Music: Silver Coins by Angus and Juilia Stone. No Copyright Intended. For pure use of artistic demonstration. www.angusandjuliastone.com Model/Director: Alex Kwok Camera: Katherine Yi As a photographer, this is my first time experimenting with videography. This video was made as a term project for my English undergraduate studies in Simon Fraser University in Vancouver. This piece is also used in my professor's dossier for submission towards his Leslie B. Cormack Excellence in Teaching Award towards SFU FASS. Best, Alex Kwok www.alex-kwok.com Li Poon Li Poon is the name of my Grandma. I have not seen her ever since I immigrated to Canada, eight years ago to be exact. She passed away three years ago. I long to explore my sense of home back in Hong Kong, China while living comfortably in the city of Vancouver. I wonder about this spirit of exile. I am fortunate enough to have the life I have here in Canada, yet in many ways it comes with a price of neglecting, if not abandoning, my culture, my traditions, and my ancestry. I attempt to commemorate my Grandma who raised me. It is perhaps the least I can do to trace back my roots as an individual of the Kwok family. My grandma from my mother’s side passed away in 2008. The last time I saw her, alive, was eight years ago when we exchanged goodbyes in the airport. It is only through my exploration that I am reminded of my Grandma, who was my closest relative in the family. I long to bring her to Canada and tell her how well I am doing since my departure from China. I desire to show her the nature and the air Hong Kong will never have. It is an agonizing thought to recognize my surroundings, even something as simple as an open park beside a forest, that would never be experienced by my Grandma. Putting aside the wealth, the luxury, and the education, simply the living condition is beyond my Grandma’s dreams. It is the truth that she would have never imagined the state of my well-being. These thoughts sadden me. Perhaps this is why I often neglect these truths and leave them in the back of my head for psychological comfort. I have lost most of my connections in Hong Kong. In fact, I have detached myself enough to call Canada my home. Thus, my Grandma’s portrait and this thought experiment are the only remaining connections I have left with the place where I was raised. Hong Kong is now a foreign place to me after these years. I know I will feel as if I am a tourist when I return to my place of birth. Nothing of the place reminds me of home, except the fact that my Grandma passed away there. Her ashes buried deep in those grounds. I do not appreciate the essence of death. But I acknowledge its inevitability. I miss my Grandma. At some point I need to accept the truth of her absence and leave her portrait behind in order to go on with my life in Canada. It is astounding how the portrait gives me tremendous joy of her presence at first thought. Yet, the reminder of her death slips into my journey and eventually fills me up with great sorrow. Indeed, I struggle to accept the idea that she is gone. Yet I understand there are things that are left behind for the better. I believe it is important to point out although her death is to be left behind with time, it is not to be forgotten. One never dies alone. Part of me inside dies along with her passing. Her death is not a tragedy to me, however, for it takes death to know life; and pain to know comfort. It is because of my history, embodied in my Grandma, that I realized I never truly belonged here in Canada, or as a matter of fact in any geographical location. It is because of her, symbolized through her portrait, that I understand my position of exile. It is a position of exile not because of me living half way across the globe, but because she no longer lives. In other words, it is an ethereal form of exile, rather than a mere physical one. My history defines me. And the understanding of it redefines my character. I wonder if home is indeed where you are. The memories I have, from my Grandma picking me up at the end of the day from Kindergarden, to the very day of her funeral, defines where I belong; or perhaps more so whom I belong to. These memories of my ancestors create my home. Regardless of my perception upon Hong Kong or Canada, my home travels as I travel. The past I carry and the future I hold defines my present as my home. My memories, in this case, are painful ones. Yet they are significant in that they remind me of who I am. I have a home because I have a history. And my Grandma symbolizes such connection. Her death scars the people around her because they share the same home. Whether I am in Vancouver, Hong Kong, or anywhere else in the world, home rests in me because I understand where I came from, and how I become to be. I now realize home is who you are. In the end, once again I think of my Grandma. And now I am home.

