A taste of home somewhere far away

A taste of home in somewhere far away. (A narration of the American Chinese from the perspective of a Chinese Chinese) – Abby Lu

I walk into a red brick building typical to New Jersey into a teen center now transformed, drenched in red. Red is the color of China, the color of happiness, the color of Chinese New Year. 

In this linoleum enclosure, I see only three colors – the white of the room, the black of the thick winter coats, and the red of tablecloths and faint blushes tainting people’s faces. 

There is a lingering noise, conversations in a language I grew up in. Here, we can be ourselves. Here, we have created a tiny refuge – a replica of China somewhere far, far away from home. 

Here, there is no familiar clanging of porcelain plates – we use paper ones lined with a floral pattern of blue with white plastic utensils. The clanging is in the conversation – the cacophony of crips Chinese syllables, a soft ring in the distance. Everything seems so close, yet so far. We are all Chinese, yet I feel like an outsider. They grew up in the US, this is their home. But me, I am new – I know nothing of the US, of living far away from home, of them. 

Now, the familiar language is tainted, mixed in a soft grey that is foreign and incomprehensible to me, an outsider in this seemingly enclosed sanctuary. 

A girl dressed in red is piling fried noodles on her plate. Red, not the kind of traditional Chinese ones lined with colored brocade. Red, like the synthetic fabric sold in H&M. There is no elaborate brocade on her. Her apparel is simple, unlike the traditional ones I know. She is Chinese like me, but foreign, in a way I can never be. I long to know more, of the people who are so similar to myself, yet so different.

The room is big, and wide, like a desert, stretching far away with the ‘lone and level sand’ (Ozymandias). Back in Hong Kong, this is the utmost luxury – land is so scarce that we cannot afford to allocate a space this big to a mere teen center. Here, however, things are bigger. The buildings are more spaced out, the plates are bigger, the food as well. Here, everything seems spread out, like thick red paint, spread across a blank canvas so that everywhere is only tainted with a hint of life. 

A little boy of two runs up to me, porcelain cheeks shimmering under the pale electric ceiling lights like a thin sheet of ice under the cold winter sun. He speaks to me in perfect Chinese, ‘who are you?’. I tell him my name in Chinese, and he replies in English:  ‘Jason. My name is Jason.’, then shows his delicate chubby hands to me, tainted in red (ink). He does not tell me his Chinese name, on his name tag there is only ‘Jason’.

A joyous voice announcing a talent show interrupted my running waterfall of thought. Children, all younger than I, go up one by one and play various songs in piano, titled in English, introduced in Chinese. A little boy sits in front of black and white keys as fluent Mozart flows from his lithe fingers. I feel a smile creep up my cheeks as a sense of pride rises in my heart. 

A little girl in a pink ballet dress begins singing a Chinese folk song. A boy hiding in the shadows plays his miniature cello, every move producing a note mirroring the girl’s tunes. I smile. The girl’s childish voice singing with out of tune notes earns a smile on everyone’s lips and clap from everybody’s hands until they are red with tire.

I gulp. Thick mango juice that tastes like synthetic syrup washes down tastes of spice and salt unique to Chinese cuisine. A little boy is again introduced in Chinese, playing a song with an English name. The sometimes clashing cacophony from the slip of his fingers are lucid to my ears. Mozart’s piano sonata with hints of dissonance. Dissonance, like my emotions. It sounds so perfect despite the occasional wrong note.

The people in front of me are American Chinese. I, am Chinese Chinese. We are so different, yet the same. I think to myself – this is the beauty of people, of change, of culture; we are all connected by a single red thread weaving delicately through our hearts beating to the same familiar tune of a folk song.

A taste of home somewhere far away is foreign, modified, and alien. Yet, it is home. That is unmistakable. It does not fail to fill up the empty void of homesickness in my heart, and that is what makes it familiar despite its differences.

Sincerely,

A.L

About the Author:
Abby Lu
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