(the following article was written for Boiling Point Magazine and will be published in the April 2006 issue)
In Kenya men hold hands. Boys, teens, young men, married men, and grandfathers all hold hands as a term of endearment, not just to cross the street. Sexual orientation and holding hands are not related. Some of the most ‘manly’ men, men who might believe homosexuality is a sin, hold hands. Ignorance is bliss when thinking of physical affection between two guys, it is simply not a symptom of sexual orientation. At first, seeing this is a refreshing change from an unrelentingly homophobic American culture that links any form of physical affection between men as ‘gay,’ as not manly. Picture it: two men, chests out, heads high, laughing through a market on the busiest day of the week, hands locked. No weird glances, no fleeting glowers of disapproval. Now picture that in America, two power suits and big knots on bold colored ties in a financial district of a big city at rush hour, hands locked. It is hard to imagine the picture without imagining the looks, expressing feelings from discomfort to disgust. But make no mistake, Kenya, as a nation, is not comfortable with the any of the letters in the LQBTQ conversation. Initially settling, the fact the sexuality is never questioned, on second thought, becomes unsettling. It is assumed that no man would be gay.
In Kenya, sodomy is still a crime and men are still prosecuted for it. In 1998, the notoriously corrupt and ruthless Kenyan president Daniel arap Moi was quoted as saying, "Kenya has no room or time for homosexuals and lesbians." In a country where Pentecostalism is the fastest growing religion, there is an enormous conservative Christian presence that preaches homosexuality as a sin. A lot of those same manly men hold hands on their way to church. Regardless of where they are going, Kenya is not a LGBTQ-friendly country.
My time in Scotland has proved different. An equally, if not more, Christian country, it seems that religion has less flex here, overwhelmed by a relatively liberal public. Religion aside, homosexuality is far more talked about and accepted. My gay co-worker wears a wedding band and talks of his fiancé; they are to be married and afforded all the civil rights that a married man and woman would be given. People make fun of him because he wears tapered pants, but in this instance it is the inverse of Kenya. People in Scotland make ‘gay’ jokes as pejoratives but the foundations for acceptance and equality for people of all sexual preferences is poured and set in society. Of all places I have been, Scotland is the most likely to see those same men in suits with their hands clasped and not bat an eye. Incendiary debate raged leading up to the ratification of The Civil Partnership Act in December of 2005, but out of conflict has come progress. As a nation, Scotland is as sexually ecumenical as I have been to.
Yet, my time in Kenya and Scotland is not sufficient to draw absolute conclusions about national opinion. Such questions have no definitive answers, what do people really think about homosexuality? LGBTQ persons? Why is there an assumed discomfort and where does that discomfort come from? How is it remedied? Indeed, as Scotland has always known but recently confronted, and any queer person in Kenya would tell you, these are not easy questions. For heterosexual members of the world these questions are easily dismissed – they are not a daily reality. As Karen Booth, associate professor of Women's Studies and openly queer faculty member of the sexual studies minor at UNC, admits: “I do feel vulnerable to being dismissed, discounted, and despised when I come out to students and other members of Carolina's community.”
So a question that does deal directly with each of us resounds: Where does UNC stand when it comes to the acceptance of LGBTQ persons? Are some of those same men who think homosexuality is a sin sitting next to you in class?
