Das Heimweh
I have always liked the word 'Heimweh' for some reason. It captures the feeling of being displaced from home so much better than the English word 'homesick'.
I am not a person that is particularly attached to certain places. I left Taiwan for college without much hesitation or regret. I would like to be able to see my family more often, but my parents travel a lot, and I guess ‘home’ for me is just where ever they might be at anytime point. I’ve even been known in my earlier days to denounce the idea of homesickness as being incompatible with my international 'Weltanschauung'. Sure, I miss the food, the liveliness and the landscape of the island sometime, but there have only been a couple of times in the past years that I’ve felt anything close to homesickness – Heimweh – feeling a knot in my chest, an overwhelming longing to be in the familiar places, sounds and smells. Last Sunday I once again identified this feeling in my chest.
Last Sunday Monica bought me tickets to see Vienna Teng. I’ve never heard of her before, and wasn’t sure that she would be the type of music I enjoyed, since she was described as ‘a fusion of classical piano and modern pop’ in some article – which evokes the image of wealthy old ladies commenting on some easy-listening at a La Jolla bistro. But I went anyway, it was only $10, and I trusted Monica’s music taste generally (although she does like TOOL).
It was a surprisingly good performance. It was just her on piano, a cello and a violin. I liked her voice right away – light, almost transcendental, but soulful and packed with raw emotions. I wasn’t so sure about some of the melodies and lyrics, they were still slightly too poppy for me – but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
She talked to the audience in between sets of songs. She talked about her college days, about her friends and the drama of relationships, and then she talked about growing up. She is first generation Taiwanese – I was not surprised, she seemed like she could be. She continued to talk about generation gaps between her and her parents, and then she dedicated a song to her parents. She said it was a song from their homeland; it was called “A Little Night Tune From Green Island” (Lu Dao Xiao Ye Qu).
And all of a sudden, my stomach knotted up. The knot moved up into my chest and I recognized the feeling. Das Heimweh.
I hadn’t heard the song in more than 10 years. It is an old folk tune; my mom sang it to us when we were kids. The familiar rise and fall of the notes and lyrics gave me goose bumps and I felt the intense absence of something essential to me, some part of me. She sings about Green Island in the night, like a boat floating in a moonlit ocean off the coast of Taiwan, where her lover is imprisoned. The lyrics are simple, only a couple of sentences repeated, but it brought with it unidentifiable images of the Taiwan I remembered as a child.
I was left at the end of the song stunned, mostly by my own reaction and the Heimweh that I’ve been known to proudly denounced in the past.
I am not a person that is particularly attached to certain places. I left Taiwan for college without much hesitation or regret. I would like to be able to see my family more often, but my parents travel a lot, and I guess ‘home’ for me is just where ever they might be at anytime point. I’ve even been known in my earlier days to denounce the idea of homesickness as being incompatible with my international 'Weltanschauung'. Sure, I miss the food, the liveliness and the landscape of the island sometime, but there have only been a couple of times in the past years that I’ve felt anything close to homesickness – Heimweh – feeling a knot in my chest, an overwhelming longing to be in the familiar places, sounds and smells. Last Sunday I once again identified this feeling in my chest.
Last Sunday Monica bought me tickets to see Vienna Teng. I’ve never heard of her before, and wasn’t sure that she would be the type of music I enjoyed, since she was described as ‘a fusion of classical piano and modern pop’ in some article – which evokes the image of wealthy old ladies commenting on some easy-listening at a La Jolla bistro. But I went anyway, it was only $10, and I trusted Monica’s music taste generally (although she does like TOOL).
It was a surprisingly good performance. It was just her on piano, a cello and a violin. I liked her voice right away – light, almost transcendental, but soulful and packed with raw emotions. I wasn’t so sure about some of the melodies and lyrics, they were still slightly too poppy for me – but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
She talked to the audience in between sets of songs. She talked about her college days, about her friends and the drama of relationships, and then she talked about growing up. She is first generation Taiwanese – I was not surprised, she seemed like she could be. She continued to talk about generation gaps between her and her parents, and then she dedicated a song to her parents. She said it was a song from their homeland; it was called “A Little Night Tune From Green Island” (Lu Dao Xiao Ye Qu).
And all of a sudden, my stomach knotted up. The knot moved up into my chest and I recognized the feeling. Das Heimweh.
I hadn’t heard the song in more than 10 years. It is an old folk tune; my mom sang it to us when we were kids. The familiar rise and fall of the notes and lyrics gave me goose bumps and I felt the intense absence of something essential to me, some part of me. She sings about Green Island in the night, like a boat floating in a moonlit ocean off the coast of Taiwan, where her lover is imprisoned. The lyrics are simple, only a couple of sentences repeated, but it brought with it unidentifiable images of the Taiwan I remembered as a child.
I was left at the end of the song stunned, mostly by my own reaction and the Heimweh that I’ve been known to proudly denounced in the past.
posted by Cindy at 5:44 PM
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