Beijing Lights: Does Life Have to be Meaningful?

This post is part of an ongoing series by the Spittoon Collective that aims to share some of the voices that make up Beijing’s 21.7 million humans. They ask: Who are these people we pass in the street every day? Who lives behind those endless walls of apartment windows? These interviews take a small, but meaningful look.

Note from the author: I came across a small restaurant hidden in a hutong near Dongsi. With a small storefront and no sign to catch your eye, it’s the kind of place you could walk right by without noticing. They sell delicious wontons with a thin skin and juicy filling. Now that I’ve gone a few times, the girl working there greets me warmly every time I show up. 

Wei Qingqing, female, 21 years old, from Sichuan, waitress.

I wasn’t originally named Wei Qingqing. My original name happened to be the same as someone else in our village. According to local custom, sharing the same name with someone else is inauspicious, so I changed my name after primary school.

Our house is right next to a mountain, which was a playground for me and my friends growing up. We spent most of the time exploring the mountain and climbing trees. We countryside kids are born for that sort of thing.

There were only four grades in our village’s primary school, instead of the normal six, with not even 100 students. Most of the kids went to school in the cities where their parents worked. Not that many remained behind. There were only four teachers, each one in charge of all the courses for one grade.

From fifth grade, I had to attend school in the county city, which was nearly two hours on foot and over 30 minutes by bus. So I lived in the school in a shared dorm room with another seven students, and only went home once a week. Every week, my parents gave me a few dozen yuan for food.

I’ve always been pretty introverted. But I wasn’t a lazy student, I used to take the initiative and do my homework first thing when I got home from school. I wish I could tell you that I studied well, but I didn’t. I wasn’t particularly good at any subject, only my Chinese was slightly above average. I liked reciting Tang poems and Song lyrics, and I seemed to get the meaning almost instantly as I read them. But when we had to learn physics, it was a complete disaster for me.

You might say my scores in middle school remained like my personality – pretty timid. When we were approaching the end of the first semester of the last school year, I knew my chance of scoring high enough for senior high school was next to nothing, so I made up my mind to quit.

I still remember the day I left school. My family came to help me pack my belongings. I was in such a rush to leave that I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to my classmates. That regret has stayed with me until today.

After that, I lost contact with most of my classmates. I’ve tried dialing the phone numbers they left in my school yearbook, but the numbers either go unanswered or don’t work anymore. I assume most of them are now far away from home earning a living, just like me. Some of them might have gotten married. People tend to get married at a young age back home.

I wasn’t even 16 when I left school. I came to Beijing to join my uncle, who’s been here for over 20 years and owns a small barbershop in this hutong. He later rented this place to run as a wonton restaurant. That’s when he asked my dad’s permission to have me work for him.

When I first came here, I didn’t know how to cook but only helped do some small tasks like washing and cutting the vegetables. Then after a while, I slowly learned to cook. My uncle can’t afford to hire a second worker, so I’m the only one here working full shifts. Though both the barbershop and this restaurant are rather small, the rent together is over RMB 10,000 per month, utilities not included.

Every month, my uncle puts my salary on a card that is sent directly to my parents. I’ve never asked how much my salary is, a lot or a little, I don’t care. My younger brother is in his last year of senior high. He’s a much better student than me. His school has all sorts of fees, so it’s good that my salary can support him.

Nearly five years have slipped by since I came here, but I still don’t know Beijing well at all. I rarely go out except to join my uncle and aunt for a walk sometimes. When I’m not working, I usually stay in my apartment, watching some TV shows or chatting with my family on video calls.

It’s not like I have that much time to kill anyway. The restaurant opens from 9am to midnight. I’ve gotten used to working long hours. I don’t think it’s hard work, and I’d rather be kept busy than feel bad doing nothing. When things are busy, I need to cook over 100 bowls of wontons in one day.

I’ve never had much good conversation with customers either. Most of them are migrants working nearby. They come here to fill their stomachs and leave in a hurry.

Because of the pandemic, there have been fewer customers recently, and business is not good. The restaurant might not survive the year. I’m not sure what’s next for me. My parents still live in our village, growing and selling vegetables to get by. Our land is big and they grow all kinds. I might go back and farm with them. Who knows?

For me, it doesn’t matter where I end up. I’m pretty relaxed about life. Nothing has ever bothered me that much. Occasionally I feel a little down, but then I just get over it.

What is the meaning of life? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever asked myself this question before. Does life have to be meaningful?

READ: Beijing Lights: "I’ve Never Dreamed of Wealth or Fame"

This article is provided by our content partners Spittoon Collective. You can read more content just like this from Beijing's creative literary minds via their website here. You can also find the article above in its original Chinese form here.

Edited by David Huntington

Images: Songpan (via Spittoon Collective)