Generations in Reverie

Six individuals from different generations share their most treasured memories and why they’re significant

來自不同年代的他們最珍藏的回憶是什么？

With"Millennials entering their 30s and 40s and Gen Z coming of age， a wave of nostalgia is sweeping through Chinese social media， film， and TV. People are reminiscing about early internet culture， pop entertainment， simpler school days， and even childhood drinks. However， nostalgia is hardly a new or unique phenomenon. TWOC spoke with six individuals born between the 1930s and early 2010s to explore what stirs their memories. While their nostalgia is deeply personal， it also reflects the rapidly evolving society around them. Here’s what we found：

Li Qunsheng， 89， retired"electric engineer， Beijing

I started ballroom dancing when I was 17. At that time， Chairman Mao Zedong encouraged the working class in Beijing to embrace this elegant and civilized art. For me， ballroom dancing is a refined expression， unlike today’s chaotic dances.

Back in the 1950s， I was selected， along with 79 other men and women from various state-owned enterprises， such as the National Cotton Factory， for a ballroom dance group to perform at weekend gatherings with foreign embassy members. This was believed to be part of Chairman Mao’s strategy to present a refreshed image of the Chinese working class. Dressed in our work uniforms， we were often treated to apples and red sugar water after performances， which was quite nice considering material comforts were scarce at that time.

There weren’t many dance halls where we could hang out. But there were dance venues within government units like the Workers’ Club and the Grain Bureau. Every Saturday， each venue held several free sessions， and we would go there with our membership cards.

Dancing was my livelihood， earning me a modest 16 yuan per month—the same amount as an apprentice in other jobs. New clothes also came regularly as a small perk for us. However， romance was only a remote fantasy for us in those days， as dating was strictly forbidden in the dance group. Even a hint of interest could lead to trouble， sometimes even expulsion.

I remember my dance partner， Li Xiuying. She was a very beautiful lady， from a well-off family， and a year older than me. Whenever we went out， other workers would joke， ‘Out again with your big sister？’ We danced together for years in many places in Beijing： the Cultural Palace， Tiananmen Square， Zhongshan Park， you name it. We would often practice till the early hours before cycling back home. Unfortunately， I lost contact with her over the years. She changed her phone number， and the neighborhood she lived in was demolished. It’s quite a pity. I often think how wonderful it would be to dance with her again.

For the past 28 years since I retired， I’ve been coming to Ritan Park every morning from 9 to 11：30. I tried to teach others in the park before the pandemic， but I stopped doing that as it became too hard. Many people now don’t connect with the music or the pace. Some treat it as a social experiment rather than an art. Some even come to dance sessions to mess around with women. Back in my day， ballroom dancing required daily training and practice. But that’s not the case for people today， so I mostly just play music for them or dance by myself.

Liu Yu （pseudonym）， 63， retired shopping mall assistant， Beijing

Although I didn’t have many material possessions in my childhood， I was truly happy during those days. We walked to school and returned home on our own， rarely supervised by our parents. We often visited each other’s homes to do homework together. Our neighborhood was our playground， and there were more kids back then， too. The communal courtyard， shared by 50 to 60 families， bustled with children every day.

We would throw stones， skip ropes， twirl tops， or simply roll hoops in the street. I remember carefully crafting the tops by hand. We also made toy guns and small baskets out of popsicle sticks. Although our materials were limited， these handmade toys were practical and sparked creativity.

Kids today seem much lonelier in comparison. They are often confined to high-rises and are picked up and dropped off by their parents from school. They also have too many entertainment options， which makes it harder for them to focus. Kids like my 2-year-old grandson have many nice toys， but I think it’s a waste， as they miss the opportunity to develop the skills that crafting their own toys could provide. Today， most toys are pre-made or come in assembly kits， which， to me， feel more like clutter than true companions for children.

Song Yan， 53， retired journalist， Beijing

When I was in college in 1991， cultural life was incredibly rich， and there was a strong desire for new information and knowledge. We sensed that a bright， promising future was unfolding before us.

I joined a university music club. It was when rock music had just started to gain popularity in China. Music from legendary foreign artists and groups like Guns N’ Roses， Bon Jovi， Metallica， and U2 filled our conversations at gatherings. We shared cassette tapes—some were marked with a cut to signify they were illegal copies， known as dakoudai （打口帶）. At night， we gathered in a circle on the campus lawn， with someone playing guitar while we sang along to familiar songs， like “More Than Words” by Extreme.

It was also a magical era when anything seemed possible. Despite being an engineering major， I called a newspaper for an internship simply because of my passion for journalism. The answer was simple： “Come and try it out.” No one cared what I was studying. I interned there for three years and eventually became a journalist， making a complete career change from what I was supposed to do with my degree.

Social relationships were purer and more genuine in those days. It was a state of “thoughts without evil （思無邪），” to use a word from Classic of Poetry （《詩經》）. No one was overly concerned about personal gain or practical considerations; it’s as if everyone was living in a Neverland. And it was like this when we were having fun， but also when we were working—everyone put their heart into it. Back then， it seemed like people didn’t care much about how much money they made， because the differences in income weren’t that big. The gap in society as a whole wasn’t that wide either， so people didn’t compete over benefits as fiercely as they do now.

When it comes to marriage and love， I feel that people’s attitudes have become much more conservative and pragmatic compared to when we were younger. For instance， I’ve only started hearing about bride prices in recent years. Back then， issues like who owned the house didn’t matter. What truly mattered was whether the couple loved each other. If there were no strong feelings， they simply wouldn’t have been together.