An uncomfortable question for some, but it is exactly this discomfort that needs to be addressed because those awkward moments result in learning. When asked if he thought there was a fear of homosexuals on campus, former Student Body President Seth Dearmin conceded that there was work to do make campus more welcoming but, “I think we offer a very safe and friendly environmentfor all.” Dearmin’s concession is as telling as his statement. As accepting and diverse a place as UNC is, there is an undeniable discomfort with all students who are different. It is a visceral discomfort, hard to locate, or blame one person for, but difference is disquieting and often leads to fear. “Often times if they are afraid,” says Dr. Cecil Wooten, professor of classics, “they are afraid of differences. People, especially those who are unsure of themselves, often feel uncomfortable around people who are different. “
Enter education. Members of the LGBTQ community are not at Carolina to serve as a tool for education; they struggle, like all people who are discrimated against, for fair and equal treatment from everyone, institutions and people alike. But their struggle must not be pushed to the fringes; it should be embraced. The ‘eww’ faces at kiss-ins in the Pit that teach the lasting life lessons. This teaching must take place on two levels: peer-to-peer and university-wide. Fear of homosexuals, the perceived different, “could be remedied to a degree by frequent reminders from the administration of the University's non-discrimination policy; more funding of the LGBT office and of sexuality studies; more courses on LGBT issues; mandatory "safe zone" and anti-harassment workshops; the granting of health and other benefits to same sex partners of faculty, staff, and students,” says Karen Booth. Support from the University is essential, because it must, as an institution spearhead the fight against all discrimination and hatred on campus.
When asked the same question on combating fear of homosexuals, Dr. Wooten made an equally salient point: “I have never known anyone who knew a gay person who was afraid of gay people.” People to person, the myths are shattered.. As part of their education, students must be forced from their comfort zones by the University - the LGBTQ office helps facilitate these teaching moments - but they must also realize that growing up consists of challenging oneself. Carolina is not high school, it is time to begin thinking for yourself, critically, and realize that whatever the Bible might say, whatever your ignorance has allowed you believe up to the that point, is insufficient. A fear of the different, of LGBTQ persons does not withstand face-to-face interactions and all students need to be pushed and push themselves to be challenged.
This is not an easy thing to do but it is a necessary and important task as important as an A on a creative writing paper or biology final. Dr. Wooten asks: “Isn’t the removal of unreasonable fears and prejudices one of the functions of education?”
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
social graces
How was your break?
“Shut up,” I reply. Well, not actually, I say it in my head
I’ve been back in St. Andrews for a week now and every time I get asked that question I cant stand it; this is me maturing.
It is like the scripted conversation you have when you first meet someone. Hi. What’s your name? Where are you from? Where do you go to school? What do you study? Do you know ________? By the time you get to the second question you have already forgotten the persons name and make some stupid excuse like “Oh I am so bad with names” Insert an awkward laugh. The next time you see that same person, who might know the kid you sat next to in 7th grade, haven’t spoken to in 10 years but heard goes to the same school, you introduce a friend, whose name you do know, with the hopes that they learn the unnamed acquaintance’s name.
Growing up I was taught to be open-minded, not to ‘judge a book by its cover’ and accept all people. However, in my young adulthood I’m finding that some books aren’t worth reading. You need to decide that just by looking at their covers. Some people just suck, are not fun or interesting, and there is no problem in brushing them off – I am going to forget your name anyway. For the sake of the really good people out there, the ones worth reading, you must be discerning with the ways you spend your time and with whom you spend it.
That’s why Hong Kong kicked ass. One girl asked Alex if he was gay because he chose to hang out with Jon and me instead of her, two guys with comparatively not- pert bosoms. He laughed and we went drinking. His actions are telling of a certain level of maturity. How you spend your time, whom you invest in and develop friendships with is so important. If you think someone sucks, don’t spend time with them. There is nothing wrong with that. It is a good thing.
Alex, Jon, and I explored the city, went out, played basketball, and just chilled doing what we wanted when we wanted, making fun of each other as we went, telling stories from both freshman years. When playing basketball is was obvious we know each other better than we sometimes know ourselves. Alex knew I was going to use my left hand before I had dribbled and Jon knew I was going to spin before Alex checked it. Jon was red after two beers; Alex and I were still thirsty. Walking down the crowded street shoulder to shoulder loud and obnoxious, talkative but perceptive, there were no fake conversations. It was time well spent with two of the guys who consider my parents their friends, will be my mates for the rest of my life, probably buy my underage kids beer, and tell stories at my wedding. There were other guys on their programs, and yes of course there were women (although they weren’t entirely sure what to make of me, a gangly 6’3” bearded white guy with a beast of hair on his head) but so what… the truth is, those people just don’t matter that much to me.
