I wrote this Memoir for my Creative Non-fiction class in which I recalled my memories from living in Asia and what a huge effect that experience had on me at such a young, impressionable age.
For the Mid-Autumn Festival, my family and I joined several friends out on the beach with our colorful lanterns along with hundreds of other people scattered across the sand waiting for the moon to rise up over the water. Everyone ate sweet moon cakes to celebrate, though we did not like them much. Each group built tiny monuments of sand topped with candles, adorning the beach with tiny flickering stars. My parents built an in-ground piece resembling an amphitheatre with layers of candle lit stairs while I worked on my own masterpiece next to my panda-shaped lantern.
Digging under the white sand, I hastily searched for the cool ocean-soaked sand beneath. I did not notice the darkening crescents of sand stinging as they lodged themselves underneath my little fingernails; I was too engrossed in my digging. My parents turned to me and said, “Maybe if you dig deep enough, perhaps you will dig yourself a tunnel all the way to America.” However, as much as I tried, I could only dig until the water pooled at the bottom of my little ravines.
My early childhood, perhaps, was much different than that of most American children. I spent it high up in the clouds or low on the white sand beaches on an island dense with superstition and magic, where the lines between reality and play melted together and fed my hungry imagination. I lived in Hong Kong- at the time a British Colony, now a part of China. We moved there because my dad worked in the chemical sales department of Amoco, now British Petroleum (BP), and because Hong Kong is a huge hub city for business, the company offered him the job. Although I was born in the US, My family and I moved to Hong Kong when I was 18 months old, and so by the time I moved back to the US when I was 6, I was more Hong Kong than American.
Hong Kong consists of the mainland connected to China, and the island part. I lived on the island just out of reach of the busy Hong Kong City. I was protected from the smog and busy noises and crowds because I lived in a circle of apartment buildings up high in the green mountains away from it all. The air was constantly humid and you could smell the salty thickness of the sea although you could rarely see it. Although people usually associate humidity with an awful sticky feeling, I associate it with more positive things. It was here in Asia, on our vacations and in Hong Kong where I first defined myself, both as a child of Hong Kong and a child of the world.
“Welcome to the Dragon Trail: At night, the dragon’s eyes glow red,” my dad read the sign at the entrance and told me how we might see a dragon today. My mom most likely read the concern in my eyes and told me the exact opposite, “Laura, there are no dragons. Dad is just teasing you.” I remember distinctly the conflict battling in my head. On one hand, my parents would not take me somewhere where I could be eaten by dragons, and my Dad did like to tease me a lot, so I knew there weren’t really dragons. On the other hand, my mind raced with the awesome and terrifying possibility of actually seeing one, perhaps being the first person in a thousand years to see one. As a child, these possibilities were quite real to me.
The Dragon Trail was an attraction on the remote Sentosa Island in Singapore. To visit, one had to receive a special permit from the government because they wanted to control the number of people on the Island, make it an attraction-their version of Disneyland, and also keep foreign money coming into the country. The wealthy foreigners always got priority over the residents. Not that we were extremely wealthy, but in Asian countries with the average wage was sometimes $8 a day, we appeared so.
This was not a hokey child attraction, it was a nature walk through the remote island’s jungles. The path we walked on slithered through the trees as large colorful birds cried out together in the canopy. When they didn’t call, the silence was eerie. Too quiet. And it was during one of these silences that we saw the monster.
A group of hikers halted in front of us were staring upwards towards the space between the trees and directly above the trail, and I could make out a dark shadow that looked like a buzzard hovering motionlessly in mid air. A cloud moved away from the sun and a small sparkle flashed next to the suspended dark figure, and I slowly walked forward attempting to register what I was seeing. As my parents and I stepped closer and closer to the thing, I noticed the eight long thin legs shooting out of the massive body. Despite its gargantuan size, it suspended itself in the air by silk-strong transparent threads. I was sure that the web would have had no trouble holding up 5 year old me if I were caught in it. The spider did not move. I wondered if it was even alive until my Dad, in his boyish enthusiasm, picked up a stick and threw it at the beast. The leg twitched as the web vibrated and snatched the stick. The spider flinched. I gasped. I remember calling out to my dad to stop throwing things at it, a big step for a little girl. What if the spider was perturbed and would climb down to kill us? Or what if it was a nice spider like Charlotte and Dad was hurting it? My mom didn’t want him to injure it either, though still to this day, I don’t know exactly which reason dominated her thoughts. After one more stubborn stick throw, my dad returned to the trail and we all hurriedly ran beneath it.
