Home of Lost Souls
I began living in Chungking Mansions when I turned eighteen in October 1992. Two years before, I ran away from home and went to Taiwan. But the picture of my dreams flashed on my heart. It urged me to return and realize them.
Located at the harbor end of Nathan Road, Tsim Sha Tsui, Chungking Mansions appeared abused. A corridor on the ground floor connected the mansions’ five blocks. Together, they became the least favored children among the luxury hotels like the Peninsula and Sheraton. The least favored as I was amid my siblings.
When I first entered Chunking Mansions, a pungent smell – Indian curry mixed with Chinese salted fish – attacked my nostrils. The air on the ground floor was heavy and humid. Standing there among the horde, I sensed the moisture clinging to my clothes. It felt thick as I breathed it in, coating the inside of my throat. South Asians, Middle Easterners, Africans gathered in small groups, conducting business. With my dark complexion, I blended in well. The place brimmed with shops and clamor. I did not mind the noise; I was in search of my voice.
The distance from the entrance to the lift lobby was about one hundred steps. I counted them to keep track. The space in between heaved with men. A slight girl, I braced myself pushing through the throng and avoided touching anyone or being touched along the way.
I chose to stay at Travelers’ Lodge Hostel for three reasons. Firstly, it was the cheapest. HK$45 (US$5.8) per night, while the relatively inexpensive Imperial Hotel next door was HK$500. Secondly, no deposit was required. I paid before noon and had a bed. Lastly, I did not see any Chinese and breathed easier. As a Chinese myself, I knew we could be judgmental.
Travelers’ Lodge had a large lobby with a reception desk parallel to the entrance. In the far corner, a bulky TV and a beat-up sofa took up some space. The foyer bustled with life as an incessant stream of guests arriving and departing. I became almost invisible. It suited me well as I hoped to dissipate, a pellucid drop in a sea of colors.
The hostel had two rooms with a bed each, one sizable mixed-sex, and three single-sex rooms with bunk beds. I selected Bed 86, a lower bunk in the women’s, and paid each morning to keep it. Once I forgot to pay on time, and my belongings ended up scattered around the corner next to the rough wooden reception table.
Behind the table sat Marianne, a fortyish Filipina woman with a menacing face and a high-pitched voice. She wore thick make-up like a mask with a facial expression that mirrored a sullen grey sky. Talking to her could be frightening. You never knew when her angry would rain down on you. I often wondered how the true face of Marianne might have looked before she became a maid in Hong Kong.
Unfortunately, maids landed at the bottom of the social hierarchy of Hong Kong, a British Colony then. I empathized with the domestic workers as I, an outsider, also tasted the bitterness of discrimination. Whenever I saw Marianne’s face, I feared that I would grow to be like her, putting on so much make-up to mask my sense of inferiority, insecurity. The veil might seal my mouth, rendering me voiceless.
The other guesthouse keeper was Cameroon-born Jimmy in his fifties. Jimmy’s voice, deep and dense, sounded like the rumble of distant thunder, matching his slow-moving macho body. Every other day, Jimmy would inspect each of the guest rooms. His too-long legs were not very coordinated as one seemed to delay for a second or two before deciding to put forward in front of the other. But the delay somehow added weight to his inspection.
Marianne and Jimmy were complementary opposites like concave and convex. They got on well with each other and made a great pair of guards, diligently guarding the guesthouse. Nobody wanted to mess with them. We paid on time.
One night when I arrived at Chungking Mansions near midnight after my work at a shop, a power failure blacked out my block again. It happened at least once every two months because of the illicit guesthouses mushrooming inside the mansions, initially designed for residential usage. I pushed through a seedy backdoor and got to the staircase. As I ascended the stairs up to my sixteenth-floor hostel, faint yellow lights from outside crept through the small portholes.
Thoughts of my parents came to my mind. Their unhappy marriage worsened when they immigrated to Hong Kong as they both lost their prestigious jobs and worked in factories. We lived in a slum. Sometimes, my parents directed their antagonism against me. Maybe it was because I was darker-skinned and hyper-sensitive. I got on their nerves. And when your parents disliked you, your siblings ignored you. I grew up feeling unloved.