Of course there is this idea of social grace, being a nice person, a sociable character, and there is nothing wrong with that. But, when knowing other people or seeking to be cool somehow validates who you are, you need to consider your motivations. St. Andrews is a university predicated on social networks, authenticating people by what societies they are in, who they know, what golf score they shoot, how much money their parents make and what animal they have emblazoned on their polo shirts. Never have I been in a place where there is larger concern with outward appearance and the class you convey. Worst of all, most people are unsure if they think it is okay or not, entirely unclear as whether being a blue blooded aristocrat is for them enviable or worth flaunting, so they spinelessly play to their audience, content to cognac with the old boys one day and deride them behind their back another. Consistency is rare, boiling down to an insecure sense of self. Somehow, if I can know a lot of people, not even know there names, but have many friends I wave to in the street, I am more complete.
To these people I think, “Shut up.” You don’t care how my break was and knowing people doesn’t validate me. I don’t mind the fact that I find the books on my shelf more exciting than the people here. And while that is not entirely fair because of course I haven’t met everyone. I know I have good friends and am just as content not have superficial heartless conversations.
Each person needs to figure out how they want to read other people, what are they going to look for, who is worth you time, who is going to make you laugh, challenge you, force you to grow, be at your wedding? It is vital to make good friends and keep those friends around you. For different people, there is different criterion. I have mine and I don’t feel bad about it. I am still a nice person, but I am a nice person who knows how he wants to spend his time. Being opinionated is not bad. Call me anti-social, a hermit, abrasive, standoffish or get more colourful with your adjectives. It doesn’t bother me.
This is me maturing.
“Shut up,” I reply. Well, not actually, I say it in my head
I’ve been back in St. Andrews for a week now and every time I get asked that question I cant stand it; this is me maturing.
It is like the scripted conversation you have when you first meet someone. Hi. What’s your name? Where are you from? Where do you go to school? What do you study? Do you know ________? By the time you get to the second question you have already forgotten the persons name and make some stupid excuse like “Oh I am so bad with names” Insert an awkward laugh. The next time you see that same person, who might know the kid you sat next to in 7th grade, haven’t spoken to in 10 years but heard goes to the same school, you introduce a friend, whose name you do know, with the hopes that they learn the unnamed acquaintance’s name.
Growing up I was taught to be open-minded, not to ‘judge a book by its cover’ and accept all people. However, in my young adulthood I’m finding that some books aren’t worth reading. You need to decide that just by looking at their covers. Some people just suck, are not fun or interesting, and there is no problem in brushing them off – I am going to forget your name anyway. For the sake of the really good people out there, the ones worth reading, you must be discerning with the ways you spend your time and with whom you spend it.
That’s why Hong Kong kicked ass. One girl asked Alex if he was gay because he chose to hang out with Jon and me instead of her, two guys with comparatively not- pert bosoms. He laughed and we went drinking. His actions are telling of a certain level of maturity. How you spend your time, whom you invest in and develop friendships with is so important. If you think someone sucks, don’t spend time with them. There is nothing wrong with that. It is a good thing.
Alex, Jon, and I explored the city, went out, played basketball, and just chilled doing what we wanted when we wanted, making fun of each other as we went, telling stories from both freshman years. When playing basketball is was obvious we know each other better than we sometimes know ourselves. Alex knew I was going to use my left hand before I had dribbled and Jon knew I was going to spin before Alex checked it. Jon was red after two beers; Alex and I were still thirsty. Walking down the crowded street shoulder to shoulder loud and obnoxious, talkative but perceptive, there were no fake conversations. It was time well spent with two of the guys who consider my parents their friends, will be my mates for the rest of my life, probably buy my underage kids beer, and tell stories at my wedding. There were other guys on their programs, and yes of course there were women (although they weren’t entirely sure what to make of me, a gangly 6’3” bearded white guy with a beast of hair on his head) but so what… the truth is, those people just don’t matter that much to me.
