Displacement and Multilingual Identity in the Diaspora: A Theme Analysis of Homeseeking

The Thematic Claim: Language as a Lifeline and a Mirror of the Self in Homeseeking

Karissa Chen's Homeseeking argues that displacement across Chinese-speaking regions does not simply relocate characters geographically—it forces them to renegotiate who they are through language. In the novel, multilingualism is both a survival tool and a marker of shifting self-conception. Characters code-switch, adopt new names, and learn new dialects not only to navigate hostile environments but also to reconcile the person they have become with the person they once were. The author's own note on languages (see A Note on Languages) frames this as a deliberate structural choice: because Chinese writing is representational, the same word carries different pronunciations across regions, and characters' names evolve as their identities do. This thematic analysis traces how language functions across three pivotal moments in the plot, connects it to key characters and symbols, and examines the contradictions that arise when language both binds and separates.

Language as a Survival Tool: From Japanese to Cantonese

The novel repeatedly shows language as a practical, sometimes life-saving, resource. In the 1945 checkpoint scene (Chapter 7), a young Suchi and Haiwen are stopped by a Japanese soldier. Suchi has forgotten her identification card, a potentially fatal mistake. She instinctively switches to Japanese, adopting a soft, girlish tone and a fabricated story about a sick uncle. The soldier lets them pass. This moment is not about fluency or cultural affinity—Suchi later admits she simply figured that speaking the soldier's language might make him kinder. The language is a mask, a performance that allows her to survive. The scene underscores how, in a time of war and occupation, the ability to code-switch becomes a form of protection.

A decade later, in Hong Kong (Chapter 11), Suchi and her sister Sulan arrive as refugees. Suchi's poor Cantonese makes her unemployable in shops or restaurants, while Sulan, who has a high school degree, still struggles because she lacks the English and typing skills of wealthier Shanghainese girls. Suchi eventually finds work helping her landlady, Mrs. Chan, and learns Cantonese through a combination of gestures, written Chinese, and the giggling corrections of Mrs. Chan's daughters. By the end of four years, Suchi's Cantonese is conversational, while Sulan—who spends her days with mainlander patrons—has not progressed beyond basic pleasantries. This divergence is telling: Suchi embraces the new language as a means of integration, while Sulan clings to Shanghainese, a marker of the world they lost. Language here is not just a skill but a choice about how to belong.

Language as a Mirror of Shifting Identity: Names, Code-Switching, and the Return to Shanghai

The novel's treatment of names is central to its exploration of multilingual identity. The author's note explains that characters may be referred to in multiple ways as their self-conception shifts, and chapters are deliberately not labeled by character names. This is evident in the way Haiwen becomes Howard after emigrating to the United States. In the 2008 timeline (Chapter 4), Howard answers the phone in English, then switches to Mandarin when he hears a Chinese-accented voice. His daughter Yiping calls him “Ba,” and his grandchildren speak to him in English, spelling words like “xenophobia” that he has never heard. Howard's identity is fragmented across languages: he is a father who speaks Mandarin, a grandfather who listens to English, and a man who still dreams in the Shanghai of his youth.

The most striking example of language as a mirror of identity occurs in Chapter 10, when Howard returns to Shanghai in 1993. Stepping off the plane, he smells the air and longs for the “lost smell of home.” At customs, he has a sudden urge to repudiate his American passport and shout, “I'm one of you! I'm Shanghainese too!” Instead, he says “Ziazia” in the clearest, most perfect Shanghainese he can manage. The word is a plea for recognition, a way to prove he still belongs. Yet as he walks through the transformed city, he feels like a foreigner. Pedestrians stare at him, and he realizes he is no longer sure he is the same as them. The language he speaks is the same, but the place has changed, and so has he. This scene encapsulates the novel's central tension: language can evoke a past self, but it cannot restore that self to the present.

Language and Memory: The Split Consciousness of Displacement

Howard's return to Shanghai also reveals how language is intertwined with memory and loss. He walks down Dama Lu, now renamed Nanjing East Road, and experiences a “split consciousness”—visions of the past superimposing on the present. He remembers the department stores, the tram, the people who are likely dead now. The language of the streets is familiar, but the context is alien. This disorientation is not just about geography; it is about the failure of language to bridge the gap between then and now. Howard's Shanghainese is perfect, but it cannot make the city his again.

The novel's epigraphs, as described in the outline, reinforce this theme. The first, from In the Mood for Love, compares bygone years to a dusty windowpane—visible but not graspable. The second, from Eileen Chang's Half a Lifelong Romance, tells a character he cannot go back. These epigraphs frame the entire narrative: language is the windowpane through which characters view their past, but it is also the barrier that prevents them from stepping through.