Music: Silver Coins by Angus and Juilia Stone. No Copyright Intended. For pure use of artistic demonstration. www.angusandjuliastone.com Model/Director: Alex Kwok Camera: Katherine Yi As a photographer, this is my first time experimenting with videography. This video was made as a term project for my English undergraduate studies in Simon Fraser University in Vancouver. This piece is also used in my professor's dossier for submission towards his Leslie B. Cormack Excellence in Teaching Award towards SFU FASS. Best, Alex Kwok www.alex-kwok.com Li Poon Li Poon is the name of my Grandma. I have not seen her ever since I immigrated to Canada, eight years ago to be exact. She passed away three years ago. I long to explore my sense of home back in Hong Kong, China while living comfortably in the city of Vancouver. I wonder about this spirit of exile. I am fortunate enough to have the life I have here in Canada, yet in many ways it comes with a price of neglecting, if not abandoning, my culture, my traditions, and my ancestry. I attempt to commemorate my Grandma who raised me. It is perhaps the least I can do to trace back my roots as an individual of the Kwok family. My grandma from my mother’s side passed away in 2008. The last time I saw her, alive, was eight years ago when we exchanged goodbyes in the airport. It is only through my exploration that I am reminded of my Grandma, who was my closest relative in the family. I long to bring her to Canada and tell her how well I am doing since my departure from China. I desire to show her the nature and the air Hong Kong will never have. It is an agonizing thought to recognize my surroundings, even something as simple as an open park beside a forest, that would never be experienced by my Grandma. Putting aside the wealth, the luxury, and the education, simply the living condition is beyond my Grandma’s dreams. It is the truth that she would have never imagined the state of my well-being. These thoughts sadden me. Perhaps this is why I often neglect these truths and leave them in the back of my head for psychological comfort. I have lost most of my connections in Hong Kong. In fact, I have detached myself enough to call Canada my home. Thus, my Grandma’s portrait and this thought experiment are the only remaining connections I have left with the place where I was raised. Hong Kong is now a foreign place to me after these years. I know I will feel as if I am a tourist when I return to my place of birth. Nothing of the place reminds me of home, except the fact that my Grandma passed away there. Her ashes buried deep in those grounds. I do not appreciate the essence of death. But I acknowledge its inevitability. I miss my Grandma. At some point I need to accept the truth of her absence and leave her portrait behind in order to go on with my life in Canada. It is astounding how the portrait gives me tremendous joy of her presence at first thought. Yet, the reminder of her death slips into my journey and eventually fills me up with great sorrow. Indeed, I struggle to accept the idea that she is gone. Yet I understand there are things that are left behind for the better. I believe it is important to point out although her death is to be left behind with time, it is not to be forgotten. One never dies alone. Part of me inside dies along with her passing. Her death is not a tragedy to me, however, for it takes death to know life; and pain to know comfort. It is because of my history, embodied in my Grandma, that I realized I never truly belonged here in Canada, or as a matter of fact in any geographical location. It is because of her, symbolized through her portrait, that I understand my position of exile. It is a position of exile not because of me living half way across the globe, but because she no longer lives. In other words, it is an ethereal form of exile, rather than a mere physical one. My history defines me. And the understanding of it redefines my character. I wonder if home is indeed where you are. The memories I have, from my Grandma picking me up at the end of the day from Kindergarden, to the very day of her funeral, defines where I belong; or perhaps more so whom I belong to. These memories of my ancestors create my home. Regardless of my perception upon Hong Kong or Canada, my home travels as I travel. The past I carry and the future I hold defines my present as my home. My memories, in this case, are painful ones. Yet they are significant in that they remind me of who I am. I have a home because I have a history. And my Grandma symbolizes such connection. Her death scars the people around her because they share the same home. Whether I am in Vancouver, Hong Kong, or anywhere else in the world, home rests in me because I understand where I came from, and how I become to be. I now realize home is who you are. In the end, once again I think of my Grandma. And now I am home.