Of course there is this idea of social grace, being a nice person, a sociable character, and there is nothing wrong with that. But, when knowing other people or seeking to be cool somehow validates who you are, you need to consider your motivations. St. Andrews is a university predicated on social networks, authenticating people by what societies they are in, who they know, what golf score they shoot, how much money their parents make and what animal they have emblazoned on their polo shirts. Never have I been in a place where there is larger concern with outward appearance and the class you convey. Worst of all, most people are unsure if they think it is okay or not, entirely unclear as whether being a blue blooded aristocrat is for them enviable or worth flaunting, so they spinelessly play to their audience, content to cognac with the old boys one day and deride them behind their back another. Consistency is rare, boiling down to an insecure sense of self. Somehow, if I can know a lot of people, not even know there names, but have many friends I wave to in the street, I am more complete.
To these people I think, “Shut up.” You don’t care how my break was and knowing people doesn’t validate me. I don’t mind the fact that I find the books on my shelf more exciting than the people here. And while that is not entirely fair because of course I haven’t met everyone. I know I have good friends and am just as content not have superficial heartless conversations.
Each person needs to figure out how they want to read other people, what are they going to look for, who is worth you time, who is going to make you laugh, challenge you, force you to grow, be at your wedding? It is vital to make good friends and keep those friends around you. For different people, there is different criterion. I have mine and I don’t feel bad about it. I am still a nice person, but I am a nice person who knows how he wants to spend his time. Being opinionated is not bad. Call me anti-social, a hermit, abrasive, standoffish or get more colourful with your adjectives. It doesn’t bother me.
This is me maturing.
Sunday, April 9, 2006
A sleepless night's thoughts on Hong Kong
Jetlag is one of those words that people use a lot, but I don’t really know what it means. Likewise, my body doesn’t know what time it is. I didn’t sleep last night. Each time I closed my eyes images of Hong Kong danced on my eyelids, Chinese characters kept me from sleeping, flitting around, each to their own beat, rhythmically obeying their respective tones, inflecting different meaning with each subtle step across the dome of my eye. I remain enchanted.
Despite being from New York City, the greatest city in the world, Hong Kong makes little sense to me. Nine days is only nine days and I didn’t expect to leave with definite conclusions, but my reactions are more confused than I anticipated. New York hardly seems like the city that never sleeps; not only does Hong Kong not sleep, it doesn’t appear to rest.
Meeting Jon at the airport was the sweet reunion I had anticipated, an old friend who, at times, knows me better than I know myself, our common history readily apparent from our first step in the same direction – goofy body language, obnoxious volume to our voice, painfully obvious stares at passing women, a random jump shot and an undeniable camaraderie that is founded in time spent together. Yet it was weird seeing him in Hong Kong. I know Jon is Chinese. His last name is Chan, I take my shoes off before I go into his house, and his parents have told me their stories of immigration. Doi, Jon is Chinese. But never before did he look so white. This struggle to unite with a culture that he identifies with but feels he does not own was apparent in his face. In showing me around, he wanted to speak Chinese and facilitate an experience as authentic as possible, but he has just a hard a time facilitating it for himself as he does for me, a gangly white guy a head taller than everyone in the crowd. I drowned in my cultural illiteracy, content to rely on Chinese speakers for help and to stand out on the train. Jon struggles to swim in a culture his eyes and last name indicate are his own, but western mind and language skills tell him otherwise.