When I was thirteen, a youth center coach appeared. He told me that I was a talented table tennis player, and his training would qualify me for a spot at the official Hong Kong Junior Table Tennis Team. He became a doting father to me, quenching my thirst for parental love and approval. For a whole year, he trained me hard. Under his guidance, I entered table tennis tournaments, many of which I won. He lavished me with praise and presents. One late afternoon, he took me to his home and broke me.
The foot that I raised to put forward caught the edge of the step above. I nearly tripped over. Grasping hold of the rail, I breathed.
After the rape, my reactions to situations became extremes in strange, unpredictable ways. It did not concern me if I was in a perilous place like I was now, ascending alone a dark staircase that was an infamous place for drug dealing and prostitution. But in public places, I often suffered from sudden panic attacks. If anyone accidentally brushed against the bare skin of my arm, I might let out an involuntary scream.
Luckily, I reached my floor safely that night and the subsequent building blackouts.
Located at the harbor end of Nathan Road, Tsim Sha Tsui, Chungking Mansions appeared abused. A corridor on the ground floor connected the mansions’ five blocks. Together, they became the least favored children among the luxury hotels like the Peninsula and Sheraton. The least favored as I was amid my siblings.
When I first entered Chunking Mansions, a pungent smell – Indian curry mixed with Chinese salted fish – attacked my nostrils. The air on the ground floor was heavy and humid. Standing there among the horde, I sensed the moisture clinging to my clothes. It felt thick as I breathed it in, coating the inside of my throat. South Asians, Middle Easterners, Africans gathered in small groups, conducting business. With my dark complexion, I blended in well. The place brimmed with shops and clamor. I did not mind the noise; I was in search of my voice.
The distance from the entrance to the lift lobby was about one hundred steps. I counted them to keep track. The space in between heaved with men. A slight girl, I braced myself pushing through the throng and avoided touching anyone or being touched along the way.
I chose to stay at Travelers’ Lodge Hostel for three reasons. Firstly, it was the cheapest. HK$45 (US$5.8) per night, while the relatively inexpensive Imperial Hotel next door was HK$500. Secondly, no deposit was required. I paid before noon and had a bed. Lastly, I did not see any Chinese and breathed easier. As a Chinese myself, I knew we could be judgmental.
Travelers’ Lodge had a large lobby with a reception desk parallel to the entrance. In the far corner, a bulky TV and a beat-up sofa took up some space. The foyer bustled with life as an incessant stream of guests arriving and departing. I became almost invisible. It suited me well as I hoped to dissipate, a pellucid drop in a sea of colors.
The hostel had two rooms with a bed each, one sizable mixed-sex, and three single-sex rooms with bunk beds. I selected Bed 86, a lower bunk in the women’s, and paid each morning to keep it. Once I forgot to pay on time, and my belongings ended up scattered around the corner next to the rough wooden reception table.
Behind the table sat Marianne, a fortyish Filipina woman with a menacing face and a high-pitched voice. She wore thick make-up like a mask with a facial expression that mirrored a sullen grey sky. Talking to her could be frightening. You never knew when her angry would rain down on you. I often wondered how the true face of Marianne might have looked before she became a maid in Hong Kong.
Unfortunately, maids landed at the bottom of the social hierarchy of Hong Kong, a British Colony then. I empathized with the domestic workers as I, an outsider, also tasted the bitterness of discrimination. Whenever I saw Marianne’s face, I feared that I would grow to be like her, putting on so much make-up to mask my sense of inferiority, insecurity. The veil might seal my mouth, rendering me voiceless.
The other guesthouse keeper was Cameroon-born Jimmy in his fifties. Jimmy’s voice, deep and dense, sounded like the rumble of distant thunder, matching his slow-moving macho body. Every other day, Jimmy would inspect each of the guest rooms. His too-long legs were not very coordinated as one seemed to delay for a second or two before deciding to put forward in front of the other. But the delay somehow added weight to his inspection.
