Thanksgiving in Hong Kong

Ted Hsieh

Thursday

In his thirty-six-year of marriage to Jeanette, he had never spent one Thanksgiving away from her. But his high school classmates were holding a reunion in Hong Kong this Thanksgiving weekend. Jeanette, knowing how much he would like to spend sometime with his friends in the city where he grew up, encouraged him to go. So here he was, in a restaurant called East River across street from his old high school, having his Thanksgiving dinner with his former student and the student's parents.

He was genuinely proud of this student, a psychology major with a good mind and a creative temperament. Now he had been a teacher in Hong Kong since graduation. Looking across the table, he could still feel the youthful enthusiasm this student had for psychology. Gratefully, he offered some words of encouragement. He remembered many years ago the encouragement he received from his teachers on the campus not too far from where they were now sitting. Time had indeed changed. But generations seemed to have stayed the same. It was encouragement and nurturing that helped bridge one generation to another. His heart was filled with thanksgiving on this Thanksgiving Day far away from home. He was thankful for the opportunity he had to teach in one school all these thirty-three years. He was also thankful for having students like this one, almost an extension of himself in many regards.

Friday

He always thought that he knew Hong Kong really well. He did not mean that he knew its mountains and harbors, buildings and streets, or politics and commerce. He meant he knew Hong Kong from the depth of his heart, a place that had touched his emotions and connected with his being.

His heart was in his throat as their Lamma Island ferry was sailing between the Green Island and the Kennedy Town this Friday morning. He sailed through the Lau Wong Hoi Hap (Sulphur Channel) countless times as a schoolboy on his way to and from Cheung Chau. He always liked to watch the big oceangoing ship slice through the water and leave the smaller boats bouncing in its wakes. He often became reflective as he watched this stretch of ocean. It could be so calm one day, without a single ripple, and, on other days, would billow with great anger and really punish the small Cheung Chau ferry. As he became once again mesmerized by this stretch of seascape so familiar to him as a boy, he realized that so much water had gone under the bridge; so many memories were lost and yet so much remained.

That night, he and his classmates had dinner in their old high school canteen. The canteen was almost within the footprints of the former building where the old dinning room was located. Three of his dorm brothers sat with him. He was flooded with high school memories and dreams, in full colors and with bittersweet taste. Spring Flowers and Autumn Moon, he wondered, how much of the past did he really understand?

You could never understand the thought I had for you
The love I had for you was always there, percolating
In nights of loneliness I was helplessly lost
In search of a "harbor" changeless, full of trusting
(A Chinese pop song)

Saturday

He felt that he had changed a lot in these forty-three years. His friends must have changed a lot also. But Hong Kong had not changed much, he assured himself. Certainly, there were gigantic physical alterations and great social upheavals. But, spiritually, Hong Kong had changed very little. He remembered her as extremely generous and selfish. Her existence was crowded and lonely, enmeshed and solitary. Life with her was joy and bitterness mingled together. He felt embraced and rejected by her at the same time. His Hong Kong was all these things and more. Hong Kong was full of paradoxes. He learned to appreciate life's paradoxes early in his youth. In his frequent musings, he always wondered why did Hong Kong choose to teach him this lesson of life.

They rode in a luxurious bus on loan from their old school for today's sightseeing. He did not know if it was proper for him to sit on the left front seat. But he was late and that was the first empty seat available. Actually, he got up very early this Saturday morning. He was prepared to enjoy a Hong Kong breakfast in a small but busy food stall on Kwong Wah and Yim Po Fong Streets. The place was called "Kin Kee" Dzuk King. They allowed him to use a small round table on the sidewalk. He ordered their special lean meat dzuk with thousand-year old egg, a huge "greasy stick," and a meaty dzun.

The food was excellent. But he lingered there much longer than he planned. The streets were less crowded on Saturday morning. The crowds were also different. They were residents from nearby high-rises who were out buying breakfasts or walking their dogs. These dogs were treated with an exaggeration that was so typical Hong Kong. Some dogs wore diamond earrings. Almost all of them wore colorful jackets and shoes to protect them from Hong Kong's morning "chills." An attractive young mother came by with her son and daughter who were caring for two white Pekingese's. The kids kept calling their dogs "sui gau, sui gau" (little dog, little dog). So the mother corrected them and told them to call their dogs by their given names. One dog was named "Kong Dai" (University of Hong Kong) and the other "Dzun Dai" (Chinese University of Hong Kong).

