BY ANRAN ZHENG
*Editors note: The following story was a runner-up in our first ever annual NüStories personal essay contest. This year’s theme was Chinese identity – read more here. Photo: Anran Zheng
The alarm didn’t work. I slept for four hours in the afternoon, dreaming several times. When I open my eyes, I am surrounded by darkness.
In my dream, I get lost again.
It is my birthday—maybe my upcoming 23rd, or maybe I have already been living overseas for years and have finally returned to my hometown. It starts off so sweet: my twin sister and I dress up, planning to have dinner with our mom and dad at a newly opened restaurant. This is exactly what we always did for our birthdays before I came to Canada. Even when my sister and I were at universities in other cities, we always tried to go home to celebrate our birthday together.
It is 5 PM.
An urgent work case keeps me from leaving, so they drive to the restaurant first. By the time I step outside, it is already 7 PM. Strangely, the ground is covered in thick snow, about 20 cm deep. But my hometown in central China rarely sees heavy snow, let alone in early October. Though the buildings remain unchanged, the weather feels like a winter day in Kingston.
I decide to walk the 2 km to the restaurant. Along the way, I run into almost all my childhood friends. They are heading to a party. A girl who was my best friend in primary school, now long lost to time, tells me how happy she is that I finally came back. I hear them saying, “I miss you.” But something feels off, these people shouldn’t be together. Some don’t even know each other.
After our conversation, it is already 8:30 PM. Most restaurants close at 9:30, so I start walking faster. But even though I want to pick up my pace, it’s just I can’t. The heavy snow and muddy roads slow me down.
I arrive near the restaurant around 9 PM. I followed the map while walking, but I shouldn’t have. My hometown is a small city, just like Kingston. I spent 16 years wandering its downtown streets—I lived there every day before I went to university. I should be familiar with every building in my mind. At the very least, I should recognize the landmarks, even if it has been a while (or maybe just a year) since I last visited.
“Kingston is a small city, small enough to feel like home. If you have an e-bike, you can reach most places near downtown in half an hour. Even takeout delivery only takes 30 minutes to get anywhere. I live in an old apartment not far from downtown, with no elevator. I live on the third floor. Taking out the garbage means going downstairs to throw it into a public bin. The walls aren’t very soundproof. Every morning at 5 or 6 AM, the garbage truck comes to collect the trash, just like it did in my home in my hometown. That noise actually makes me feel safe. I lived in Nanjing for four years, and I’ve been to Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, and Toronto, but none of those cities gave me a sense of belonging. Kingston, small and shabby as it is, sometimes makes me feel like I’m back ten years ago.” This is what I wrote two weeks ago, around 6 AM, when I was woken up by the loud sound of the garbage truck.
Now, only 30 minutes remain before the last chance to order food. But I am completely lost. The map is in English. When I compare it with my surroundings, I find that all the buildings have turned into a hybrid of Kingston and downtown Toronto. I can’t find the entrance to the restaurant, which is inside a hidden courtyard. I try to call my family, but every time I dial, the call fails. When I look up again, the buildings have changed back, but not quite how I remember them. Maybe it is because I haven’t been back for so long.
At last, I ask two young girls passing by for help. They tell me the restaurant is just across the road, inside an iron gate. But something is strange again—I speak Mandarin instead of my hometown dialect. People in my hometown always speak in dialect in daily life.
It’s 9:20 PM, just 10 minutes before the restaurant stops taking orders, I finally arrive. My parents sit outside, nearly asleep. Inside, my sister looks just as tired. It seems like happiness has returned, but the atmosphere still feels cold and empty. There is only the four of us and a waiter. It is a Cantonese restaurant. I want to order my favorite dish that I haven’t had since coming to Canada, but it is sold out. I ask my sister if she ordered the birthday cake in advance. She says no, she doesn’t care.
But that shouldn’t be. The birthday cake, the four of us eating together, taking pictures—it is our tradition. We have an album collection at home, dating back to before we even knew how to do our own makeup or photography. Every year on our birthday, my sister and I go to a photo studio to take an album picture.
I wake up. It is 6:20 PM in Kingston. February 11, 2025. The weather is not bad today. But four hours later, I wake up to darkness.
I suddenly recall something I read in a book by a Chinese queer scholar: “I feel within and outside of China at the same time. It’s due to my queer identity, which constantly makes me feel like an outsider in a larger patriarchal and heteronormative Chinese society.”
I am happy living overseas. As someone researching gender and independent voices, I am almost certain that I would build my career abroad if given the opportunity. Yet, my connection with my family runs deep. We do video call almost every day, we text frequently, sharing our experiences and thoughts. My sister works in Shanghai because for those of us in the arts and media industries, first-tier cities offer more opportunities. Just like how despite my field being extremely Western-centred, the academic environment in North America for my direction is still far better than back in mainland China.
I believe that love can overcome everything. My family is built on respect, equality, and mutual care. We are full of love. Financially, emotionally, and in daily life, my parents support my twin sister and me with endless, unconditional love. But I also understand that it takes time for them, too, to rethink ideas like nationalism and queerness.
For some reason, I am posting my story in English, but I originally wrote it in a mix of Chinese and English. The language drifts between two identities, never fully settling in one. It is floating.
I don’t know. Maybe this is another story of feeling both inside and outside of China. A story of how my fear leaks through. It’s morning in China. I have a video call with my mom and dad. We still have such a deep relationship, and they support my life and research.
Maybe I just fear the fading of my memories.
About the author
Anran Zheng is a researcher and emerging artist. Born in Jining, China, she is currently based in Kingston, Canada. Her work explores the intersection of gender and Asian screen cultures, with a focus on queer theory, feminist theory, and independent and experimental moving images.
Educated within China’s national key university system, Anran earned her BA in Journalism and Communication at the age of 20 before moving to Canada for graduate research. She is currently completing a fully funded master’s degree in Screen Cultures and Curatorial Studies at Queen’s University. Her recent work centers on queering the notion of femininity in a globalizing China through the lens of transnational queer cinema. For her, writing is a way to hold the fragments, to resist forgetting, and to create a shelter across borders.