Music: Silver Coins by Angus and Juilia Stone. No Copyright Intended. For pure use of artistic demonstration. www.angusandjuliastone.com Model/Director: Alex Kwok Camera: Katherine Yi As a photographer, this is my first time experimenting with videography. This video was made as a term project for my English undergraduate studies in Simon Fraser University in Vancouver. This piece is also used in my professor's dossier for submission towards his Leslie B. Cormack Excellence in Teaching Award towards SFU FASS. Best, Alex Kwok www.alex-kwok.com Li Poon Li Poon is the name of my Grandma. I have not seen her ever since I immigrated to Canada, eight years ago to be exact. She passed away three years ago. I long to explore my sense of home back in Hong Kong, China while living comfortably in the city of Vancouver. I wonder about this spirit of exile. I am fortunate enough to have the life I have here in Canada, yet in many ways it comes with a price of neglecting, if not abandoning, my culture, my traditions, and my ancestry. I attempt to commemorate my Grandma who raised me. It is perhaps the least I can do to trace back my roots as an individual of the Kwok family. My grandma from my mother’s side passed away in 2008. The last time I saw her, alive, was eight years ago when we exchanged goodbyes in the airport. It is only through my exploration that I am reminded of my Grandma, who was my closest relative in the family. I long to bring her to Canada and tell her how well I am doing since my departure from China. I desire to show her the nature and the air Hong Kong will never have. It is an agonizing thought to recognize my surroundings, even something as simple as an open park beside a forest, that would never be experienced by my Grandma. Putting aside the wealth, the luxury, and the education, simply the living condition is beyond my Grandma’s dreams. It is the truth that she would have never imagined the state of my well-being. These thoughts sadden me. Perhaps this is why I often neglect these truths and leave them in the back of my head for psychological comfort. I have lost most of my connections in Hong Kong. In fact, I have detached myself enough to call Canada my home. Thus, my Grandma’s portrait and this thought experiment are the only remaining connections I have left with the place where I was raised. Hong Kong is now a foreign place to me after these years. I know I will feel as if I am a tourist when I return to my place of birth. Nothing of the place reminds me of home, except the fact that my Grandma passed away there. Her ashes buried deep in those grounds. I do not appreciate the essence of death. But I acknowledge its inevitability. I miss my Grandma. At some point I need to accept the truth of her absence and leave her portrait behind in order to go on with my life in Canada. It is astounding how the portrait gives me tremendous joy of her presence at first thought. Yet, the reminder of her death slips into my journey and eventually fills me up with great sorrow. Indeed, I struggle to accept the idea that she is gone. Yet I understand there are things that are left behind for the better. I believe it is important to point out although her death is to be left behind with time, it is not to be forgotten. One never dies alone. Part of me inside dies along with her passing. Her death is not a tragedy to me, however, for it takes death to know life; and pain to know comfort. It is because of my history, embodied in my Grandma, that I realized I never truly belonged here in Canada, or as a matter of fact in any geographical location. It is because of her, symbolized through her portrait, that I understand my position of exile. It is a position of exile not because of me living half way across the globe, but because she no longer lives. In other words, it is an ethereal form of exile, rather than a mere physical one. My history defines me. And the understanding of it redefines my character. I wonder if home is indeed where you are. The memories I have, from my Grandma picking me up at the end of the day from Kindergarden, to the very day of her funeral, defines where I belong; or perhaps more so whom I belong to. These memories of my ancestors create my home. Regardless of my perception upon Hong Kong or Canada, my home travels as I travel. The past I carry and the future I hold defines my present as my home. My memories, in this case, are painful ones. Yet they are significant in that they remind me of who I am. I have a home because I have a history. And my Grandma symbolizes such connection. Her death scars the people around her because they share the same home. Whether I am in Vancouver, Hong Kong, or anywhere else in the world, home rests in me because I understand where I came from, and how I become to be. I now realize home is who you are. In the end, once again I think of my Grandma. And now I am home.