Another few turns in the jungle and we saw the dragon. It wasn’t a real dragon. It wasn’t even alive. It was an eerie set of man-made stone steps in the pathway mimicking a melted and flattened dragon head. However eyes peering out of its drooping lids were red. They were not glowing, so therefore he was asleep. The sun was out, and all was well; but this structure only heighted my eager imagination, and I squinted my eyes in the peeking sunlight to catch glimpses of scales or wings. At night, when we drove passed the trail, we saw the eyes; and they were glowing red! A gazebo wound with restless dragons illuminated magic in the dark forest. Powerful, dangerous, and beautiful, these creatures filled my dreams many a warm night.
On a vacation in Phuket, Thailand, my parents relaxed beneath the hands of masseuses while I winced beneath the hands of a hair dresser. We all sat on the beach on a hand-woven mat underneath palm trees waited on and pampered. Massages there were $10 for an hour and hair braiding was only $3, so naturally we took them up on this luxury. The woman braiding my hair pulled tightly against my sensitive young scalp and wound tight little braids stopped with colorful beads in my long hair. Teary eyed, I complained. And I’m sure that my parents regretted allowing me to get my hair done, even though I had had it done on a few occasions previously. My parents conversed with the women, and through their broken English they told us that men took a baby elephant to the beach today and pointed to the distance.
I could make out a small huddle of people bobbing in the waves around a large black mass that could only have been the baby elephant. I squirming as my hair dresser quickly tried to finish the last braids. I was a pain. My parents stood, up, and spent hours gathering their sandals and towels together, until at last, they gave me the “okay” to start towards the elephant.
Walking across the sand in sandals proved to be frustrating- the fine sand slipped beneath my plastic soles shifting my ankles in all directions. Eagerly, I tore them off my feet and launched into a full excited run. Have you ever seen Disney’s The Rescuers Down Under? Well, in the beginning of the movie, a burst of thrilling music plays as the “camera” zooms through the Australian outback. This was the music that played in my head as I rushed forward. I was filled to the brim with urgent explosions of enthusiasm. And as I ran and played the music in my mind, I imagined myself zooming forward ten times as fast as I really was. My legs thrust forward, one ahead of the other with wild energy as the sand kicked up beneath their flailing. Skimming across the waves of white, I realized the bare bottoms of my feet began to burn. I stopped. The burning was excruciating… and I was stuck in the middle of a huge beach far away from the water and the palm trees’ shade. In this moment, I could imagine Hell and its inescapable heat. Then from behind me, my mom walked up to me, holding my sandals, and we walked the rest of the way together, the sand pushing beneath the bottom of our shoes while our ankles were kicked this way and that.
I cannot recall if there were three men or four men, but I did note that they and the elephant all looked similar as they emerged out of the water and onto the shore- the brown skin slicked with stinging water, the salt matting the rough black hairs, and the light spread of sand caking the bottom halves of their legs. My parents talked with the Thai men and tried to figure out who was older, me or the elephant.