Marianne and Jimmy were complementary opposites like concave and convex. They got on well with each other and made a great pair of guards, diligently guarding the guesthouse. Nobody wanted to mess with them. We paid on time.
One night when I arrived at Chungking Mansions near midnight after my work at a shop, a power failure blacked out my block again. It happened at least once every two months because of the illicit guesthouses mushrooming inside the mansions, initially designed for residential usage. I pushed through a seedy backdoor and got to the staircase. As I ascended the stairs up to my sixteenth-floor hostel, faint yellow lights from outside crept through the small portholes.
Thoughts of my parents came to my mind. Their unhappy marriage worsened when they immigrated to Hong Kong as they both lost their prestigious jobs and worked in factories. We lived in a slum. Sometimes, my parents directed their antagonism against me. Maybe it was because I was darker-skinned and hyper-sensitive. I got on their nerves. And when your parents disliked you, your siblings ignored you. I grew up feeling unloved.
When I was thirteen, a youth center coach appeared. He told me that I was a talented table tennis player, and his training would qualify me for a spot at the official Hong Kong Junior Table Tennis Team. He became a doting father to me, quenching my thirst for parental love and approval. For a whole year, he trained me hard. Under his guidance, I entered table tennis tournaments, many of which I won. He lavished me with praise and presents. One late afternoon, he took me to his home and broke me.
The foot that I raised to put forward caught the edge of the step above. I nearly tripped over. Grasping hold of the rail, I breathed.
After the rape, my reactions to situations became extremes in strange, unpredictable ways. It did not concern me if I was in a perilous place like I was now, ascending alone a dark staircase that was an infamous place for drug dealing and prostitution. But in public places, I often suffered from sudden panic attacks. If anyone accidentally brushed against the bare skin of my arm, I might let out an involuntary scream.
Luckily, I reached my floor safely that night and the subsequent building blackouts.
*
Sometime later, I made three girlfriends.
Kate, English, had been there for five months and worked as an English tutor. She was timid and tall with a tiny mole above her lips, visible only because of her pearly white skin. If I had her skin, my parents might think more of me, that I was born superior, a pearl to them, rather than with my dark skin that made me look like a peasant’s daughter. I stood out from my finer, whiter-skinned brother and sisters.
Julie was a sporty, chirpy Australian. We often walked down Nathan Road to Sham Shui Po to enjoy cheaper meals, during which we talked and laughed louder as people were not so uptight and pretentious as the ones in TST. Like Julie, I became a jolly visitor. At times, though, I caught tragic looks in her eyes. Maybe that was why we clicked. We both strove to revive the blithe and carefree girls inside ourselves.
Park, a South Korean, was stoutly built and square-faced. The peculiar opacity of Park’s dark eyes attested to her private nature. It was very unusual for a Korean to travel unaccompanied, let alone a young woman like Park. But she could have said the same about me. Park kept to herself, but when our eyes met at times, I nodded and smiled at her. She always responded in kind. Then she began bidding me goodnight before climbing up to her bunk, and I greeted her when she came down the following morning. Sometimes when I returned from work, I found sachets of Korean rice crackers or candies next to my pillow. We talked more with our baby English, supplementing with wild gestures. Using our secret languages, we helped each other to connect with the rest. The mutual acceptance, respect, and bond that I developed with Park were things I always longed to have with my sisters.
I loved Park, Julie, and Kate, but when all was in, it felt like the bunk beds, the ceiling, and walls were closing in on me. There was no window. I crawled into my lower bunk and curled in there like a little trapped mouse.
And then I met three guys: Takeshi from Japan, Ricky, England, and Marcus, a German. Takeshi, a tousle-haired, boyish good-looking young man with soulful eyes, had a mild stutter. He was like the elder brother I yearned for – so tender and caring. Ricky was ruggedly handsome with a head of shoulder-length hair that parted in the middle. He often let the strands of his fringe drape down like curtains covering up his face. When he stood close enough for me to feel his warmth, my heart trampolined. Takeshi and Ricky were in their early twenties. Marcus, in his thirties, was tall and muscular. Combined with his stern facial expression, he looked intimidating. I kept my distance. But when I heard him speak, his voice was surprisingly sonorous and sincere. It softened his appearance and brought us closer together. But he took drugs and isolated himself from time to time.
