AUDIO TRANSCRIPTS
Log 1: ATL Airport
As the blue-eye lady gave my passport back to me behind the window, I felt like I was falling deep into a fever dream of some sort. I was standing in the middle of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, the busiest airport in the world according to the muffled PA. The Atlanta airport was nothing like any places I’ve been before, everything around felt like sensory-overload. bright hallway filled with people with different skin colors, speaking a familiar yet strange language, air filled with a weird fragrance like detergent on an old sofa. I frantically escaped the baggage claim area with my suitcase and headed towards the gate, all I could hear was the PA system in multi languages over my head. “Welcome home”
Log 2: A Sneeze
Sneezing, an involuntary expulsion of air through one’s nose and mouth caused by irritation to the nostrils. The English classes I took in China said that in western countries people would say “bless you” whenever someone around sneezes, I always thought it was silly to acknowledge a sneeze that way, there is no way people actually do that. But was I wrong about that when I actually saw it happened in high school, the “bless you” after the sneeze was almost like a muscle reflect for my classmates, no one looked up at the person who sneezed, no one even had any expression on their faces, the phrase came out of their mouth like Pavlov’s dog silva after hearing the bell ring. It took me a while to get used to, or should I say get conditioned to saying the phrase. The “bless you” would roll right of my tongue when I hear a sneeze, but then I would look up and realize the people around me are looking at me like I’m crazy, I forgot I’m back home. “No way he just said that” I heard the kid behind giggled.
Log 3: The Diner
There is this small, hole in the wall kind of restaurant right around the corner of where I live. Every day around 6 am, the owners, an old lady and her son sets up a table outside of the restaurant and sells breakfast. Freshly fried dough sticks, steamed pork buns, savory bean curds, and hot soy milk. Everything was surprisingly cheap, for around 2 bucks, you can get more than you can eat from the small breakfast joint. The old lady is the talker, loud with a big heart, always having small talks with whoever is waiting in line, you can barely hear the bubbling oil in the deep fryer next to her when she’s speaking. The son is the muscle, works quietly but efficiently around the steamer and the pot, sometimes would urging the customer to move faster along the line. A while back I heard that the old lady died, the place is still running right now but by the son and his wife, who recently just got married. Waffles and pancakes are great, but I still miss that bean curd from this place when I’m sitting at a Denny’s.
Log 4: The Desk
My family moved during my junior year of high school. I went home that summer and I just couldn’t remember what my old room used to look like. Almost everything was switched out but my desk. A light-colored wooden desk, which styled with my old room, with really thin clear coating, so thin that I could scratch through it with my nails. The desk is covered with ink smears and my carvings, proof of my little experimentation with a wood carving kit I got as a kid, and the result was that I was a horrible wood sculptor. The desk comes with a small shelf underneath it, leaving an awkwardly shaped leg room, other than being stuffed with random trash, it served as my stepping stool for the desk, leaving a scuffed left upper corner on the shelf. I was glad my parents didn’t get rid of the desk, a final piece of evidence that my old room existed.
Log 5: Intermission
Clips of Xinwen Lainbo from April 4, 2020, four months into the pandemic, last month of high school was announced to be online.
Log 6: WWIII
One of the biggest fears I had in 2023 was the thought of another world war happening, conflicts, disasters, people dying, the medias really made it look like the world was going to fall apart. Whenever I hear the roaming jets flying over San Diego’s sky, the anxiety eats away my consciousness a bit more.
“If there ever gonna be a WWIII, will this small apartment room will be last place I call homes my hometown gonna get carpet bombed? No, the city is too insignificant for that, but if it happens what about my parents? Are they going to survive? What about my friends, can they flee in time? How would they get out of the city? Can they get enough supplies?”
The downward spiral of thoughts usually stops when I feel my stomach slowly digesting itself.
“Well before the war starts, what’s for dinner tonight?”
Log 7: Spring Festival
I haven’t been with my family for 6 spring festivals/lunar new year in total for the past 7 years, thanks to COVID there was one exception. One way to put it is like Christmas but you cannot make it home on time. Being able to stay up past 12 kinda ruined the holiday for me, the excitement of staying up until midnight for me as a kid was the magical part of the day, now it feels like realizing Santa isn’t real by knowing he is just your everyday neighbor joe.
However, I still try to recreate the holiday from my memory with my friends here, grasping every chance to feel connected with home. We would try to make the same dishes our families always made. My beloved, dumplings stuffed with sauerkraut and minced pork, my grandparents made it look way easier to make. And sometimes we would put on TV the spring festival gala as a background noise, I’m not even sure if anyone still watch this nowadays. Too bad San Diego is blessed with good weather, it never gets cold enough for the holiday, cold enough that when you walk outside, the chilling air mixed with the smell of burnt firecrackers would be punching your nose. Despite spending the holiday with my friends, it still feels like a stranger I met years ago, I know the silhouette but I’m missing all the features, or maybe I really am not missing much after all, maybe it’s just that the stranger has lost his significant for me.
Log 8: Disconnection
The following story is about a friend of mine.
It’s been 12 years since he left China, half of his life he spent here in the US, only been home twice in the 12 years. All of his families are back home, except an uncle he doesn’t really like living in Texas. He rarely talks to his parents; he thinks it is still necessary to let them know that he is alive. He lost all connection to his friends back home, he would talk about this one childhood friend he had, how they went on adventures, but whenever I ask about the friend, he would shrug and say he doesn’t even know where the friend is right now. The two times he was home, he said the experience was confusing, doesn’t even know how to purchase a bottle of water with QR codes. But now he will be graduating soon, he will have to go home. While I wish him the best, I do wonder, which side of the pacific is home for him at this point?
Log 9: Cemetery
My grandpa on my father’s side passed away long before I left home. A big smoker, always sits on the faded red arm chair in the corner of his living room. He sometimes would yell this weird phrase in his Hunan dialect that I still don’t understand. His ashes are kept in a cemetery far from downtown area, near a quiet lakeside that supposed to have better Fengshui. Every summer, the second day I get home, my dad would drive me to the cemetery and visit grandpa’s grave. 5 kinds of fruits, 5 of each kind, all piled up like small towers, 3 lighten incense held in hands during 3 kneels and bows, 1 pack of cigarettes and 1 bunch of fresh flowers, which we always shred up after visiting, “The grave keepers would resell them if we keep them intact” according to my father. The process, though traditional, always feels kind of insincere to me in the beginning, we don’t even treat the living this way, but then we worship the dead. But after 10 years, after my family finally decided to get rid of that red armchair, after I realize I don’t even have a picture with him, I learnt the power driving the process at the cemetery is guilt and regret. I still don’t buy the afterlife bullshit, but next time at the cemetery, I would really like to learn that weird phrase you always yelled.
Log 0: Video Calls
On average a human speaks at 140 words per minute, with that calculation I said around 500 words to my parents this month, which is about three and a half minutes. Sound travels at around 343 meters per second, by the time I finished saying the 500th word, the first word would have only traveled 44 miles, a fraction of the 5713 miles from this spot to my home.
Of course, video calls negate the physical limitation on communication, it brings the person I want to talk to right in front of my face. While the person is right in front of the camera, the 60-degree angled front camera only show so much of my home. Maybe if I’m lucky I get a glimpse of my parents surrounding through the edge of the shaky video and realize the flower on the dining table is gone, or the fish tank need a water change, or they switch out the sofa cover. Video calls were comforting until I realized it’s only good for exchanging information, I could stretch my hands towards to screen as far as I can but I can never touch anything on the other side, and it is never truly home until I step into the door.