photo generated by AI, town of Scunthorpe
Written by Joanne
English translated by Wang Yiman (Eva)
I am someone who clings to the past. As a child, I couldn't bear to throw away the handmade crafts, the toy cars I assembled, or my notebooks. Back then, the concept of nostalgia hadn’t settled in my mind; I didn’t understand why I felt this way. I simply thought that if I discarded them, a part of me would vanish, and just the thought brought tears to my eyes. There was no space for them at home! My mother would inexplicably scold me, mocking me as if I were Lin Daiyu (A tragic and sensitive heroine from the classic Chinese novel 'Dream of the Red Chamber,' renowned for her poetic talent, intricate emotions, and tragic fate). I hadn’t read Dream of the Red Chamber; I only knew that Daiyu was a good girl, so I didn’t hold it against her. My father understood me; whenever he heard my mother planning to throw away my things, he would reprimand her: “These are memories! When she has children, she can share her stories with them.”
At those moments, my mother would soften, transforming from a mother into a woman, responding with a gentle “Alright, alright.” Eventually, I did have a child and found myself sharing my stories with him—stories in which my mother had a happy, joyful childhood. Sometimes he would ask, “Mummy, why are you crying?” I never knew when to tell him that those weren’t just my stories.
At sixteen, I decided to leave home.
Why? No reason, I just wanted to go. In hindsight, I could conjure countless tragic justifications for my escape from my father’s violence and my mother’s indifference. But sixteen-year-old me told me, in my mind, it wasn’t that complicated—I simply wanted to leave. I believed her; she was always so certain, and I liked that about her.
That summer, packing became a torment. What do English people wear? Would the school provide notebooks? Whose letters should I take? I thought I should hold onto something tangible when I felt homesick. It sounds silly, but she kept all her most cherished items filled with memories, and in the dreary town of Scunthorpe, she spent countless nights crying while clutching a plastic bag with “Carrefour” printed in Chinese characters from her mother, which held her slippers. She carefully folded that bag and placed it on her bookshelf. This noisy book would rustle when she took it out, its pages filled with her sobs, yet she read it over and over.
She firmly believed that England was just a temporary refuge. The perfect exam scores, the medals from camping trips, and her most treasured art portfolio—she eventually brought them all back home, to that singular home. Her parents didn’t understand, constantly asking why she needed to bring back such important things! She couldn’t explain; this was the home she wanted to escape from, yet also the place where she held her hopes and her cherished memories. She felt frustrated, her eyes reddening again. “Oh dear, she’s just like Lin Daiyu,” her mother would say. She began to dislike Daiyu, thinking she must be a girl just as sentimental as herself.
At seventeen, she walked home one night, chased by a group of thugs wielding pipes and beer bottles. “Dying far from home,” this phrase appeared vividly before her for the first time. She didn’t want to die far from home. The unfamiliar place must become her home.
At twenty-eight, she achieved that; England became her home. She lived in a little house she decorated with care, held a respectable job, distinguished accents from various regions, and even learned some Latin from her colleagues. Her English was timeless, genderless, and full of confidence. Her Chinese, however… she didn’t like the version of herself that spoke it; it felt like the voice of a sixteen-year-old girl. Shouldn't home and memories be kept at a distance from the “now”? She asked herself. Colleagues joked that she spoke like a Welsh princess. Indeed, in English, her gestures seemed as though she were a white woman.
She thought, now I can rest easy and be buried here.
The life of an expatriate is a performance; she couldn’t fit into the old role nor fully embrace a new identity. When would this absurd act come to a close? She didn’t know. She silenced the Lin Daiyu within her, donned ill-fitting Shakespearean garb, and danced, sang, and performed on this stage of immigration, which had no audience.
She no longer clung to objects; while traveling, her husband would often ask if she wanted to buy souvenirs. “No need,” she would say, “there’s no space at home…” In her mother’s voice, what was there to commemorate? Managing a private museum was too much trouble. Dusting was a hassle, and moving was inconvenient. She feared they would break, shatter, and in the end, she lost her sense of feeling. Yet, she was happy for several years. Following a script we all know, she became a wife and a mother. An actor who performs according to a script and lines deserves praise.
But over time, the ill-fitting costumes began to chafe, and the lines became increasingly convoluted; it wasn’t her language…
At thirty-three, her husband hoped she would accompany him to Canada, while she wanted to write a chapter of her own story—just a small chapter, about her career and passions. The mysterious playwright of life remained silent as ever, offering no answers. She and her husband argued, ultimately compromising for the sake of the child. I asked her, “Did you concede?” “I don’t know,” she replied. “If I made a decision, it must be what I wanted.” Her words softened, yet still carried the certainty of a sixteen-year-old. I liked her.
Can you guess if that mysterious playwright knew that by thirty-five, the word “divorce” had grown like a virus in her mind? She said, “When I stand alone, it’s no longer marriage.” But her mother said, “You’re ill.” Knowing her temperament, and understanding her resolve, her mother only inquired about how the assets would be divided before hastily hanging up. “Well,” she thought, “it’s good that my mother doesn’t ask…” But her mother was right; perhaps she was unwell, suffering from a similar ailment as Daiyu. She began to weep over things—a forest, the moon, photographs, words, caterpillars, even strangers brought her to tears. I asked her, “Do you like the person you are now?” “I don’t know,” she replied, “but I know you will always love me, just as you would love a stone, a gust of wind, a season, or a stranger. I love the honest and brave life I pursue, a life that is the simplest for every woman.”
I believe her.
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