Few may wonder why this is all so exciting. Seeing an elephant, or any creature for this matter is completely different if you see one outside, versus in the zoo. Disproportional as it was young, its eyes popped wide-eyed in awe, and its body was covered in young baby hairs. This was an elephant that would be trained from birth and eventually work with its owner to transport either people or goods. It was lively- you could almost see the small flap of its mouth smiling as it swung its trunk around and then dropped to the sand and rolled on its side, unintentionally sticking layers of sand onto its wet skin. It was here on its side that I saw the bottom of its feet. They looked just how you would expect the bottom of an elephant’s feet to look: flat, round, its toes tightly embedded in the wrinkled skin. However. I had never thought about the bottom of an elephant’s feet before. When I saw pictures of them in my animal books or even when I rode the elephants at the Singapore Zoo, I never saw the bottom of its feet. These feet are what hold their heavy and awkward forms up, they were sturdy, and strong. Due to the wideness of the foot, they could tread upon sand or grass with ease. Even to this day when I went to zoos, circuses, or carnivals, with elephants there, I try to catch a glimpse of the bottom of their feet. It is more difficult to do than one might think. These elephants stand straight up, their feet planted in the ground, they do not play.
To me, Chinese New Year in Hong Kong was a whole day dedicated to magic. During the day, the people would follow lion and dragon dancers in the streets. And although my parents told me they were just people doing acrobatics beneath a colorful costume, I distinctly remember how I would so easily believe that they were real, dangerous, and beautiful. When the huge decorated head would blink at me and bob its head urging me to pet it, I feared its giant mouth that could bite my hand off and I just stood back admiring from afar. My favorites were the 2-man lion dancers. Two acrobats wore a yellow decorative piece of fabric over their heads as the lion’s body, then the man in the front held up an enormous multi-colored head whose mouth eyelids, and ears, were controlled by the inside. The lions would leap and balance on raised platforms and danced to the drums and bells that pound distinctly in my mind. They were short sharp high-pitched sounds quickly played together to give a thrilling feel to the show. Even though I knew men controlled the thing, never once did I think, “Wow, those men are so talented”. For instance, when the acrobats wanted to make the lion appear to be standing on its hind legs, one would jump on the other one’s shoulders. I would never attribute this difficult feat to the men, I only thought, “The lion is on its hind legs now. Look how tall it is!”
Later at night, we would go to my dad’s office building in the city to join the other families he worked with and watch giant fireworks in more elaborate displays than I have ever seen later in the States. I remember gasping when the beautiful shining flickers of light burst into shapes of hearts and smiles and mushrooms. The dandelion explosions would light up our faces with its incandescence, then a few seconds later, the terrifying BOOM would appear, exploding in our chests. I don’t know if the fireworks display was so exquisite to me then because I was smaller and everything looked larger in my eyes, or if it’s because the Chinese invest more in fireworks being that they invented them so long ago. I have concluded that it was a combination of both.
The other children and I would become friends for that one night and try to be the first one to point out the different shapes. We would brag and repeat, “I like the red one” then argue, “I liked the red one first!” etcetera. Although no one thought anything of it at the time, if you were there, you might find our high pitched different accents arguing with each other entertaining. Because Hong Kong was a British port city, and a hub for international sales and trade, the businessmen consisted of people from all different countries. So the different accents blended together and as we conversed we children never thought anything of it. We were all people, not different people, just people. Our melting accents just swirled together into what American’s refer to as a “melting pot”.
Even my life at preschool was as international as it could be. In the States, schools recruit Americans of all different ethnicities to promote diversity, at PIPS, (Parkview International Pre School), it flourished naturally. My teachers consisted of Mrs. George, a blonde haired and blue-eyed English Woman, and Mrs. Jabari, a beautiful Indian woman who dazzled us with her colorful saris dotted with gold and silver threads. I remember being excited for each day of class just to see what she would be wearing that day. My classmates included children from all different countries and back grounds. There were children from England, Holland, America, Germany, India, France, Italy, Indonesia, etc. Some of the children even grew up in families where each member of the family had a different first language because they all traveled so much. He Ting and He Tong were two identical Chinese twins who could only be distinguished from each other by the color of their shoes. My teachers had a terrible time telling the two apart the day they both got the same shoes.
My best friends were Alex and Gregory, two brothers who were half English and half Brazilian. At our young ages we had declared that Alex and I were dating. Sometimes he would let me kiss him, other times he would not. Gregory told me years later when I reunited with them in London that he had a crush on me as well, but I was taken by his brother. It had to be an absolute riot for our parents! When my mother was pregnant, I wanted a little brother, and Alex wanted me to have a sister. He said he liked girls better. I named my mom’s rounding belly “Mowgli” after the boy in The Jungle Book because I was so certain it was a boy. However, Alex won and I had a sister.