Ricky and Marcus had boarded there for many months when I arrived. Their respective lower bunk beds were wrapped vehemently with indigo sheets as if it was their most sacred and inviolable property. They existed in their wonderland. Whenever I needed to speak to Marianne, one of them would appear next to me. Upon seeing Ricky or Marcus, Marianne’s face cleared. She listened attentively. And when she replied, her pitch lowered. It worked like magic. Maybe Marianne was in love with them.
Kate, English, had been there for five months and worked as an English tutor. She was timid and tall with a tiny mole above her lips, visible only because of her pearly white skin. If I had her skin, my parents might think more of me, that I was born superior, a pearl to them, rather than with my dark skin that made me look like a peasant’s daughter. I stood out from my finer, whiter-skinned brother and sisters.
Julie was a sporty, chirpy Australian. We often walked down Nathan Road to Sham Shui Po to enjoy cheaper meals, during which we talked and laughed louder as people were not so uptight and pretentious as the ones in TST. Like Julie, I became a jolly visitor. At times, though, I caught tragic looks in her eyes. Maybe that was why we clicked. We both strove to revive the blithe and carefree girls inside ourselves.
Park, a South Korean, was stoutly built and square-faced. The peculiar opacity of Park’s dark eyes attested to her private nature. It was very unusual for a Korean to travel unaccompanied, let alone a young woman like Park. But she could have said the same about me. Park kept to herself, but when our eyes met at times, I nodded and smiled at her. She always responded in kind. Then she began bidding me goodnight before climbing up to her bunk, and I greeted her when she came down the following morning. Sometimes when I returned from work, I found sachets of Korean rice crackers or candies next to my pillow. We talked more with our baby English, supplementing with wild gestures. Using our secret languages, we helped each other to connect with the rest. The mutual acceptance, respect, and bond that I developed with Park were things I always longed to have with my sisters.
I loved Park, Julie, and Kate, but when all was in, it felt like the bunk beds, the ceiling, and walls were closing in on me. There was no window. I crawled into my lower bunk and curled in there like a little trapped mouse.
And then I met three guys: Takeshi from Japan, Ricky, England, and Marcus, a German. Takeshi, a tousle-haired, boyish good-looking young man with soulful eyes, had a mild stutter. He was like the elder brother I yearned for – so tender and caring. Ricky was ruggedly handsome with a head of shoulder-length hair that parted in the middle. He often let the strands of his fringe drape down like curtains covering up his face. When he stood close enough for me to feel his warmth, my heart trampolined. Takeshi and Ricky were in their early twenties. Marcus, in his thirties, was tall and muscular. Combined with his stern facial expression, he looked intimidating. I kept my distance. But when I heard him speak, his voice was surprisingly sonorous and sincere. It softened his appearance and brought us closer together. But he took drugs and isolated himself from time to time.
Ricky and Marcus had boarded there for many months when I arrived. Their respective lower bunk beds were wrapped vehemently with indigo sheets as if it was their most sacred and inviolable property. They existed in their wonderland. Whenever I needed to speak to Marianne, one of them would appear next to me. Upon seeing Ricky or Marcus, Marianne’s face cleared. She listened attentively. And when she replied, her pitch lowered. It worked like magic. Maybe Marianne was in love with them.
*
When Park’s birthday came, my gang decided to give her a party. We waited until after midnight when the night watcher, Jimmy, retreated to his chamber behind the reception table. Ricky revealed a secret back staircase from our floor to the rooftop of Chungking Mansions. Marcus brought whisky and wine; Takeshi, sake; Park, Korean rice wine; Julie, Kate, Ricky, and I, beers.
