Conforming with Nonconformity

In a fair at Taiyanggong Shopping Mall, the owner of several gaming machines, Lin, refreshed us with her ability to “see through life”—and being unafraid to speak her mind. Wearing a mask and a gray sweater, hair pinned into a bun, she seemed more like one of the visitors than the stand owner, yet her keen and unfiltered honesty quickly set her apart. “I’m not a native Shanghainese,” her eyes shone truthfully as she reminded us straight-up with seriousness.

The Game Machines

We explained our desire to hear her unique story, taking special care to address that her perspective was exactly what we were looking for. She responded with good-natured laughter, answering our questions with sincerity and a touch of invariable poignance and bluntness. “I never thought I had any particular ties with Shanghai, or the feeling that I’m meant to be here or anything,” she confessed.

In her eyes, Shanghai is a fast-paced city where genuine connections between people are often lost in the hustle—a coldness that has upset her extroverted personality. Fortunately, she had found her niche in the advertising company filled with outgoing individuals like herself; she cherished this opportunity, a little harbor surrounded by the perilous waters of increasing utilitarian views.  “You can’t write that on publishing!” she exclaimed when we were noting down our findings, concern etched on her face. “It’s not good! Maybe you can rephrase that as… ‘everyone preferring to have their own spaces and performing their responsibilities.’” Her quick wit sparked laughter from us: she came up with the witty alternative so easily, and behind her unconforming bluntness was a deep-rooted habit of hiding a bit of her own thoughts—she understood the world she was living in too well, a nonconformist that was trapped in social norms.

When asked about memorable moments at Shanghai, her tone turned almost apathetic as she listed the iconic: “just night views at the Bund, braised pork belly, lights at the Yu Garden…” “Are you going to the Yu Garden this Chinese New Year?” we asked. “No, no,” she shook her head disapprovingly, “Not this year. Too many people.” Each memory, while significant, seemed to carry the weight of her reflections on a city that felt both familiar and distant.

Life in Shanghai, in her view, is embodied by two dots connected by a line—a seemingly endless cycle between home and work. “It’s a routine that never changes,” she mused, but deep down we could tell, part of her never resigned. Or, she had never ceased to find her own place—and it took years to discover it lay back in her hometown, Jiangxi, where she had left 7 years ago.

As she spoke of Jiangxi, her face lit up, albeit tinged with some nostalgia behind the round spectacle lens. She longed for simple joys between its mountains and rivers and the simple connections between people there: “I could go shopping with friends, sing karaoke, and play Mahjong—you know, these normal little things.” To her, the “normal” was something she could scarcely grasp navigating Shanghai. The city and its understated beauty were far too elusive to her and the people like her trying to break free.

“The longer you spend time in foreign cities, the more you realize your hometown is the best place to stay,” she smiled, sharing a wisdom that only life’s experiences can impart. In youth, we often seek to escape our roots, yet her words resonated deeply: “落叶归根”—fallen leaves eventually return to their roots. Home, as she described, evolves in meaning; it becomes a cherished sanctuary, a state of mind, a feeling that settles within us as we age. Perhaps that is, too, a signal of conformity.

 “Will you still return to Jiangxi after retiring?”

“I’d work hard for myself before that,” she answered with a faint smile, “but by the time you grow up, times might have evolved.”