This connection between language and memory is also present in the 2008 timeline, when Suchi learns from her son that Howard has been getting lost while driving, raising concerns about his memory. The novel suggests that memory itself is a kind of language—one that can fade or become unreliable. When Suchi finally decides to return to Shanghai to see her elderly mother (Chapter 21), she hopes to be recognized, but the recognition may not come. The mother, nearly blind and not always lucid, may no longer speak the language of recognition.

Complexity and Contradiction: Language as Both Bridge and Barrier

The novel does not present multilingualism as an unqualified good. The author's note acknowledges that learning another language is “one of the most difficult, humbling, and uneasy parts of coming to a new country.” This is borne out in the characters' experiences. Suchi's Cantonese improves, but she still feels like an outsider in Hong Kong, and she and Sulan hide their homesickness from their father in letters. Howard's English is functional but imperfect; he remembers the pain of looking up the word “the” in a dictionary as a schoolboy. In the 2008 timeline, he cannot understand Spanish sportscasters on television, a reminder that he remains an outsider even in his adopted country.

The novel also shows that language can be a source of division within families and communities. In Hong Kong, the sisters encounter wealthy Shanghainese merchants who, despite sharing their hometown, would never accept them into their fold. Language—or the class and status it implies—creates hierarchies. Similarly, Howard's daughter Yiping, who is American-born, speaks English with her children, and Howard feels a generational gap. He cannot fully participate in his grandchildren's lives because they speak a language he does not fully own.

Yet the novel also suggests that language can be a bridge. Suchi's relationship with Mrs. Chan and her daughters, who teach her Cantonese, becomes a surrogate family. The girls call her “ah ze,” Cantonese for “big sister,” and she treats them as younger siblings. Language here is a means of creating new bonds, even as it marks the loss of old ones.

Symbols and Their Linguistic Echoes

The novel's key symbols—the violin, the gold ring, the shikumen, and the sea—are all intertwined with the theme of displacement and multilingual identity. The violin is a language of its own, a non-verbal form of expression that transcends regional dialects. Haiwen's violin playing is a way to communicate emotion when words fail. In the 1947 timeline, he plans to leave his violin at Suchi's house before enlisting, as if entrusting her with his voice. The gold ring is a promise that crosses borders—it is pawned, given, and eventually returned, but its meaning shifts with each holder. The shikumen represents the physical home that language can only approximate; it is the place where Shanghainese is spoken, but it is also a structure that can be lost or left behind. The sea is the ultimate symbol of displacement—the water that separates homelands and the space where languages mix and fade.

Study Questions and Answers

1. How does Suchi's use of Japanese in the 1945 checkpoint scene illustrate the theme of language as a survival tool?

Suchi's decision to speak Japanese to the soldier is a calculated act of self-preservation. She has no identification, and the consequences could be severe. By switching to Japanese and adopting a submissive, girlish demeanor, she manipulates the soldier's expectations. The scene shows that language is not just a means of communication but a weapon of the vulnerable—a way to perform an identity that will keep her alive. It also foreshadows her later adaptability in Hong Kong, where she learns Cantonese to survive economically.

2. In what ways does Howard's return to Shanghai in 1993 reveal the limits of language as a marker of belonging?

Howard speaks perfect Shanghainese, yet he feels like a foreigner. The city has changed so drastically that his linguistic fluency cannot bridge the gap between his memories and the present reality. His attempt to claim belonging through the word “Ziazia” is met with indifference from the customs officer, and later, pedestrians stare at him as if he does not belong. The scene demonstrates that language alone cannot restore a lost home; it can only evoke the past, not recreate it.

3. How do the sisters' differing relationships with Cantonese in Hong Kong reflect their attitudes toward displacement?

Suchi actively learns Cantonese and forms close bonds with Mrs. Chan and her daughters, embracing her new life. Sulan, by contrast, resists learning the language, preferring to socialize with other Shanghainese refugees. This divergence shows that language is a choice about identity: Suchi is willing to become someone new, while Sulan clings to the past. The novel suggests that such choices have consequences—Sulan's stagnation contrasts with Suchi's growth, though both remain marked by loss.

4. What role does the author's note on languages play in shaping the reader's understanding of the theme?

The note explicitly frames multilingualism as a necessity for migrants and global residents, and it asks readers to imagine the daily experience of navigating multiple languages. It also explains the novel's structural choices—why chapters are not labeled by character names, and why code-switching is marked. By foregrounding these decisions, the author invites readers to see language not as a transparent medium but as a central character in the story, one that shapes identity and memory.

5. How does the symbol of the violin connect to the theme of multilingual identity?

The violin is a non-verbal language that transcends the regional dialects that divide the characters. Haiwen's playing is a way to express what words cannot—his love for Suchi, his grief, his longing. When he leaves his violin with Suchi before enlisting, he is entrusting her with his unspoken self. The violin also represents the possibility of communication across boundaries, even when spoken languages fail. In this way, it offers a counterpoint to the novel's emphasis on linguistic difference, suggesting that some forms of expression are universal.