Xiao Yun， 47， private school teacher， Fujian

When I heard the news of martial arts novelist Jin Yong’s passing in 2018， I couldn’t help but burst into tears. It felt as though my childhood and youth had passed with him.

My teenage years were immersed in the worlds crafted by wuxia writers like Jin Yong， Gu Long， Liang Yusheng， and Huang Yi. My Chinese teacher introduced me to my first wuxia novel when I was 10. Although I can’t remember the exact title， I vividly recall the story of a female protagonist dressed in red， wielding a whip as her weapon. I stayed up until midnight devouring the book， following her journey as she roamed the martial world， fighting for justice. To this day， I still envy her.

In high school， my love for wuxia reached new heights. I remember sneaking out during evening self-study sessions to rent wuxia novels for 0.5 yuan a day， only to be caught by the headmaster. In rural areas like my hometown， entertainment options were limited. For those of us born in the 70s and 80s， these novels were more than just stories—they were gateways to a world of chivalry and heroism， offering an escape from the relentless studying we had to endure.

When the latest film adaptation of Legends of the Condor Heroes was released this Chinese New Year， I had planned to watch it. But after seeing all the negative comments online， I decided to skip it. I didn’t want anything to ruin the good memories I have of this classic.

I know it’s natural for the popularity of wuxia to fade over time. No single narrative can last forever. Each generation will inevitably create its own literature， myths， and heroes， and that’s what makes the world so fascinating.

Huang Siying， 36， freelance writer， Fujian

A high school classmate I hadn’t been in touch with for a long time messaged me on QQ in 2023. She said that while cleaning out her bookshelf at home during the Chinese New Year， she found a copy of Top Novel， which she had borrowed from me and never returned. She offered to mail it back as a keepsake. When I received the magazine， memories of our high school days reading youth literature together came rushing back.

Back then， online shopping was almost nonexistent， so we’d always hang out at the small bookstore near the school gate. If I remember correctly， Readers magazine would restock on Tuesdays， and Top Novel came in on Mondays. I still remember searching through three bookstores in our small county in eastern Fujian in 2004 with my friends， looking for a copy of novelist Guo Jingming’s Lost in the Dream， recommended by our Chinese teacher—only to find no luck.

Many of the friendships from my student days were built around sharing books， magazines， and more. Life was simple back then. If someone had an MP4 player with a movie downloaded， we’d take turns watching it. We also shared cassette tapes， playing them on cassette players meant for English learning. We also swapped stacks of teen angst novels， whose plots and characters were always the topic of our conversations during breaks. This experience also sparked my literary awakening， planting the seed of my dream to become a writer.

Although I no longer read youth literature， and many of the magazines and books have disappeared， I feel that as long as the friends I made back then are still around， my youth isn’t completely over. I married my high school sweetheart and regularly get together with friends， whom I’ve known for over 20 years. As for the days of youth， they were all there， and they’re still here now—I think it’s pretty good.

Bai Hanyan， 15， middle school student， Henan

I was born in 2010 in the countryside， which may be why I always felt out of sync with the rest of the era. Throughout my childhood， I had never seen tall buildings or had a smartphone. The old computer we had at home was my only window to the online world， which I began exploring at the age of 8. My parents were busy during the day， so surfing the internet was a big deal for me. I always turned off the computer before they got home to let it cool down and hide what I had been doing all day.

As a little girl， I loved ghost stories， so one of my favorite corners of the internet was the Lianpeng Guihua section on the now-defunct online forum Tianya， where people would post novels or experiences with supernatural elements.

I feel like the online vibe was much more inclusive back then. I still remember the friendly debates about the best portrayal of the female protagonist Huang Rong in the various adaptations of Legends of the Condor Heroes. Everyone would share their thoughts and reasons. Just the other day， I saw a similar question on Xiaohongshu， but the discussion quickly turned into heated arguments. Back then， sharing resources for online novels or gaming strategies was common， but now， such requests can easily trigger online debates. It also makes me a bit sad for kids today， who constantly spout Douyin memes and seem to live only for games.

My parents loved playing Stephen Chow movies at home， which turned me into a belated fan of these classic 1990s Hong Kong comedies. At the core of his humor lies tragedy， yet his films also taught me simple values： be brave， be resilient， stay optimistic， and never give up on your dreams. To me， Stephen Chow feels like an old friend I’ve known for years—a forever-young legend. Seeing recent photos of him feels surreal. I wish I had been born earlier， in that flourishing， golden era.

I’d describe myself as a severe nostalgia addict， especially when it comes to 90s architecture. Just looking at images of those buildings or walking near them brings me a sense of comfort， like crawling back into the womb. Though they’ve become relics of the past， nothing is truly forgotten.

Design by Wang Siqi; elements from VCG

A group practices ballroom dancing at Beijing’s Summer Palace in 1980 （Wang Wenbo/VCG）

Jumping rope was popular among children for decades， until the early 2000s （Wang Wenbo/VCG）

In 1989， not long after reform and opening up， bikers and pedestrians in Shanghai would pass by giant Michael Jackson posters （David Nelson/VCG）

Bookstores and book markets now face serious competition from online stores and digital publishing （VCG）

China’s internet culture began in the late 1990s， evolving alongside the rapid economic development and widespread adoption of internet technology （VCG）