I do stand out in the train. I really stand out. No matter the time of the day, if the train is open it is crowded. Like the streets, there are always people packed around you bustling somewhere, children, bags, partners, and trendy shopping bags in tow. Each train is divided into cars, but doors do not separate the cars so you can see from the head of the snake to the tail, watching it wend its way through the well-planned underground. It is evident that the subway has been planned flawlessly, moving millions of people throughout the day without breaking a sweat. It is a good thing for me because the last thing I want to do is look at a map with a blank stare drawing more attention to myself. I am the only not-Chinese person in sight. I stand where the snakes stomach would be, can see both ends, and it really is true, I am the only non-Chinese person in sight. My head is cocked slightly to the right, clearing the ceiling by no more than four inches as the stale train air is exhausted on my neck. In that moment, I feel like Gulliver, landed in a foreign place where I am unlike anyone around me.
But, I am not attacked, tied down, or stared at. As I gaze around the train, I realize that no one gazes back. People chat on their cell phones, kids play with their parents, the guys in suits look uptight and stressed, the little grandmas look so adorable – I want to scoop one up and pinch her wrinkled little cheeks – teens negotiate their sexual tension through awkward touches and suggestive stares; I don’t stop anyone from doing what they normally do. People don’t care that I am standing there. So what, there’s a big white guy standing in the train. They notice me, but their attention is nothing more than a fleeting glance, more concerned about what stop they need to get off at, what’s for dinner, or the woman’s cleavage on the other side of the car.
My feeling of being out of place is entirely self-imposed, a creation of my mind, a narcissistic obsession to think that my skin color might be of consequence to people. It is almost as if I want people to gawk at me, but they have better things to do than worry about some almost-bearded American with smelly armpits. That being said, it answered a question that so often is raised in discussions on race: Why do all the black kids sit together? With each stop I look around the car to see of any people who are not Chinese get on the train. I won’t know them and probably won’t talk to them but there will be an undeniable moment of eye-contact solidarity between any non-Chinese person and me. I know that the Chinese people don’t care; I too am preoccupied with that woman’s cleavage, but I seek that empathy in the eyes of people who I think are like me. Constructed and contrived, I still feel out of place and yurn for my comfort zone.
Ironically enough, it is only the look that I seek from the other non-Chinese people on the train, in the street, or at a bar; I don’t actually care to know them because I can see we look alike, but I hope so badly that we are not actually alike. During my stay there is a massive rugby tournament on, The Sevens, and the bars, clubs, and streets are overrun with Western tourists hoped up on imported beer and sunburns. With all of me, I hope I don’t look like them, pathetic white people in Hong Kong to get drunk and watch rugby, a real change from a British pub – good thing they took an 11-hour flight to do it. Chop sticks? Yea right, may I have a fork. They don’t say please, they don’t say thank you, and they don’t really care about being in Hong Kong. The neon signs make for a good photo, the Filipina prostitute makes for a good story and the cheap Carlsberg makes for a good drunk. They flaunt their money and say hi to their queen on the back of the coins, imposing their culture with their obnoxious ethos, sweating an air of cultural superiority that has never left the island, it has only spread to the other western countries. American exchange students don’t know who the woman on the back of the 100 dollar bills is, but are just as happy to spend them at Happy Hour.
I look the same, but want so badly to be received differently, as a person attune to cultural distinctions, foods, and languages. I want people to know that I respect them, that I am not just another obnoxious guy along for a good time. I will use chop sticks – I swear. But, I use them poorly, and no matter how badly I want to deny it, reject it, or admit it, to a certain degree I am just another white guy.
Western influence looms large in Hong Kong, not just in the arrogant approach of foreigners who couldn’t care less about anything Chinese. It is hard to walk more than two blocks without seeing a 7-11. Louis Vuitton, Mark Jacobs, Ralph Lauren, Armani, Lacoste, Fendi, Chanel, and Burberry are just a few of the stores that dominate opulent malls across the city. Capitalism, implemented and perpetuated on western terms has become part of Hong Kong. In these stores the salesmen and women are Chinese, but their English grammar is better than mine, their clothes were designed in France and made in a factory in China, but the label is flaunted with a classist air that stinks of neo-colonialism. The irony is stupid. Hong Kong is hardly independent.
