Every time I step back into this city, Iâm dressed differently. Because the last time I was here, it was winter, summer, spring. I breathe in familiar air, stumble into new faces, taste new flavours on my mala-numbed lips. I am charmed by this city, all over again.
But my mother-tongue is rusty and Iâm on my toes to keep up in conversations. I am Chinese but tarnished. Been exposed. Lost my lustre. I say â Iâm sorry that my mandarin is so bad. Itâs embarrassing.
You tell me that itâs good.
You donât understand. Iâm not a good example of my people. Or my great-grandmotherâs people.
Our broken conversations dip into education and revolutions, culture and nationalism. Iâm barely surviving, scraping up what I can find of my formal education. And when the evening is over, I retreat back to my room of crisp white sheets. I draw a bath to soak my feet in.
Itâs hardly a battle half won. The next time I step back into this city, I must speak differently.