapped around as if to comfort herself.
An essay she wrote likened her situation to a slingshot, being flung between Manila and Hong Kong. Never finding a solid identity, she laments on her desire to be a Hong Konger. As with many others who have grown up in a culture other than home, she initially disliked Hong Kong. But as she grew up, its sights and sounds became familiar to her and she found herself wanting to belong to this city she had acquainted.
“What does it mean to be a Hong Konger?” She repeated what I had asked. The question was rhetorical but her indulgent and calculating expression revealed she was pondering heavily on the right words to say.
“What requirements do I have to fulfil to be a Hong Konger? Because sometimes I feel like I merely live in this city, and that I’m not a part of it. There are times where I would look out at the skyscrapers and neon lights and be amazed that I live here, but that’s the point. I only live here. Why can I not connect with it? Why can I not feel like I belong here? Maybe it’s because I don’t speak Cantonese.” A pause. She looks down at her phone as she locks and unlocks it. She decides to unlock it scrolling through her WhatsApp messages despite not having received any.
“My friends are full-blooded Chinese. But because we went to an international school, their Cantonese was still not up to par. They’d be made fun of for their rusty Chinese despite having lived in Hong Kong all their lives. So how could I, an outsider from the Philippines, possibly call this city my home?”
The words stopped. But her silence spoke volumes. And what it said, were the last few words to her essay; the place she feels her body belongs may never claim her as its own.
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