Sai Ying Pun, 5:42PM – Showers.

Entry 96

Finally, rain. Paper white walls of rain. A change of weather. A change of tongue. Dumplings for dinner at a diner where I speak Mandarin to the old man who takes the orders with hair as white as the walls of rain. He has a northern accent. Shandong? Liaoning? Heilongjiang?

This diner is one of the only places where speaking Mandarin doesn’t feel like a statement. It is still difficult to abandon m goi though. Even the old man with hair as white as the walls of rain can’t help saying it.

My first trip to Hong Kong and learning that m is a whole word, I can still recall that moment. How do you shout it? I remember thinking. M. A sound made without even needing to open the mouth. No. Not. Don’t. Years later I realize m is the sound of hesitation and reluctance in my own tongue.

The person I share my dumplings with is quick to say that I have a foreign accent when I speak Mandarin to the old man with hair as white as the walls of rain. I am not sure what to make of this. Is it an accusation? Is it to put me in my place? What place? This is my first time sharing a meal with this person. A dumpling slips and it appears that this person does not know how to use chopsticks. M.