Many of the malls and high-end shops are housed in the lobbies of Hong Kong’s famed skyscrapers. HSBC, The Bank of America, Standard Charter, and The Bank of China, to name a few, rise over the island, imposing their presence in an unmistakable way. They finance the Western-planted consumer cult that infects Hong Kong. Their buildings dance each night in the world-famous light show but these lights also blind the picture-taking tourists from the harrowing reality – Hong Kong island has been methodically stripped of its culture. The people look different, but they don’t care that I am there. There is nothing new about me, the West has been here for a long time, the presence has become natural and people continue to buy it.
--
Yet I remain enchanted by a city that looks, tastes, smells and most defiantly sounds unlike anything I know. What a complex place, full of so many different vibrant people. Of course my conclusions about the ghosts of colonialism and western influence are premature. I think also, partly right. But, more than anything, they are wholly insufficient. I still don’t understand that city, the language, the people, or the customs; each is too beautiful and complex, but I delight in trying.
My trip was not an anti-Western diatribe. It was two of the best weeks of my life, complementing a new city with great friends, laughing the entire time.
Despite being from New York City, the greatest city in the world, Hong Kong makes little sense to me. Nine days is only nine days and I didn’t expect to leave with definite conclusions, but my reactions are more confused than I anticipated. New York hardly seems like the city that never sleeps; not only does Hong Kong not sleep, it doesn’t appear to rest.
Meeting Jon at the airport was the sweet reunion I had anticipated, an old friend who, at times, knows me better than I know myself, our common history readily apparent from our first step in the same direction – goofy body language, obnoxious volume to our voice, painfully obvious stares at passing women, a random jump shot and an undeniable camaraderie that is founded in time spent together. Yet it was weird seeing him in Hong Kong. I know Jon is Chinese. His last name is Chan, I take my shoes off before I go into his house, and his parents have told me their stories of immigration. Doi, Jon is Chinese. But never before did he look so white. This struggle to unite with a culture that he identifies with but feels he does not own was apparent in his face. In showing me around, he wanted to speak Chinese and facilitate an experience as authentic as possible, but he has just a hard a time facilitating it for himself as he does for me, a gangly white guy a head taller than everyone in the crowd. I drowned in my cultural illiteracy, content to rely on Chinese speakers for help and to stand out on the train. Jon struggles to swim in a culture his eyes and last name indicate are his own, but western mind and language skills tell him otherwise.
I do stand out in the train. I really stand out. No matter the time of the day, if the train is open it is crowded. Like the streets, there are always people packed around you bustling somewhere, children, bags, partners, and trendy shopping bags in tow. Each train is divided into cars, but doors do not separate the cars so you can see from the head of the snake to the tail, watching it wend its way through the well-planned underground. It is evident that the subway has been planned flawlessly, moving millions of people throughout the day without breaking a sweat. It is a good thing for me because the last thing I want to do is look at a map with a blank stare drawing more attention to myself. I am the only not-Chinese person in sight. I stand where the snakes stomach would be, can see both ends, and it really is true, I am the only non-Chinese person in sight. My head is cocked slightly to the right, clearing the ceiling by no more than four inches as the stale train air is exhausted on my neck. In that moment, I feel like Gulliver, landed in a foreign place where I am unlike anyone around me.
But, I am not attacked, tied down, or stared at. As I gaze around the train, I realize that no one gazes back. People chat on their cell phones, kids play with their parents, the guys in suits look uptight and stressed, the little grandmas look so adorable – I want to scoop one up and pinch her wrinkled little cheeks – teens negotiate their sexual tension through awkward touches and suggestive stares; I don’t stop anyone from doing what they normally do. People don’t care that I am standing there. So what, there’s a big white guy standing in the train. They notice me, but their attention is nothing more than a fleeting glance, more concerned about what stop they need to get off at, what’s for dinner, or the woman’s cleavage on the other side of the car.