When we reached the end of the back staircase, Ricky pushed open a wrought-iron gate. We got out and found a rooftop patio surrounded by walls that were below my waist. The broad walls were about twelve inches wide. I walked forward, stopped at the front wall, and found flat overhanging eaves that prevented me from seeing Nathan Road right below. Looking out, Peking Road extended exuberantly ahead. The playful neon lights mixed with bar-hoppers, party-goers, and insomniacs conveying the effervescent nightlife of Hong Kong.
The late-night air felt cool, though a sense of humidity mixed with the anxieties of the city clung to my skin. The heavens stood high, grand, nonchalant. The stars immersed themselves in the striking Hong Kong skyline. This open space contrasted to the low-ceilinged, congested guesthouse a floor below. I stared into the wondrous void above and felt my muscles relaxing, letting go of existential fear and concerns. This bigger world was where I belonged. The atmosphere vibrated with my heartbeat, full of vitality. The lightly salted breeze from Victoria Harbor embraced us all.
We sat on the floor in the middle of the roofed yard, forming a circle around the drinks. Marcus held up his lighter, lit it in front of Park, and asked her to make a wish. Park lowered her head, put her palms together in a prayer pose, and did so. We clapped and sang "Happy Birthday." Her eyes shone, her face glowed. She winked at me before the light went out. I put my arm around her shoulders, and she tilted her head to meet mine. We sat connected and contented.
The drinking and chatting went on. At some point, I gave my left inner thigh a quick pinch, making sure that I was not dreaming – that I was on top of something for a change. TST, the most glamorous district in the Kowloon peninsula, existed below my feet. From Datian, “a big rice paddy,” the prefecture where I was born, to Nanan, the hometown of my parents, to Hong Kong, then to Taiwan, and now the top of TST – I felt opportunities lay everywhere, and I would not just survive, but thrive.
Marcus got up, gave us a Nazi salute, and marched the Hitler march. I froze. The fact that he was German made the whole thing look creepy. But I said nothing. Julie sprang to her feet and joined the march. Others, including me, laughed – a brief, mirthless chuckle.
Since I was a child, I had felt lost and alone. After the sexual assault, my emotional world shut down, and I told no one about the incident, including my parents. Keeping it all to myself, I camped in the ravine. Strengthened by my friends, I wanted to crawl out, to feel free. But the past still weighed me down. The frail me reached for the hand that extended without questioning.
Marcus’s marching was offensive, and I should have told him so. But the fear of being alienated silenced me. It would be many more years until I gained my voice and strength to expose injustice.
Takeshi started humming a beautiful Japanese folksong. His voice was softly mellifluous. A sense of serenity seeped through my skin, traveling into my heart. Mesmerized by his melancholy melody, we quieted and listened.
The song faded, sweeping away some of our worries. It was like when we finished reading a Greek tragedy and reckoned our lives were not so unendurable. The air, crisp and calm, bestowed us a delicious moment – a fugitive spot of time where we found solace.
Ricky picked up the beat. He began by cracking light jokes about his old life back in London, stealing cars to get his father’s attention. Ricky spoke like the stories belonged to others. It’s as if he tried to keep himself away from that other self – the self that seemed at once intimate and alien to him. He tackled edgier issues next: the similarities and differences between the English, Scottish, Welsh, and Northern Irish. It was my introduction to the United Kingdom. I realized that those four kinds of British people did not talk to each other in our guesthouse. Most Hong Kong people came from Guangdong province, versus, we, the Fujianese who mostly speak Hokkien, are ngoi saang ran, “people from other provinces,” the outsiders. We learn Cantonese and try to fit in. But our accent often betrays us and attracts inquisitive or, worse, denigrating looks. I turned to Kate and smiled sadly. She put her arm around my shoulders, rocking me.
Finally, I managed to put my lonely fourteen-year-old self behind me. When needed, I had people to turn to now. The realization gave me joyous rapture, and such pleasure propelled me to stand up and walk toward the thick brick balustrade in the front yard. I took off my shoes and climbed on top of the low wide wall. Its surface’s small rocks stabbed at the soles of my feet. I steadied myself and rose. Spreading my arms, I took a few baby steps forward and quivered like a fledgling. Park and Kate came over, staying close.
