There are two malls in my town. One has its history proudly displayed in the shopping centre: withered photographs of the past. The other has nothing. Like a ghostly gap in the archives, only memory can verify the mall’s existence in history.
In 1997, China took back Hong Kong. A rush of Hong Kongers fleeing an oppressive regime landed in British Columbia and eventually, Coquitlam.
In 2002, my parents made a trip to a little mall, by the name of Henderson Place Mall.
When I ask my parents about that trip, both recount with voices tinged in a nostalgia so heavy it wells inside me. They tell me in golden voices about the bustling crowds chattering in the fast tones of Cantonese and Shanghainese and Mandarin. The energy marked it as different, non foreign, something so familiar it reminded both of home.
Back then, Chinese diaspora spaces were rare, existing but on the fringes of society. Henderson changed that.
In 2008, we returned from a two-year hiatus in China. Since 1997, many Hong Kongers figured out that life wouldn’t be different after all and moved back. Without the support of the Hong Konger community and due to the changing demographics of the city, Henderson fell flat.
The vibrating energy in the cavern like hallways dissipated leaving gaping holes behind. The monstrous atrium with the skylight crumbled into decay. The walls sagged with yellow faces, their tears leaving stains.
For some time, Henderson faded into the background of the developing city. It became a shadow, real but not worth noting. Only the East Asian community continued to seek its comforts.
In my past, I was like a ghost. I was the quiet dark-haired girl blurring at the edges into some other consciousness. My existence, like many other Asian histories, was not of importance.
At Henderson, that changed. I was allowed to, simply, be. I was allowed to speak Mandarin loudly with my parents, eat “disgusting” food and have hot water to drink rather than having to bring thermoses. The shopping centre can be traced in my memory as far as memory goes.
I remember the food court, with its narrow rows of tables and seats with grooved edges. One of the only redeeming features. The buzzers from the vendors that would gleefully jump when an order was ready. The large Chinese bun sandwiches filled with beef and cilantro from a shop long gone.
Any day before the pandemic, it would be filled in the food court. The white-haired elders reading newspapers printed in simplified Chinese in the corners, while the younger generations congregated in the middle. The atrium would be filled with the impossible sounds of Chinese dialects, the x’s, q’s and c’s of Mandarin, the ongs of Cantonese and a smattering of Korean and other Asian languages.
Henderson is the Chinatown of Coquitlam. There is no other space like it. Ask any East Asian--any Asian-- and they will tell you that they have been to eat, shop, talk, to celebrate Asian identity despite the sentiments scarred in the land.
The centre is a gem. Hidden, but precious, elusive like a shadow. When the SkyTrain extension came, things got better. Young East Asian entrepreneurs moved into the second floor and business sprung.
Now, it could be a ghost town. The virus cut open stitches of past Anti-Asian racism and the erasure began in our safest spaces.
Henderson was sold in 2019 as the city develops and attempts to create a metropolis. Will it become what my parents experienced eighteen years ago? Or will it join the other Chinatowns as cities “fondly” bid farewell?
Henderson is not just a dingy mall. It is filled with the traditions, dreams and hopes of Asian businesspeople working for new lives. It is composed of the memories and experiences of Asian youth, shunted between two cultures.
Collective memory of Henderson is the only thing to verify its history. The Web is sparse, the press releases bland and the photographs either lost or never taken.
Whatever may happen, I hope, dream and yearn for a space where the sounds and tones of unfamiliarity ring true. Where the shops aren’t big names, and the building retains its character. A space for marginalized cultures to share and learn together as we navigate the unknown.
In 2020, I write this for the future. For the children of the future who grow up knowing their history, for the elders dreaming of the past. For the hope that nobody ever needs to feel like a shadow, slipping in and out of obscurity. I write this so Henderson isn’t forgotten. So, that I am not forgotten.
About the Author
Diane Huang is a first year arts student at the University of British Columbia. She was a staff reporter and senior editor at the Edge, an award-winning Canadian secondary school newspaper. If not reading for school, she can be found daydreaming and drinking tea.
