The article was written by Veronica Wong, the granddaughter of Ging and Marian Wong, for many years the operators of Kwong Hing Lung market in the East Adams area of Los Angeles. Veronica was featured in a story here in 2019, highlighting her remarkable National Geographic-like photography. Unfortunately, in an update of the website, that story was lost.
Travel runs in my veins. It’s what gives me a sense of meaning and purpose. I share photos from my travels, the things I see, and the people I encounter on my website wongver.com.
I always attributed my passion for travel and photography to my mom, Jann Reed ― someone who set off on her own adventures, with her own camera, and strove to instill those values in her children. When I was 15, she took me out of school to volunteer in an orphanage in Peru. It was an experience that shaped the trajectory of my life, leading me to major in International Relations, to study ethics and social justice, to live abroad in Beijing, and to work at education and travel companies.
I never thought that my “travel bug” had anything to do with my dad, Lester Wong ― a homebody who prefers his daily routine and creature comforts. He would much rather watch a black and white film in a foreign language than travel to that country and attempt to speak the language himself. That perception of myself actually changed when I started to write this blog post and reflect on who I am and why I love what I love (travel, photography, food). I realized that I am two sides of the same coin. My love for travel runs deeper than one half of me ― it is the whole of who I am.
Half of Me
In high school, one of my teachers gave our class the assignment of writing a book. Each chapter was supposed to be a short story from each year of our lives, from 1st to 12th grade. I recently found this “book,” and to no one’s surprise, I centered mine around the theme of being Chinese ― half Chinese to be specific. I wrote about my dad coming into my 1st grade class to show everyone how to make egg foo young. About being teased in 4th grade for eating food that, in the words of a schoolmate, “You Chinese people eat.” About my first email address shaoulan@aol.com that showed I was proud of my Chinese name, Huang Xiao Lan, even if I didn’t know how to spell it.
For as long as I can remember, my identity has been wrapped up in being Chinese. I’m obviously half something else ― a mixture of Danish, German, and English ― but my Chinese side is what made me different, it’s what made me stand out. It’s also the part of me that I knew the least about. My father was born in Los Angeles in 1956 at a time when immigrants were supposed to assimilate, to blend in, to be the model minority. He didn’t speak Chinese, so my brother, sister, and I never learned how to speak Chinese growing up either. He cooked Chinese dishes, but it was my Caucasian mother who’d go out of her way to get red envelopes and decorate the house for Chinese New Year.
Unfortunately, I never got to know my Chinese grandparents. My grandfather Ging Ching Wong passed away the year I was born; my grandmother Marian Wong passed away when I was 3. I heard stories about my intelligent and dutiful grandpa being one of the first Chinese students at UC Berkeley, graduating with a degree in mechanical engineering only to return home to run the family grocery store. I heard stories about my fierce and caring grandma working all day in the store and cooking meals for the staff, returning home to prepare dinner for a family of five children. Even though we’d barely met, the choices and sacrifices they made had somehow led to my existence. I felt a strong connection, and an odd sense of loyalty and indebtedness, to these two people who I barely knew.
Stir Fry
During and after graduating from Boston College, I had the opportunity to explore this side of my identity and to learn more about my Chinese heritage. I studied abroad in Beijing for one year and then returned to work there for another 3+ years. I visited and photographed Gom Benn. The first visit was in 2007 with my dad, brother, uncle, and cousins on a trip organized by the Gom Benn Village Society. I remember the feeling of entering the one-room, dirt-floor home that my grandfather lived in as a boy before emigrating to the U.S. The roof had caved in, bricks had crumbled to the ground, and nature had taken over, but it was the closest I’ve ever felt to my Grandpa Ging. As we walked through the village alleyways, we passed a woman carrying a tray of my absolute favorite dim sum: sesame balls. She handed me one and it was like stepping into the kitchen of my ancestors: warm, comforting and homey. When I returned on my own in 2012, and then again in 2013 with my brother, it was the same. The village and everyone there opened their homes and kitchens to us. At dinner, we’d always get a bowl of soup that we were supposed to drink first, before filling it with rice and various dishes ― my favorite being what my brother and I nicknamed “pond spinach,” the unknown green vegetable they’d pull out of the local pond and stir fry with garlic. Delicious.
I was the first of my siblings to leave home and go to college. Whenever I came home for the holidays, I’d request my dad’s cooking ― cucumber and egg, taro beef, potatoes and eggs. My mom’s dishes are all written down and cataloged; when I crave something, I can look up the recipe and follow the steps. My dad’s dishes are harder to recreate; as a kid, I’d sit on the kitchen counter and watch him cook, but I never learned, never got the sense just by feel and repetition. At the beginning of the pandemic, I found myself at home with my parents with a lot of extra time on our hands. I’d always wanted to document my dad’s cooking so I suggested that I film him making some of my favorite dishes. Our first attempt ended with me in tears and him drinking a martini ― he wasn’t used to pausing and explaining what he was doing, and I was hurt by what I interpreted as his reluctance to help. We made it past that first hurdle, and I ended up learning a lot about my Grandma Marian, about how she taught my dad and his siblings to cook, despite not even having a wok at home! His dishes, a variation of hers, are documented on my website under The Wong Wok.
Whole
People often ask me, “What is your favorite place you’ve been to?” My answer: Xinjiang, China. Positioned along the Silk Road where Asia and Europe meet, Xinjiang was the first place where people couldn’t tell me apart from the locals, where I blended in, where I belonged. When my Uighur friend and I walked through town, we were asked which one of us was the local and which was the visitor. I was only there for a week, but I felt at home amongst this mishmash of people ― different groups and identities striving to coexist in the same space. I came from a different culture, society and background, but I felt a strong commonality with them ― of being human, fully me.
When I travel and encounter new places, cultures and foods, it is my way to find how we belong, our connection, and meaning in the world. I try to capture my experiences and feelings with my camera lens, to share stories of history, culture, food and people through photography, and to capture those small moments ― a shared meal, a shared smile, a shared sesame ball.
No matter where I go or who I’m with, travel reminds me that I’m part of something bigger ― of my siblings, each of whom have a different relationship with their half Chinese identity; of my parents, who had no reference point for a biracial marriage and would point out mixed-race babies they passed by to imagine what their children would look like; of my grandfather, who left Gom Benn when he was 13 to emigrate to the U.S.; of grandparents and great grandparents on both sides of my family who made sacrifices so that I could have the opportunities that I have today; of what I feel like is my duty towards a shared humanity, and hopefully in the end, a better, more connected, more compassionate world.
