Opening with a lyrical verse from The Beatles’ *The Long and Winding Road*, this personal narrative weaves together the curious biology of steelhead trout, a cross-cultural educational journey, and the centuries-long pattern of Fujianese diaspora migration to tell a story of unexpected belonging and success.
To biologists, *Oncorhynchus mykiss* is a species of fish defined by remarkable adaptability. Some members of the species, known as resident rainbow trout, spend their entire lives in the small rivers and streams where they hatch. Feeding on insects, snails, and leeches, these homebound fish grow to modest sizes, boasting delicate mottled olive-green backs, silvery flanks, and a soft pink stripe along their sides. They are a favorite among fly fishermen, who relish the quiet challenge of coaxing these cunning, beautiful trout to bite a carefully presented dry fly or nymph.
But for other *Oncorhynchus mykiss*, the call of the open ocean proves irresistible. These anadromous variants, called steelhead, leave their birth streams as juveniles and venture into the open ocean to feed. Exposed to rich supplies of baitfish and krill, their growth explodes exponentially: anabolic hormones trigger a full physical transformation, their flesh turns a deep blood-red from krill carotenoids, and their bodies mature into large, powerful fish with gunmetal-gray backs and chrome bellies. By the time they return to freshwater to spawn, they resemble salmon in every meaningful way, prized by anglers for their brutal, acrobatic fights that test skill and endurance. This dual nature of *Oncorhynchus mykiss* – a single species that can choose between two entirely distinct life paths – becomes a powerful metaphor for the journey at the heart of this story.
Four years ago, the author, a Fujianese diaspora native, made an unconventional and widely questioned choice: he encouraged his son, Han Feizi Junior, a student at an English-dominant international school in Hong Kong, to apply to Tsinghua University, with no backup plan. At the time, this decision stood far outside the norm for graduates of Han’s school, who almost universally pursued degrees at Western institutions from Ivy League schools to Oxbridge. Mainland Chinese universities, even Tsinghua – one of the most prestigious in the country – were rarely considered by Hong Kong international school graduates.
Critics and concerned family friends were quick to question the plan: Han’s Mandarin was only functional, his academic profile fit the mold of a typical Western university applicant, and non-gaokao international and diaspora students at top mainland universities often carried a stigma of being less prepared than their peers who survived the gaokao, China’s grueling national college entrance exam. Many Han’s age applying to Tsinghua from Hong Kong were recent transplants from the mainland, with native-level Mandarin and academic foundations built in the mainland system. But the author saw the choice as an opportunity: Han would not only earn a degree in computer science, he would gain fluency in Mandarin and a first-hand understanding of modern Chinese society – a rare combination of skills in an increasingly interconnected world. Even the author, though, concedes he was partially guessing at the outcome, with no clear idea of what lay ahead for his son.
The journey did not start smoothly. After two weeks of COVID-19 quarantine, Han’s mother dropped him off at Tsinghua’s gates, and his first year was marked by struggle. The family feared they had made a catastrophic mistake. But gradually, things shifted: Han’s Mandarin improved in leaps and bounds, he grew accustomed to the academic rhythm of Tsinghua, he formed close personal relationships, and he began to lean into his strengths – strong organizational skills and disciplined time management – that set him apart. Professors welcomed him into their research labs, he published his first academic paper in an artificial intelligence conference, and by his senior year, he moved across campus with the confidence of any long-time student.
This past June 27, Han Feizi Junior graduated from Tsinghua University with a degree in computer science. The experiment worked far better than even the author had hoped. Far from the stigma that sometimes follows non-gaokao admits, Han gained everything the author promised: he achieved functional fluency in Mandarin and a deep, lived understanding of Chinese culture, exactly as the author predicted. He leaves as a perfectly bilingual, bicultural graduate with a strong quantitative background and proven research experience – exactly the rare, in-demand talent the author dreamed he would become, even if Han has no interest in following his father into investment banking.
The author goes on to draw a parallel between the anadromous life cycle of steelhead and the centuries-long migration pattern of the Fujianese people. One of China’s most widely dispersed diaspora communities, Fujianese can be found across every corner of the globe, from running small-town Chinese takeout restaurants in the United States to leading massive multinational business networks across Southeast Asia. But many have followed the anadromous path: leaving their adopted homes to return to their Chinese roots, just as steelhead return to their birth streams to spawn. The author’s own family carries this tradition: his great-grandfather, a patriarch, returned to Fujian from Indonesia after World War II to help rebuild the country, following in the footsteps of iconic Fujianese returnee Tan Kah Kee, founder of Xiamen University. Later generations left China again to build lives abroad, and now the great-grandson has returned to study at one of China’s top universities – part of a growing wave of diaspora youth choosing mainland higher education.
Closing the narrative, the author echoes two iconic meditations on paths home. Paul McCartney’s verse reminds readers that the long and winding road always leads back to where you belong, while Lu Xun’s famous observation on hope and roads notes that roads do not exist until many people walk them, turning an untrodden path into a clear way forward. For this anadromous graduate, and for a growing number of diaspora youth, the road to Tsinghua – once little-traveled – has become a well-worn path to success and belonging.