My Offbeat Journey to ‘Knowing Thyself’: Poops, Protests, and Prose

2005

At age eight, my mom brought my birth dates to a fortune teller, who predicted I would lead my life as a writer.   

I guessed she was desperately seeking comfort, even from superstitious means. It was pretty understandable when she had seen her only daughter was delightfully immune to the complexities of thought and knowledge throughout primary school and failed every English exam. She would always find me drawing poops on the textbook, laughing at the air or thinking out loud while doing homework. I never finished a book – until my first year of university (I used to copy the description from the book spine and made up clichés while doing book reports).

The silver lining was that I was the "easy baby" to care for. I was never a picky eater. I wore whatever ugly clothes they bought me. I never cried, argued, or messed around the house. I always went with the flow and was never fixated on good grades, being competitive, or being attached to anything. 

If I were to use one word, "self-forgetting" would be my essence. 

2008

In primary school, my classmates thought I was bizarre (which I was, indeed) and bullied me. After some years of torture, I was trained to act “normal” by imitating their actions, predicting their preferences, and speaking whatever they liked. I seem calm and agreeable, but nobody knows how easily their emotions, gestures, and expectations could unsettle or shake me and sway my decisions. When I say okay, I am never really okay.

2014

My best friend in high school was a hard-cored patriotic pro-Beijing. We discussed everything except politics—or, I should say, I deliberately avoided discussing it and rarely expressed my opinions. I would feign a smile and nod as she spoke about the prosperity of our “motherland,” carefully self-censoring my brain before saying anything that might reveal my own beliefs. I always knew the price of being myself and speaking out was unbearable, even to my best friend. I had to sacrifice everything to sustain the harmony of being recognized as “normal.” 

2016

I forgot about my voice, which seemed to get me in trouble when making a life decision.

The first big challenge of my life: I couldn’t decide on my college major. 

I tried to listen to my heart, but it was hollow. I felt like I missed something—something that I would “wholeheartedly” pursue, be committed to, or that made me think of “being myself.”  The lucrative jobs or top degrees people pursued were never my concerns.

Eventually, I majored in English because the professors there seemed interesting. Listening to the Professor's mind-blowing insights had become motivation to go to school: 

When he said, “Normal is not normal."  "Social media is like masturbating," “Don't just keep reading sex scenes from the book!” and "Don't be brainwashed by the government,” though he was brainwashing us to a certain extent.  

I spent four blissful years in my undergraduate studies with my mates, who were equally quirky and bizarre as me: stalking social media profiles of cute exchange students, discussing whether we have an Electra complex towards our dad (a hell no!), finishing readings in 2.0-speed audiobooks, writing incomprehensible papers filled with gobbledygook that were given good grades since the Professor was too knowledgeable that her understanding accidentally elevated my bullshit into another level. I gradually struggled to hear some voice of mine and build something that belonged to me—my opinions, character, and preferences—something that had been lost in certain phases of my life. 

I took a Literary Journalism course that focused on writing creative nonfiction. I spent a month crafting a story which my friend found “effective in treating insomnia.”  

If only days of halcyon could last forever.

2019

The summer of 2019 was probably the worst summer every Hong Konger has experienced. We had the most significant per capita mass movement in history: The Outrage and dismal disappointment with the government brought 2 million Hong Kongers to the streets to resist Beijing’s creeping authority. The totalitarian government had strangled its unique quasi-democracy and tormented the lives and futures of Hong Kongers. The city has festered; everyone was gasping for breath; people were imprisoned, fled, and emigrated. In this sweltering summer, after participating in rounds of protests and witnessing both the best and the worst of humanity, I experienced tear gas, rubber bullets and water cannons, shed the most tears and gained the starkest political lesson in my life. I was tired, drained,  frightened.

My heart swelled when a stranger shielded me from tear gas, when I heard elderly people cheering for us from their apartments and when I received an email from our Faculty stating they would stand with us during this social unrest. My heart wrenched when I saw blood seeping from gentle protesters or when I heard the pugnacious police calling us "rioters," and when I met the sight of my friend handcuffed by the tyranny, it was like watching the flicker of hope fading. It wasn’t just an arrest; it felt like something precious had been torn apart into delicate fragments and could never be fixed as it was. I was paralyzed -- though I wanted to scream hard, I got pulled out from the crowd by another stranger to save me from being targeted. It was the reckoning moment when I realized that speaking up here could cost me everything — my freedom, future, and life. 

Hong Kong is no longer the home we used to know and can rely on. We are no longer the little girls shielded by the city but the unruly targets of the Chinese censorship.

The echo in my brain, once forgotten, now surged. My heart, once hollow, overflowed with sentiments too powerful to suppress.; they had been ignored for too long and became unstoppable when they eventually burst into flames. I evolved overnight as a late-blooming rebel: I wrestled with my mom over the definitions of "justice" and "rioters" when she complained that the protesters had affected her life; I turned down my dad when he advised me not to join the protests, warning that I might be jailed. 

On the last day of summer, I met my patriotic high school friend. She had just come back from an internship in China and kept criticizing the “rioters,” saying that they were imbeciles who had received money from overseas to ruin the country. I muted,  though something in my chest was a storm waiting to break. 

