It was a hot, sunny afternoon in July. On my way back from the local Korean market, I ran into one of my friends here in Boston. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages.” We were both excited. “China.” I replied. “Really?” He burst out laughing. “My friend here just came back from China as well.”
It turned out that the friend of my friend had just spent one year in Beijing as an exchange student at Peking University (my alma mater). So here we were, standing in the empty streets of Cambridge, talking about Peking University (or Beida 北 大, as he and I so affectionately called it). We talked about the campus, the dorms for international students, the summertime weather in Beijing–it aroused a strange feeling, like being at two places at once.
Then it was July 3rd. Fireworks were already being lit up. I was sitting on the porch of my apartment, reading a biography of Ju Zheng, a 20th-century Chinese scholar. The book made countless references to the history of that period. Again, the familiar yet strange feeling overcame me–the feeling of being at two places at once.
Whenever my American friends ask me if I “did anything for July 4th,” I’ve always been a bit baffled–or embarrassed, even. I don’t have the heart to tell them that I did not do anything special and frankly, for me, it’s just another day in July. It’s not that I feel like an outsider here–not at all. At times, Boston (or more precisely, Cambridge) even feels like home. And when I went back home to China this June, I have to admit that I was sometimes caught in reverse “cultural shock.” (One example is that apparently I say “thank you” too much, to the point that it’s overly polite and therefore annoying.)
The feeling I am trying to describe is a feeling of being “neither here nor there.” We like to talk about “roots” in the metaphoric sense–-the source and origin of one’s identity, the fundamentals that define who we are. But now the question becomes–what exactly are “roots?” Or more importantly, where do you put down your roots when constantly on the move? What do you call home?
那是个炎热的七月下午。从韩国超市回家路上巧遇一位在波士顿的同学。“好久没见到你了！你到哪儿去了？”——我们都很兴奋。“中国。”“真的吗？”他大笑起来。“我的朋友也刚从中国回来。”——他的朋友曾在我的母校，北京大学交流学校一年。于是，竟是在剑桥小镇一条无人的街上，我们悬想与回忆起了”北大“：我们说起万里之外中国北方的那座园子，园子里的学生宿舍，与北京夏日的天气－－而我恍然觉得，自己就仿佛在这一瞬间，同时身在了两处。
然后，便是7月3号了。烟火放起的时候，我正坐在阳台上，阅读那本《居正传》。字里行间，满满都是二十世纪初中国的历史风云。而正是这样的时候，我再一次觉得，仿佛在这同一时刻，同时身在了异地，与故乡。
每当我的美国朋友问起我7月4号的安排时，我都不免毫无由来地感到尴尬，甚至羞赧。面对那样的热情，我终究是该如何开口，告诉他们，7月4日之于我，不过只是七月里寻常又寻常的一天。不——这并非是我生活于此处感到格格不入。波士顿（或者说的更确切一点，剑桥），已经渐渐被我住成彼岸的另一处故乡。甚至，五六月间回国时，终究还是有些逆向”文化冲击“的——我习惯说太多”谢谢“，有时竟让他人觉得过分生分与客套。
同一时间，身处两处——或许这便是我试图描摹的那种非此非彼的感受。我们常常说“根”——它定义着我们的身份认同，并因此构筑了今天的我们。只是到底什么是“根？”——在那些漂泊不定的时日里，根在何处？而在这非此非彼之中，哪里才是家园呢？