He smiled and was falling in love with Hong Kong all over again, right then and there.

The bus carried him and his classmates on some very modern expressways to the eastern side of Kowloon beyond the old Kai Tak Airport. He remembered he used to go swimming in Wah Ching Tsi on Diamond Hill. He also remembered he used to visit his Chinese Literature teacher Lau Mao Wah. Mr. Lau lived in Sheung Yuen Leng in a balcony room inside a rice and dried goods store. Living frugally himself, Mr. Lau insisted treating him every time to a bowl of TTM in a food stall next door. These places were nowhere to be found today. He remembered going to Chi Lin Nunnery many times when it was a small and humble place. But now it was big and world-class, with antiseptic Japanese architecture and rich furnishings. All these changes brought him a sense of emptiness and longing, longing for those simpler and more innocent days of his youth.

All of his classmates enjoyed the beauty of the Kowloon Walled City Park. They were duly impressed by the talent of the classmate who designed it. But with a typical deviousness that characterized his youth and that had never left him even in his old age, he was immediately attracted to the parallel sentences hanging on the wall of the rest rooms. "Mountain Colors" and "Ink for Literature" were coupled with "Streaming Waters" and "Essence of Life." He stood there smiling his knowing smile and asked a classmate to take a picture of him for all posterity. Was his mind, he wondered, really that devious still?

The rain came down sporadically as his classmates moved from one beautiful spot to another in the park. He wandered behind them and watched his friends in wonderment about how time had fled. Forty-three years! Had it been that long already. The Lord had been very gracious to us all, he murmured to himself again and again.

You are to me like fog, like rain, and like wind
Coming and going you left me with certain emptiness
You are to me like fog, like rain, and like wind
Following near and far I gave you my complete devotedness

Sunday

If there was a city in his life that he had truly loved, it had been the city where he grew up. If the memories of one's youth were all he had, it was wise to savor them. So as he was sitting in a church this Sunday morning, he was savoring the memories, old and new, of this city. 

This city of his youth made no promises and delivered no chastisements. But she always treated him with kindness and generosity. His heart was filled with gratitude on this Thanksgiving weekend as he remembered yesterday's luncheon banquet. In an extraordinary gesture of friendship and generosity, the class president and his wife treated the whole group to great food and sweet fellowship in their new restaurant. He would have this new memory of gratefulness for life.

Many days after his return from the trip to Hong Kong, as he was putting up Christmas lights around the front of the house, he thought about his friends. A sense of happiness and contentment rushed up to fill his total being. He smiled and began to hum the melody of that sad song, "My Bonnie Is Over the Ocean." It was not a song for Christmas but, for him, it had all the warmth and happiness of a Christmas carol. He was glad that he and his three buddies decided to sing that song together at the Sunday banquet, his last day in Hong Kong. The last time the four of them sang that sad song together was in the Class Night in 1959, their senior and final year in Hong Kong. That night, all eight of them were on stage. All eight of them were in that male double quartet. All eight of them were full of life and dreams. All eight of them.

Before they sang that song, he told his classmates at the banquet that they purposely did not practice (befitting their old nature). They wanted to sing this old song of theirs to honor the memory of the three departed members. He told the group that they were not sad. Only those without memories were sad. But they had many memories of their departed friends. Those were good and happy memories. So they sang for their Bonnie and sang it with great gusto.

As he was walking away from that Sunday banquet, he began to feel an indescribable emptiness in his heart. But it was a kind of happy emptiness. He had gone back to the city of his youth. He had seen his friends. He had sung "My Bonnie Is Over the Ocean." He had taken care some unfinished business. Now he felt empty. But it was a good emptiness, a Hong Kong kind of emptiness. He loved the feel of it. Hong Kong knew what he needed and was always there when he needed her. Always.

Embrace me once more with your sweet embrace
Let me feel the pounding of your feverish heart
I don't care if you understand this moment
This moment will never grow old in this heart

End