The fourteen-year-old me felt suicidal after the assault. I often tried to find the way to the rooftop of my school. It would be good to eliminate all the shame, guilt, and anger by one jump. But then I heard a song that begins:
Please don’t ask me from where I come
My hometown is far away
Why do I wander
Wander afar
"The Olive Tree" – a folksong sung by Taiwanese singer Chyi Yu and its lyrics by San Mao. The song called out to me. It permitted me to depart, to wander, to live. Hence, I embarked on a journey to Taiwan in hopes of reinventing myself.
The wind gusted. I swayed and cried. Kate seized my forearm; Park grabbed at my leg. Julie, Takeshi, Marcus, Ricky came running. They reached out and held on to me. My body recovered its equilibrium; I stood back up, taller and steadier than before. I gave my gang a grin, and they returned it with sweet smiles. Taking a gleeful glance at the glimmering road ahead, I drew a deep breath, turned to them, and jumped.
I landed in the outstretched arms of Park. Others joined, and we group-hugged. I felt like a lustrous, unscarred pearl protected by my gang, my shell.
Later, we sat atop the short wall and looked out at the harbor. I closed my eyes and imagined the dawn that would come – the sky resembled a prism with all the colors blended perfectly into each other, the sun peeking out of the horizon and its brilliant rays shined brightly, the glistening reflection of the sun on the ocean. My heart swelled with awe and excitement.
When we reached the end of the back staircase, Ricky pushed open a wrought-iron gate. We got out and found a rooftop patio surrounded by walls that were below my waist. The broad walls were about twelve inches wide. I walked forward, stopped at the front wall, and found flat overhanging eaves that prevented me from seeing Nathan Road right below. Looking out, Peking Road extended exuberantly ahead. The playful neon lights mixed with bar-hoppers, party-goers, and insomniacs conveying the effervescent nightlife of Hong Kong.
The late-night air felt cool, though a sense of humidity mixed with the anxieties of the city clung to my skin. The heavens stood high, grand, nonchalant. The stars immersed themselves in the striking Hong Kong skyline. This open space contrasted to the low-ceilinged, congested guesthouse a floor below. I stared into the wondrous void above and felt my muscles relaxing, letting go of existential fear and concerns. This bigger world was where I belonged. The atmosphere vibrated with my heartbeat, full of vitality. The lightly salted breeze from Victoria Harbor embraced us all.
We sat on the floor in the middle of the roofed yard, forming a circle around the drinks. Marcus held up his lighter, lit it in front of Park, and asked her to make a wish. Park lowered her head, put her palms together in a prayer pose, and did so. We clapped and sang "Happy Birthday." Her eyes shone, her face glowed. She winked at me before the light went out. I put my arm around her shoulders, and she tilted her head to meet mine. We sat connected and contented.
The drinking and chatting went on. At some point, I gave my left inner thigh a quick pinch, making sure that I was not dreaming – that I was on top of something for a change. TST, the most glamorous district in the Kowloon peninsula, existed below my feet. From Datian, “a big rice paddy,” the prefecture where I was born, to Nanan, the hometown of my parents, to Hong Kong, then to Taiwan, and now the top of TST – I felt opportunities lay everywhere, and I would not just survive, but thrive.
Marcus got up, gave us a Nazi salute, and marched the Hitler march. I froze. The fact that he was German made the whole thing look creepy. But I said nothing. Julie sprang to her feet and joined the march. Others, including me, laughed – a brief, mirthless chuckle.
Since I was a child, I had felt lost and alone. After the sexual assault, my emotional world shut down, and I told no one about the incident, including my parents. Keeping it all to myself, I camped in the ravine. Strengthened by my friends, I wanted to crawl out, to feel free. But the past still weighed me down. The frail me reached for the hand that extended without questioning.
Marcus’s marching was offensive, and I should have told him so. But the fear of being alienated silenced me. It would be many more years until I gained my voice and strength to expose injustice.
