Interview by Vivian (Xiao Wen) Li
What initially drew me to Felix Wong’s piece was its honest and complex portrayal of an event that impacted his family’s history, but which had been largely left unspoken. Struck by the structure and themes that permeated his writing, I spoke to him about his personal journey, research process, and reflection of the tragic Lauda Air Flight 004 plane crash, which took 223 lives, including his Aunt Cloud and her husband. With its gentle interweaving, emotional twists, and poignant sentences, “Shall We Talk” can be found in our latest SCAB issue.
Vivian (Xiao Wen) Li: What have you been reading lately, or turning to for inspiration?
Felix Wong: I have to admit–I’m an incredibly slow reader. And I’m back in school for creative writing now, so I haven’t had much time to read anything outside of the assigned readings. Instead, I’ve been turning to movies. There’s something really nice and digestible about being able to get through a beginning, middle, and end all within two hours. Although my Cantonese is a bit rough, I’ve been absorbing a lot of Hong Kong cinema. I’m interested in seeing how local storytellers portray the city and what kind of cultural elements they highlight. Just last night, I rewatched Stephen Chow’s Kung Fu Hustle for the zillionth time. I think that film is such a great case study in how to tell a story that is unabashedly cultural, yet not alienating to those without prior cultural context. It gets you in the door with these high-concept ideas, like slapstick comedy and over-the-top action, then immerses you in obscure wuxia references and themes of karma and Buddhism. Brilliant stuff.
V(XW)L: “Shall We Talk” is such a poignant title in an essay that returns to themes of repression and not speaking of the dead. How did you come up with it, and is there a reason why the phrase doesn’t end with a question mark?
FW: As much as I’d like to take credit for the title, it is actually a nod to the song of the same name by Hong Kong singer Eason Chan. He’s super famous in Asia, so those familiar with Cantonese music will immediately make this connection.
I first heard “Shall We Talk” when I was eight. I had just emigrated to Canada, and my mom would often play Cantonese songs at home, perhaps as a way for us to feel less disconnected to Hong Kong–keep in mind this was way before social media and instant messaging. At the time, I didn’t understand the lyrics. Something about a boy who doesn’t want to drink soup? And a glance from the mom feels like school detention? Then later, the boy is grown up and working at an office, but he no longer has time to drink soup? I just didn’t get it.
It wasn’t until my trip to Suphanburi for the crash site that the song finally clicked. I was walking through town with earphones plugged in, thinking about why my family never spoke about Lauda Air Flight 004, when “Shall We Talk” came on. I still couldn’t grasp the lyrics fully, but I understood it was talking about the absence of communication between family members and wanting to mend that. I’m kind of embarrassed it took me nearly twenty years to come to this conclusion.
Once I began writing my essay, “Shall We Talk” seemed like an obvious fit. There’s a certain grace and punch to these three simple words. The lack of a question mark frames it as less of a request, and more of an assertive invitation, which reflects how I went about investigating the plane crash. And it’s also an invitation to the reader to start a conversation on these things we don’t normally discuss in the open.
V(XW)L: While reading your essay, I was struck by the pacing and the interwoven threads between the search for answers in Thailand, as well as the various forms of disconnection within the family. I’m curious to know if you instinctively found these narratives thematically resonant, or if you restructured and connected the threads in the editorial process.
FW: The plane crash I always intended to be the main thread. It’s the high-concept element. The thing that’ll hook a reader and keep them reading past the first paragraph. But I also knew that this thread cannot be the entire story. Because, as bad as this sounds, the plane crash happened so long ago. We have new plane crashes, disasters, and global issues popping up every day. Many of us can’t help but develop a sense of numbness to tragedy. So even before putting the first word down, I felt I needed a secondary thread, something more personal and relatable, to maintain the reader’s interest once the initial shock of the plane crash subsides.
Originally, I toyed around with the idea of pulling the rug out from under the reader. The essay would begin with the crash site, giving the impression it’s completely about that, before abruptly shifting focus at the midpoint to the father-son relationship. A bait-and-switch.
Over the course of writing and editing, I realized that made for weird pacing. I instead leaned more towards the structure of television drama scripts. Main plot, subplot, main plot, subplot, all the way through. My essay would have a section in the past, which I saw as the subplot, following every section in the present. I ultimately deviated from this structure–for example, I think there’s one part with two consecutive sections in the past–but the core concept remains.
V(XW)L: I was wondering if you could talk a little about how the process of recovering your Aunt’s narrative changed or helped shape your writing?