Often times my parents would take me to their business parties on “junk boats” along Kowloon Bay or at restaurants in the city. As karaoke is a big form of entertainment in Asia, I would perform songs such as “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and various Christmas songs. The Chinese business men would often exclaim that I was a genius for being able to read at such a young age, however, they did not realize that these were common American songs that I had memorized. Dinner included my favorite dishes such as Peking duck and jellyfish. Peking duck is wrapped in a tortilla with a sweet hoison sauce, but sadly I’ve never had an authentic version of it since. Jellyfish is easiest to explain in terms of texture. It’s like chewing on rubber bands, which I know, it doesn’t sound appetizing. But it was delicious! I’ve tried jellyfish in the States, and sadly, they have never prepared it authentically. So don’t get Peking duck jellyfish in the States.
It was always a treat when my parents took me to Dan Ryan’s, a restaurant in Hong Kong that mimics the average Chicago-land sports bar. The dim lights and walls lined with TVs did not interest me as much as the trains that circled the topmost perimeter of the room, or the taxidermy buffalo head mounted high on the wall. I always asked my mom or dad to hold me up to the buffalo so I could pet it. It seems gruesome to me now, that I would find enjoyment in petting the enormous mutilated head. I would have to sit down once our food came. I always ordered the same thing, the hamburger, and it would arrive on a small white platter topped with a little American flag sticking out of the center of the bun. Looking back at the restaurant and its atmosphere now, it’s easy to imagine the decorator providing a distinct critique on the American Midwest: the trains moving the settlers west to conquer more land, the slaughtered buffalo hung high for people’s enjoyment, and the small plots of Hamburgers claimed for America with a single flag on a toothpick.
I thought America would be exciting and exotic. Because in Hong Kong, we lived in apartments rather than houses with yards, Alex and I always wanted a tree house, and when we found out that I was going to move back to the States, we became extremely excited that I would be able to have one. Unfortunately, due to a lack of tall trees, I never did build that tree house. I remember my first day of Kindergarten in the States and Mrs. Franek introduced me to the class. I remember wondering which one of them would be my friend. They were all Americans- the average kind I read in books and watched in movies. I picked out a girl with freckles, red hair, and glasses. She was as average as you could get. I wanted to be friends with her. I know- my mind was strange. Why would anyone want average? To me, at the time, the average was exotic. My teacher took my hand and sat me down next to Leigh, a girl adopted from Korea. “She will be your bus buddy because she lives by your house!” No! I did not want to be buddies with someone exotic looking! I’ve done that already! We remained friends all through high school.
I laugh at myself now- at my view of the States and what was appealing to me at the time. Really, I was a visitor there; and as a visitor I longed to see all the main traditional, and oftentimes stereotypical, attractions. To 6 year old me, this included a classroom of white Americans, who played baseball, built tree houses, and played in the snow. (Snow was a big deal too because I had only played in it once when we visited my aunts and uncles during a winter vacation)
Fourteen years living in the Chicago suburbs has naturally, transformed me into more of an American than Hong Kong resident. However, the ideas that I developed during my life in Asia are the defining undertones of my existence. My family and I thrived in a society where we were all people of the world, not just people of a country. I identify myself now as a Human more prominently than an American. I feel that this is a good thing, and perhaps the world would make more sense if we tried to understand our similarities instead of just fearing the differences.
After my second sister was born and we had been settled in the Chicago suburbs for a couple years, my family went to Chicago to swim in Lake Michigan. I remember the strange sensation it was to be able to open my eyes beneath the lake water and not feel salt crusting over my skin. The sand was also strange- each pebble was larger than what I was used to- not as fine. As I emerged from the water to join my family in the sand, my sisters were digging a hole in the ground. Helping their little sand-lodged fingernails claw out the sand my mom told them, “Maybe if you dig deep enough, you’ll dig yourself a tunnel all the way to Hong Kong.”
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