My feeling of being out of place is entirely self-imposed, a creation of my mind, a narcissistic obsession to think that my skin color might be of consequence to people. It is almost as if I want people to gawk at me, but they have better things to do than worry about some almost-bearded American with smelly armpits. That being said, it answered a question that so often is raised in discussions on race: Why do all the black kids sit together? With each stop I look around the car to see of any people who are not Chinese get on the train. I won’t know them and probably won’t talk to them but there will be an undeniable moment of eye-contact solidarity between any non-Chinese person and me. I know that the Chinese people don’t care; I too am preoccupied with that woman’s cleavage, but I seek that empathy in the eyes of people who I think are like me. Constructed and contrived, I still feel out of place and yurn for my comfort zone.
Ironically enough, it is only the look that I seek from the other non-Chinese people on the train, in the street, or at a bar; I don’t actually care to know them because I can see we look alike, but I hope so badly that we are not actually alike. During my stay there is a massive rugby tournament on, The Sevens, and the bars, clubs, and streets are overrun with Western tourists hoped up on imported beer and sunburns. With all of me, I hope I don’t look like them, pathetic white people in Hong Kong to get drunk and watch rugby, a real change from a British pub – good thing they took an 11-hour flight to do it. Chop sticks? Yea right, may I have a fork. They don’t say please, they don’t say thank you, and they don’t really care about being in Hong Kong. The neon signs make for a good photo, the Filipina prostitute makes for a good story and the cheap Carlsberg makes for a good drunk. They flaunt their money and say hi to their queen on the back of the coins, imposing their culture with their obnoxious ethos, sweating an air of cultural superiority that has never left the island, it has only spread to the other western countries. American exchange students don’t know who the woman on the back of the 100 dollar bills is, but are just as happy to spend them at Happy Hour.
I look the same, but want so badly to be received differently, as a person attune to cultural distinctions, foods, and languages. I want people to know that I respect them, that I am not just another obnoxious guy along for a good time. I will use chop sticks – I swear. But, I use them poorly, and no matter how badly I want to deny it, reject it, or admit it, to a certain degree I am just another white guy.
Western influence looms large in Hong Kong, not just in the arrogant approach of foreigners who couldn’t care less about anything Chinese. It is hard to walk more than two blocks without seeing a 7-11. Louis Vuitton, Mark Jacobs, Ralph Lauren, Armani, Lacoste, Fendi, Chanel, and Burberry are just a few of the stores that dominate opulent malls across the city. Capitalism, implemented and perpetuated on western terms has become part of Hong Kong. In these stores the salesmen and women are Chinese, but their English grammar is better than mine, their clothes were designed in France and made in a factory in China, but the label is flaunted with a classist air that stinks of neo-colonialism. The irony is stupid. Hong Kong is hardly independent.
Many of the malls and high-end shops are housed in the lobbies of Hong Kong’s famed skyscrapers. HSBC, The Bank of America, Standard Charter, and The Bank of China, to name a few, rise over the island, imposing their presence in an unmistakable way. They finance the Western-planted consumer cult that infects Hong Kong. Their buildings dance each night in the world-famous light show but these lights also blind the picture-taking tourists from the harrowing reality – Hong Kong island has been methodically stripped of its culture. The people look different, but they don’t care that I am there. There is nothing new about me, the West has been here for a long time, the presence has become natural and people continue to buy it.
--
Yet I remain enchanted by a city that looks, tastes, smells and most defiantly sounds unlike anything I know. What a complex place, full of so many different vibrant people. Of course my conclusions about the ghosts of colonialism and western influence are premature. I think also, partly right. But, more than anything, they are wholly insufficient. I still don’t understand that city, the language, the people, or the customs; each is too beautiful and complex, but I delight in trying.
My trip was not an anti-Western diatribe. It was two of the best weeks of my life, complementing a new city with great friends, laughing the entire time.
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