A frenetic energy pulses with neon lights and the lack of personal space is initially uncomfortable. There’s a constant stream of chatter and hawkers shouting. The delicious aromas wafting from food stalls almost masks the smell of city streets. It’s an attack on all senses, but I’m excited. As I pass stores and homes, scents recall my grandparents’ house, rummaging through their pantry of curious unknowns for something edible. It’s my first time visiting where my father was born, where my grandfather made something of himself, and the homeland he escaped from to survive. Despite his hardships, my grandfather retained an undying pride of China until the day he passed.
I picture my grandfather hawking wares on the street as a kid. I picture my grandparents smiling shyly at each other on a date; my father and his siblings running across the hall to watch TV at the neighbors’. I picture my grandmother’s distress at moving to the United States in her 40s; at starting over again as dishwashers and pineapple factory laborers. Their perseverance is the only reason I, a privileged second generation immigrant, exist. The bustle of life and sheer willpower of people hustling endlessly in all these places reminds me of my family. It draws me to capture them and the idiosyncrasies of daily life there. These images are an attempt to grasp onto a heritage that I often feel no claim to, a language that I cannot speak, and grandparents that I only really knew through translation by others.