FW: I didn’t have the opportunity to dive into this in the essay, but the moment with Tibor Krausz at the crash site, in which he asked if I wanted to perform Chinese ancestor customs, was a lightbulb moment. It became clear to me just how little I knew about our customs and, by extension, my culture. It pushed me to think deeper about certain things Hong Kong people do and why we do them. For example, why do we burn items for the dead? What’s fire got to do with the afterlife? Or why is it important that we verbally call a relative by their full title upon greeting them? Why doesn’t a simple hello suffice?
Realizing I had these major gaps in my knowledge, I began to try to fill them in. This journey to understand what happened to my aunt acted as the perfect catalyst for me to become more attuned to Hong Kong culture. And I think this leaked into my writing. Whereas before, my writing would often poke fun at the absurdity of the antiquated traditions we have, now it seeks to understand–at least I hope that’s how it comes across on the page.
V(XW)L: Do you have any advice for writers who are planning to research and reflect on their personal family histories?
FW: A fear I had was that I didn’t think anyone would want to speak to me. I knew my relatives would at least be somewhat open to talking, but after the crash site, I also wanted to interview professionals in Hong Kong’s funeral trade to learn about customs and beliefs related to the dead. Thing was, I had no books published or any real credentials to show. I would essentially be knocking on doors and asking these strangers to trust I am who I say I am, and that I’ll do something useful with the information they provide. This seemed an especially tough sell in a place like Hong Kong, where everything is kind of cut-throat, and time is money, and money is survival.
I did have trouble finding willing interviewees at first. The professions I was phoning would hang up on me, which was totally understandable. They probably assumed I was running some sort of scam. One day I was on Youtube, watching a profile of a craftsman who specialized in joss paper effigies, which are a type of offerings for the dead. I thought, maybe those who have appeared on camera would be much more open to getting interviewed. And they were, almost frighteningly so. I wound up scoring a ton of great interviews with these people. None of this appeared in my essay, but their information helped significantly in guiding my writing.
This may not be the most practical advice, but if anyone is in a similar position where they need to reach out to strangers for interviews, don’t let a few rejections stop you. You might be surprised at how willing some people are to help.
V(XW)L: I found the last mention of the “heart” so compelling! Is there a “heart” you’d like readers to uncover from your essay?
FW: I had a discussion with a friend recently about that last line. I told her I still don’t quite know what my cousin meant when he said, “You have heart.” The context in which he used it was a bit different from how I normally hear it used. “Have heart” is a literal translation of the Chinese phrase. It means thank you, but in a very sincere, almost formal way, and tends to be something only the older generations say. For instance, if you get your grandmother a fruit basket, she might say, “You have heart.” Or if you carve out time to attend a funeral, then the grieving party might say that too.
For my cousin to say that in that moment, it didn’t make sense to me. He wasn’t thanking me–he had no reason to, because he was rather detached from the whole thing with my aunt, and there was nothing to thank me for anyway. I think he meant that I was thoughtful, but I’m not sure. That’s why it stuck out, and why I wrote it into the story.
My friend argued that “you have heart” comes with a bonus condition. You have to have done something you didn’t need to do. You didn’t need to get the fruit basket, but you did. You didn’t need to show up to the funeral, but you did. So it means thank you for not only being thoughtful, but also for doing things you don’t have to do.
Maybe readers will come up with their own interpretations of this line. If so, hit me up! I’d love to hear it.
V(XW)L: What are you working on right now? Where can we find you next?
FW: For my MFA thesis, I’m currently working on a full-length version of Shall We Talk. It’ll dig a lot deeper into Chinese ancestor worship customs and superstitious beliefs, exploring how they may affect our actions and the ways in which we communicate. Fingers crossed I can finish the manuscript and find a publisher so it can see the light of day.
For now, you’ll have to settle for a non-fiction story about the time I acted as a marriage witness for a pair of strangers in Hong Kong, forthcoming in Belief, an anthology by Ricepaper Magazine.
Felix Wong has lived half his life in Vancouver and half in Hong Kong. His stories have appeared in The Sun, Ricepaper, and emerge 18: The Writer’s Studio Anthology. He is an MFA candidate at the University of Guelph, and is currently working on a book-length version of “Shall We Talk”, which aims to explore Chinese ancestor worship customs and the 1991 Lauda Air Flight 004 plane crash. You can find Felix on Twitter and Instagram @koolkatfelix.
Vivian Li is a writer, musician, and editor who enjoys exploring obscure and intriguing concepts. Her creative works are forthcoming or published in Uncanny Magazine, ellipsis… literature & art, and Plenitude Magazine, among others. Most recently, she was Longlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2020, and received Honorable Mentions from Muriel’s Journey Poetry Prize 2019. A MFA candidate at UBC, she is currently Prose Editor for PRISM international, and can be reached @eliktherain.