Takeshi started humming a beautiful Japanese folksong. His voice was softly mellifluous. A sense of serenity seeped through my skin, traveling into my heart. Mesmerized by his melancholy melody, we quieted and listened.
The song faded, sweeping away some of our worries. It was like when we finished reading a Greek tragedy and reckoned our lives were not so unendurable. The air, crisp and calm, bestowed us a delicious moment – a fugitive spot of time where we found solace.
Ricky picked up the beat. He began by cracking light jokes about his old life back in London, stealing cars to get his father’s attention. Ricky spoke like the stories belonged to others. It’s as if he tried to keep himself away from that other self – the self that seemed at once intimate and alien to him. He tackled edgier issues next: the similarities and differences between the English, Scottish, Welsh, and Northern Irish. It was my introduction to the United Kingdom. I realized that those four kinds of British people did not talk to each other in our guesthouse. Most Hong Kong people came from Guangdong province, versus, we, the Fujianese who mostly speak Hokkien, are ngoi saang ran, “people from other provinces,” the outsiders. We learn Cantonese and try to fit in. But our accent often betrays us and attracts inquisitive or, worse, denigrating looks. I turned to Kate and smiled sadly. She put her arm around my shoulders, rocking me.
Finally, I managed to put my lonely fourteen-year-old self behind me. When needed, I had people to turn to now. The realization gave me joyous rapture, and such pleasure propelled me to stand up and walk toward the thick brick balustrade in the front yard. I took off my shoes and climbed on top of the low wide wall. Its surface’s small rocks stabbed at the soles of my feet. I steadied myself and rose. Spreading my arms, I took a few baby steps forward and quivered like a fledgling. Park and Kate came over, staying close.
The fourteen-year-old me felt suicidal after the assault. I often tried to find the way to the rooftop of my school. It would be good to eliminate all the shame, guilt, and anger by one jump. But then I heard a song that begins:
Please don’t ask me from where I come
My hometown is far away
Why do I wander
Wander afar
"The Olive Tree" – a folksong sung by Taiwanese singer Chyi Yu and its lyrics by San Mao. The song called out to me. It permitted me to depart, to wander, to live. Hence, I embarked on a journey to Taiwan in hopes of reinventing myself.
The wind gusted. I swayed and cried. Kate seized my forearm; Park grabbed at my leg. Julie, Takeshi, Marcus, Ricky came running. They reached out and held on to me. My body recovered its equilibrium; I stood back up, taller and steadier than before. I gave my gang a grin, and they returned it with sweet smiles. Taking a gleeful glance at the glimmering road ahead, I drew a deep breath, turned to them, and jumped.
I landed in the outstretched arms of Park. Others joined, and we group-hugged. I felt like a lustrous, unscarred pearl protected by my gang, my shell.
Later, we sat atop the short wall and looked out at the harbor. I closed my eyes and imagined the dawn that would come – the sky resembled a prism with all the colors blended perfectly into each other, the sun peeking out of the horizon and its brilliant rays shined brightly, the glistening reflection of the sun on the ocean. My heart swelled with awe and excitement.
The Fairlies selection in each issue of West Trestle Review features a reprint of a poem or story written by a woman of color or non-binary writer of color. "Home of Lost Souls" first appeared in the fall / winter 2018 issue of Shanghai Literary Review.
Sonia F.L. Leung’s debut poetry collection, Don’t Cry, Phoenix (2020), in both English and Chinese, is accompanied by an album of ten songs. Sonia earned her MFA in Creative Nonfiction with distinction in 2016. The same year, Leung's story, "Diamond Hill," won the second prize in Hong Kong’s Top Story, co-organized by Radio Television Hong Kong and EJ Insight. Recently, Sonia has completed her memoir, The Girl Who Dreamed, and is exploring publication opportunities. Leung's work has appeared in multiple publications, including Remington Review, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, The Shanghai Literary Review, Mala Literary Journal, and Afterness – Literature from the New Transnational Asia, an anthology.
Art: New Beginning #131, Encaustic on Wood Panel, 2021 by Chizu Omori.