100 dollar bill: The one I own was printed from the Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation Limited, at the probability of 25 percent. The profile of the lion that proudly gazes into the distance from the sheet of cotton is a stoic one. Its red mane almost melds into the rest of its body—artful camouflage. With a lifespan of merely two years, I wonder if my bill has encountered its mid-life crisis yet.
“Harmony City” pamphlet: A playful cover design aims to tackle a more insidious agenda. I do not doubt Yan Oi Tong is a wonderful institution that has surely aided thousands, but the cheery personal statements provided by the various participants read more like propaganda. Deeply rooted discrimination does not manifest itself in the workshop setting, but rather in the stories a mother would tell her children about their neighbors, or in a dispute over the exact selling price of watercress. Through repetition of the program, the future may perhaps be bright, but who can truly change my parents’ generation.
TR 4020: This is not some secret code left for us to decipher, but the number plate of the van that delivered us from the hotpot restaurant in Tuen Mun to its cousin in Yuen Long. Our driver, Ah Wan, dons messily bleached hair that is reminiscent of old gangster movies and does not button the collars of his shirt. Before the incredible shadiness (for lack of better word) of the entire situation fully hits me, however, we arrive at a quaint little place with Winnie-the-Pooh wall clocks and delicious fried buns with condensed milk. But on the mini-bus ride home, I still look up the Hongkong equivalent of 911.