Imaginary profile time: my diary, with me as an old school weatherman.
This has been your local weather announcement and I’m Yalun Tu, columnist and former weather reporter. You see, Weather Reporting used to be a noble profession. Only the best and brightest would stand, Monday to Friday, in front of a green screen and point to nothing while making it look like something. That’s the magic of the moving pictures, kid: smiley faces and sad clouds, anthropomorphized figurines floating by, telling you what it’s like outside and how you’re going to feel.
And now? It’s all gone to hell, hasn’t it? Just two clicks on your browser, some thingymajiggy on your smart-whatever and you have it all in front of you. “Oh, it’s going to rain,” you tell your friends, rolling your eyes while they Instagram your expression. “Will this EVER stop?”
That’s the power of Gods, kid, right there in your hand. Famers used to do dances to bring rain. They used to kill turtles and spread their bones around, drink tea and stare lovingly into the leaves. If you knew when rain was coming you’d be a hero, full of wine and all the concubines you could muster. “Oh Mr. Rainmaker, you make good rain,” they’d say and fall into a pillow fight, giggling. And life would be good.
That used to be.
I’d walk down the street and people would notice me. Shake my hand, say something congratulatory in Cantonese that I’d understand because of course I speak Cantonese. I mean, how could you live in Hong Kong for 20-plus years and not speak the language? That would be insane. And I would say mmm goi and nod and walk down the street head held high, proud that I made a difference in that little boy’s life. He’d say, “Mom, I met the weatherman today. He knows the future.” And he’d stare out into the distance reverentially and he’d be doing it all in Cantonese.