1. Shenzhen

Shenzhen is the most beautiful of cities. 

An airy glow wreathes the spacious roads; vibrant greenery and flowers bedeck the highways; the swooping bridges and buildings are at once delicate and imposing. And always in the distance: the fog-hewn lavender of the mountains and the steel-blue expanse of the seas, lending a powerful gravitas to the Chinese equivalent of Silicon Valley. 

Even in the less modernized parts of the city, where scabbed apartments and bearded trees share the cracked pavement with sun-spotted fruit hawkers, there is a wonderful take-no-shit authenticity to Shenzhen. Here, I feel the same elation that I do in any big city, but there’s also something else that clicks - a sense of belonging. Whether walking past the gleaming economic sector or nestled in a wicker chair as my Yeye (paternal grandfather) lectures me on the origins of the Xia Dynasty, I feel safe. 

Maybe it’s that Shenzhen grew up with me: it seriously glowed up in the last few years. Maybe it’s that my family always returns to Shenzhen on our visits to China, so that I’m already familiar with its roads, restaurants, and customs. 

But I think it’s Shenzhen’s energy that attracts me - as a town that grew from a literal hole into one of China’s technological and economic centers, I can understand and admire the tenacity of its people. There’s a certain kinship that comes from discussing politics with the taxi drivers in Chinese; there’s the glowing solidarity of sharing a huge meal (and a vicious game of mahjong) with my family; there’s the joy in the simple sight of people with my skin and facial features bustling down the streets.

And then there are the drawbacks.

“Oh, look, she got fatter!” my nainai (paternal grandmother) gushed as I entered my grandparents’ apartment.

“Definitely,” my yeye (paternal grandfather) said. Nainai proceeded to pinch my arms and back.

I’d expected - no, dreaded - this moment. In the coming days, as we visited relative after relative, I would bite my tongue in anticipation of their stares.

In China, more than anywhere else, I’m highly conscious of my physical appearance. It’s true that my grandparents and many of my older relatives grew up with very little to eat; they don’t want me to be thin. But it’s more than that. In any foreign environment, where my social status is uncertain or inferior to those around me, I resort to my visible appearance to bolster my self-esteem. It’s a defense mechanism, and a pretty shitty one at that. But it’s common, and it’s very natural.

Here, my accomplishments - writing, dance, my magazines, activism - don’t translate into a different tongue and a different culture. Mental health and poetry aren’t tangible to my family friends and relatives; the only time I piqued their interest was by mentioning Stanford.

It has a lot to do with the expectations around women, too. Traditional marital expectations are rooted even in modernized areas; the Chinese feminist movement is markedly quieter than that in the U.S.; high heels and makeup swarmed the streets of Shenzhen and Shanghai. And yes, Chinese women have made significant strides within the last few decades. But - and I’m not discounting my own sense of displacement as a reason for my discomfort - I felt pressured here; at times, I felt an incessant itch for my makeup and more fashionable clothes (I’d left them in the States).

I didn’t start picking apart what I ate, or weighing myself daily. I didn’t start the obsessive exercise regime that’d marked my eating disorder. But this awareness was still draining - there is nothing more frustrating than being dogged by your own body.

I firmly decided against conformity; instead, I vented to whoever would listen (my mom - I really wore her thin with my complaints) and rebelled whenever I could.

I got a pixie cut; I disparaged wine culture and toxic masculinity; I ranted about a misogynistic joke my uncle made; I talked loudly to my dad’s business friends; I stomached wasabi and sichuan peppers on a dare.

In retrospect, some of this was immature. But it wasn’t entirely conscious, either; I was simply trying to reject something I feared accepting. To me, being a woman in China felt like turning against so many of my values and beliefs.

And I don’t think I have that figured out yet. Nor do I think that Chinese womanhood represents backwardness or misogyny; truth be told, I don’t know enough about China to judge half its population.

But in Shenzhen, a city that has reenvisioned and exceeded standards of cleanliness, beauty, sustainability, and innovation, it’s easy to hope.