Feng Shui and Freud
Have you ever had sleepless nights asking yourself, Who am I? Why am I here? What’s the meaning of life? Am I feng le? If you are one of those people who has faced the prospect of being disowned if not married by age 30; instructed to turn over half of your gongzi to your laoba and laoma or have a wife who talks your ears off and makes you wish you could drown in your xiaolongtang noodles, you’re not nuts—you’re just Shanghainese. If you told an American mental health, or “shenghuo jiaolian”, of the trials you’ve traversed, he would likely have you committed for life. There you lie on the therapist’s couch lamenting about your mother. A tale as old as the Longhua Pagoda. Americans like me get it—we’ve got nagging mothers too—but have you been on ten blind dates before lunch, each one with voices like erhu strings at full voice interrigating you about your yuexin? And all the while, you are expected to soldier on grinning like an automaton through your 996 job. The beloved parents, that...
