Who Is Affiliated, Cady, Where Are You From?

I Am from the Place Where My Mind Is Affiliated
“Cady, where are you from?”
“I am from Beijing.”
“Can you teach me some Beijing dialect? I’ve heard it’s awesome!”
“Well… I don’t speak Beijing dialect. I speak mandarin.”
“That is impossible! Are you really from Beijing?”
I saw the disappointed and skeptical look in my friend’s eyes.
Whenever people asked me where I am from, I will give them the same answer-Beijing-without any hesitation. Although both my parents are not originally from Beijing, born and raised in Beijing, I always believe I am a Beijinger. However, facing my friend’s question, I did not know how to respond. She really pointed out a problem I had never thought about before: since my parents are not native Beijingers and I cannot even speak Beijing dialect, am I really from Beijing?
I was speechless. I was not even sure about where I was from myself. If I am not from Beijing, then where else am I from? Am I from where my parents from? Since the reason why I may not be from Beijing is that I cannot speak Beijing dialects, does that mean I am from Sichuan because I can speak Sichuan dialect? Since my grandfather is originally from Sichuan and I lived with him when I was young, I can understand his words in Sichuan dialect. I recalled that our family still made traditional Sichuan salted meat and pickled vegetable in winter. This must also be an evidence to show that I was from Sichuan. I was so proud of my reasoning and convinced myself that I was from Sichuan by all the clues I found. From then on, whenever I introduced myself, I no longer said that I was from Beijing. Instead, I used Sichuan dialect to tell them I was from Sichuan and share a few funny expressions with them. People laughed at the expression I shared and everyone seemed to have received the idea about where I was from. I completely believed I was from Sichuan.
That summer, my grandpa was planning to go back to Sichuan to visit relatives and he agreed to let me go with him. It was my first time to go to Sichuan. After I got out of the plane, I heard everyone around me was speaking in the familiar dialect: a mom telling her kid to run slowly, a young couple talking about where to go for the next vacation, vendors hawking their small wares … Before my grandpa made his instruction about where to go next, I had already rushed to the information desk to ask about transportation information. I was so eager to show someone that I also knew that dialect and verified the idea that here was the place where I was from.
Finally, my grandpa took me to the village where he was born. It was a nice village with a river in front and mountains in back. My cousins led me to hike in the mountains and they longed for showing me all those gorgeous natural sights I had never seen. My aunts cooked various traditional Sichuan dishes for each meal and wanted me to try all the distinctive food I had never eaten. All my relatives were so nice and hospitable to me. However, after a few days like this, I became a little bored.
“Grandpa, when are we going to leave?” One day I asked my grandpa during dinner.
“What’s the matter? Anything goes wrong?”
“Everything is fine. I just…I just want to go home.”
“You want to go home? Here is your home! Come on! Sit down and join us!” He took another sip of homemade wine and continued chatting and laughing with people around him.
From their laughters, I realized that all my assumptions were wrong.
Sichuan is the home only for my grandfather, but not for me. Even though I can speak the dialect, I do not belong to this place. I am not from Sichuan. I am from Beijing and I am a Beijinger with no doubt. My grandpa is from Sichuan, because here is the place where he was born and raised, where his close families live and where all his old memories keep. A part of his life interacted, is interacting, and will interact with the city. When he saw young kids playing in the river in front of our house, he remembered the afternoon when he skipped from the school and played with his childhood friends. When we gathered and ate around the dining table, he remembered the Chinese New Year’s Eve dinner when he first met his brother’s wife. Every object, every smell and every person could activate a part of his memory, even a single grain of sand. His root is in here. However, there is not such emotional affiliation between me and all those objects. I am an outsider who only amazed at how beautiful the scenery was and how delicious the food was. Nothing else. I am just a visitor of the city who understand its
dialect.
Things are totally different for me in Beijing. When I am happy, I know the best restaurant in the city to celebrate. When I am bored, I know my friends are somewhere in the city I can hang out with. When I am tired, I know my home is in the city that welcome me anytime. Beijing gives me the sense of safety and belonging. Although I do not know its dialect, the city quietly collets all my stories: On Zhongguancun Street, I went to my elementary school; in Haidian Theatre, I had my first Children's day performance; in Zizhuyuan Park, I learned how to ride a bike…I am affiliated with this city. This is the place where I will naturally call my home when I travel to other places. Here, Beijing, is where I am from.