Disclaimer: Not my story, I thought that it was good.
Background: Think you are Chinese
Authors notes: See above
It was with a heavy heart that I entered Chinatown for the last time.
The sky had already darkened, and the rows upon rows of streetlamps had already been lit long ago. "Clearance Sale! Today's the last day! Come buy before its too late!" The roadside vendors were yelling at the tops of their voices, anxious to get that last extra bit of business before they had to close down for good. However, those voices carried none of the sadness I had expected. Was it because they felt nothing of this place? Or had the crowd of people coming here just for being able to say that they had been to Chinatown on its last day, washed away their feelings of woe and replaced it with business instead? "Clearance Sale! It's the last day! Come over and see!"
Sale. A life of selling. Many things, including History, have lost their value even before they were taken to the pawnshop to be pawned. The crowd around me rudely jostled me in the back, and I had no choice but to move forward even though I had wanted to examine some of the stalls. People are such a powerful force. The minorities are always either left behind the majority, or pushed into making unwilling decisions. The night was still young, and amidst the noise and the blazing street lamps, I could see the walls of this area behind the people, and they seemed to truly reflect this place, old and faded.
Chinatown, a name I am proud of. A name that carries with it my father's childhood, my grandfather's struggles, and the many little stories of our ancestors who many years ago used to occupy the very space I was standing on. However, by the time I was born, Chinatown had already grown old.
After I had grown up, I rarely, if ever, went to Chinatown. But before every Lunar New Year's Eve, I made it a point to be at Chinatown. You can say I was there to bask in the enthusiasm, or that it was an old habit, or even that it was a tradition of the Chinese. But I have always felt that the passion, the squeeze, and even the noise made it feel very Chinatown, warm and comforting. But the most important thing was that it was the only place that could pull back the old memories lost deep within the dark recesses of my mind.
When I was young, my dad used to take me to Chinatown, even if it was for no reason better than to just walk around, looking at what Chinatown had to offer. Once again the crowd comes into play, this time to block off my vision. Therefore, my dad allowed me to sit on his shoulders, and suddenly I could see the area around me with crystal clarity. Cloths of any color you cared to think of, various toys of all kinds of design, delicious looking finger food, fruits, wind chimes, radios… I was dazzled. The only things I missed were the lonely only men sitting on the stairs smoking, and the old lady on the second level looking down at the crowd below her.
As I was way too young at that time, I never noticed the look of nostalgia on my father's face, the multitude of emotions written on his face each time we walked down Chinatown. There was once, when we were all tired from walking for hours on end, that my dad suggested we go for some fried rice. I particularly remember that the stall was extremely popular, and the hawkers could not hope to meet supply with demand. This, coupled with the rather slow work of the workers, turned into a very very long waiting time.
After a long while, I got frustrated. Those dirty workers make me nauseous, the "tat tat tat" of the wooden clogs annoyed me to no end, and the other hawkers yelling their goods , and the huge fat cockroaches crawling about made me sick. Not to mention, there was an oily smoke all about coming from the hawkers that made me want to sneeze. As such, I complained that I wanted to go home. My mother told me not to throw tantrums, so I quickly lied that I was feeling sick. My mother instantly got uncomfortable, and flagged down a taxi immediately. I clearly remember the unsettlement on my mother's face, but my father saw through me instantly, and sighed as he walked along.
Time, in this old and forgotten world, was a burden. The harshness of our ancestor's lives, the struggles of the laborers, my mother's youth, the determination of the people, the invasion of hostile countries. A new world was rising, and Chinatown was slowly aging. The accumulating years, such a heavy burden! It was not what those aged buildings could suffer. I thought back about Chinatown's birth, and I thought about the old people waiting to join their long gone partners.
Nevertheless, all these were in the past. The stairs which creaked when in use, the doors whose pain had already chipped off, the faces filled with wrinkles, all spoke of lost things that had passed. "Come over, come over, clearance sale." The stall keepers were getting increasingly robotic in their promoting. Their stalls, full of items, took time to put on display, and when the lights went out, took time to clear. After so many years, they had gotten used to it. However, in a flash, they would never need to do this anymore. After today, in an historical move, the vendors would move towards a new plaza building that had been waiting impatiently to welcome its new owners. It stood proudly to the side, in a modern kind of pride, even though I had no idea of what it was proud of.
I moved out from the shouts of "Clearance Sales", and the noises started to fade into the background. Passing by a house, I saw an old lady wearing shabby clothes slowly walk through an archway, disappearing within its murky depths, and closing the doors to the house. In an instant, I realized that the doorway was another that transported one through time, and kept what belonged to its time from the modern world. It was like keeping Chinatown out of the reach of my 19 year old self.
I suddenly had an urge to walk back towards the crowd. I wanted to go back, I wanted to go back, to find my father's favorite fried rice stall. I knew that it would still be very crowded, but this time, I will wait.
Note: Not mine