As if she had noticed something, she asked why I had always remained silent. I no longer shy away from the taboo and told her I was one of the rioters she claimed—the stone-cold truth. No hedging. No filter. No feigned smile.  I knew our relationship could not come back. But I also knew that if I gave in, my ego could not return either. So, we had our first serious discussion, also our fiercest firestorm of words over our polarized political views, which could have happened earlier had I been brave enough. 

“You never speak up,” she said, her voice sharp as shattered glass.  My chest tightened. Some parts that constituted me for a long time had gone: a treasured ally and the always-silent me. As she turned to leave, I felt like a piece of me had been ripped away, never to return.

Although my voice was faint and shaken, I finally felt heard.

2020

After years of political turmoil, I earned my degree and became a slave to capitalism. The reality was dimmer and emptier than my creative nonfiction; corporations are coffins for human souls—we die at 30 or earlier. The idealism I had felt during the movement vanished into the thin air of office politics. The pandemic and deriding bureaucracy drained my energy and stifled my creativity and curiosity. I joined the soulless factory line, producing meaningless emails, papers and reports without gaining any recognition or nourishment. 

My team was micro-managed by a bigot in formatting to the point of absurdity. Every email I sent had to be scrutinized and corrected from "received with thanks" to "well received with thanks." Every email was soulless and 'touched up' by the supervisor.; I needed their "approval" before sending an email or making a phone call. We had the highest turnover rate: ten left in one year. 

People lose their intelligence and decency when faced with insurmountable stress. They were "too busy" to train new colleagues, yet they spent hours crafting well-written emails to roast and bully a loyal teammate who made a minor mistake. I wasn't the victim, but witnessing those things while remaining silent made me feel guilty for a lifetime. Parts of me felt numb, shrinking, and diminishing. 

2021 

I spontaneously enrolled part-time in a master's degree program in Translation. It wasn't planned; I felt the urge to return to school and seek nourishment for my heart and mind.

In class, I relished the luxury of "freedom," which was once scarce in the workplace and Hong Kong: we could choose whatever we wished to translate. I enjoyed translating the most offbeat Hong Kong literature on mahjong, public exams, and quirky lines because it felt like reclaiming something personal -- their absurdity and difficulty resonate with my internal struggle as a misfit in this society. I'm not sure why—the Professor could always guess it was my choice and Translation because the text was so delightfully odd yet eclectic, as if I didn't care whether I could manage.

In the final semester, I received a long text message from a classmate I had never spoken to. He read my Translation and endorsed my work. I took a screenshot of it and wished it could be framed in my home, grave, or museum.

Words hold immense power, which is why I have always had a strange affinity towards language and humanities subjects. This gentle classmate might not have realized that his unintended kindness could navigate a wanderer's course. His appreciation of my quirks empowered me to be at peace with myself and to make bolder decisions.

It was a team meeting on a Friday afternoon, and we were free to share our thoughts. I raised the issue for the first time about the supervisor's unjust criticism, which gave me an odd mixture of terror and relief. As expected, I was told to shut up immediately. At that humiliating yet clarifying moment, I knew it might be time to leave. 

The moment when I resigned, I felt that my old submissive skin was shredded, as if the graceful rebirth from a humble, submissive caterpillar into a strong-willed butterfly.

My new job was at the university. I was unsure whether the fortune teller predicted I would flourish there, but I met the second person who supported my writing skills.

My job duties were more administrative than writing. I supported the management of research projects, communicated with Principal Investigators (PIs), and coordinated conferences and seminars. Although I wasn't exceptionally skilled at dealing with people, I encountered many interesting and curious minds, noticing that the most competent individuals are often willing to admit they know little. I found joy in designing conference booklets and drafting newsletters—fortunately, my boss also appreciated them.

2023

After two joyful years, I resigned despite Prof. Wong’s retention. A few weeks later, Prof. Wong emailed me and invited me to be a contract writer. This marked the start of my freelance writing career with one client while I maintained my regular job. Writing, working, and reading filled my time.

I was grateful for Prof. Wong's unconditional trust. She offered me freedom and support in my freelance work without critiquing my efforts or pressing me about schedules. However, I found myself in limbo. While I had freedom, it felt overwhelming without rules and constructive comments. Writing, once a release, became anxiety-inducing.

I know I was never perfect. I want to delve deeper into writing, understand its mechanics, and develop my unique voice. I need to refine my craft, and I realized I aspire to create outstanding pieces recognized for their merit rather than kindness.

2024

I decided to take my second post-grad course in Professional Writing and Communication—not in Hong Kong, but miles away in Canada. 

It was no longer an off-the-cuff decision because I acknowledged all the costs: giving up a promising job, a stable life, and loved ones (not to mention the convenience of travelling to Japan). The important thing was that this was the only path I wholeheartedly and stalwartly pursued (not consciously or subconsciously affected by some random people), and I would never regret my choice. 

On the flight to Toronto, I revisited Stephen King's On Writing. It was the required text in Literary Journalism, which I completed six years ago as a 2.0-speed audiobook. King says, "Writing is about being happy."  

Maybe the fortune teller had already seen all of this. But it wasn’t written in the stars—spontaneous decisions, tears and missteps, unexpected kindness, and my courage to reclaim have led me to where I am. For the first time, I was no longer drifting; I was crafting my life's script, one deliberate word at a time, without the guide of fate but meandering with the flow of my mind.  

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.