The earliest memory I can summon is not crystal clear, but it holds a warmth that has stayed with me for decades. It was sometime around 1960 or 1961. I was two or three years old, small enough to be carried on my mother’s back, cradled close in a traditional ‘mei dai’ carrier. I don’t remember her face in that moment—only the sensation of her presence, the rhythmic sway of her steps, and the comforting pressure of her back against my small body.
The air inside seemed thick with the mingling smells of the city—or at least, that’s how I imagine it now. Perhaps there were faint whiffs of engine oil, the salty tang of the harbour, or the occasional drift of food from someone’s bag. These details might not even be true, but they linger in my mind as part of the atmosphere of that moment. Whether they were real sensations or fragments my mind has pieced together over the years, the impression is of a sensory world just beginning to unfold to me.
As my mother navigated the narrow aisle of the tram, her steps swayed me gently. I was too young to understand where we were headed, but I felt safe in the cocoon of her care.
The tram rattled and clattered through Admiralty which in those days was called Queensway. That name is etched in my memory. Queensway. It sounded grand and foreign, a name that carried the weight of colonial times. From my perch on my mother’s back, I could only catch glimpses of the world through the tram’s windows. I faintly recall the barracks—low, austere buildings that lined the area. They seemed so still, so orderly, a stark contrast to the bustling hub as we know it today.
I often wonder where my mother was going that day. Was she running errands? Visiting a relative? Or was she simply taking me along for a ride to pacify a restless toddler? I never thought to ask her later in life. By the time I was old enough to reflect on such questions, childhood memories had become unmoored from their context, floating in the vast sea of time.
But what I do know is this: that memory is not about the destination. It’s about the bond. In that moment, I was connected to my mother in the most profound way possible. Her back was my world—strong, steady, and unyielding. I can only imagine her thoughts as she carried me through the bustling city, weighed down not just by the physical burden of a child, but by the responsibilities and uncertainties of life in those difficult post-war years.
The Hong Kong of my childhood was a city in transition. The barracks at Queensway would eventually vanish, replaced by the towering glass and steel structures of modern Admiralty. The trams, however, remained a constant, their green frames continuing to weave through the ever-changing city.
This curious pattern of recollection—where my memory of being carried on my mother’s back remains vivid while the rest fades into obscurity—reveals something profound about how memory works. It seems to preserve what matters most, what anchors us emoionally, while allowing the less significant details to blur over time. The clarity of my mother’s presence, her warmth, and the physical connection speaks to the deep bond between us, a bond that, even now, feels more important than the fleeting impressions of the world around us. This is where my story begins—the first memory of how, through the tram’s windows, the sensory world beyond began to expand before me. Perhaps this is how memory helps us hold onto what truly shapes us, filtering out the noise to leave behind the moments that ground us in love and belonging.
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