Synopsis
A boy in a small town in Hunan once heard a soft, drifting melody and carried it with him for half a lifetime, not knowing it belonged to Teresa Teng. As the times tightened and loosened around him, the song faded and returned, until her passing, and a later echo, revealed that some voices never truly disappear.
This is not just the story of a singer, but of a memory spanning three decades, quietly coming back to life.
Translator: Lara Lee
Written in Guangzhou, March 1, 2026， Published by All Dimensions Press™ on March 25, 2026.
In 1981, I was in middle school in a small mountain town in Hunan. I was twelve, still rather clueless, and my world was no bigger than an old street.. The county seat, a few dozen miles away, was, in our eyes, a full-fledged “big city.”
That year, a new classmate transferred in from that county town. He was several years older than us, with a kind of maturity we didn’t have, as if something in him had awakened early.
He didn’t care to fool around with us. Often he sat alone in a corner, softly humming songs we couldn’t understand. Not the rousing tunes we had grown up with, but something light, gentle—like a breeze. I only caught two lines, which stayed with me for years:
“It’s you, it’s you, the one I see in my dreams…”
I had no idea who sang it, or what the song was. It just felt new—and faintly, strangely unsettling.
In 1983, my parents moved to Guangzhou, and I went with them. Housing was tight back then. When we first arrived, our family of four was assigned a single room and a small living area. My younger sister stayed behind at home, while I was temporarily placed in my parents’ work unit dormitory, sharing a room with several workers.
They had assembled a makeshift stereo system and played songs I had never heard before—“Alibaba,” “The Girl Beneath the Streetlamp”—loud, passionate, like another world.
One evening, they held a small dance party in the dorm and asked me to wait next door for a while.
I had just settled in when a voice drifted through the wall—exquisitely gentle. It was a melody I recognized:
“Sweet, so sweet,
your smile so sweet,
like flowers blooming in the spring breeze.
Where, oh where have I seen you before?
Your smile feels so familiar,
yet I cannot recall.
Ah—in my dreams.
In dreams, I’ve seen you before,
smiling so sweetly.
It’s you, it’s you, the one I see in my dreams…”
I was fourteen. Something inside me was lightly touched.
I had grown up in a coarse world—used to scolding voices and cold glances. It was the first time I had heard such tenderness, as if someone were whispering softly by my ear. For the first time, I found myself wishing there really were a girl like that beside me.
In 1984, the campaign against “spiritual pollution” swept in with overwhelming force. Schools held meetings demanding that students turn in tapes and records deemed “decadent,” even encouraging us to report one another. It was then that I learned from a teacher: the song that had moved me was called “Sweet Honey” (Tian Mi Mi), sung by Teresa Teng—labeled as the very symbol of decadent music, something that could corrupt the youth.
I didn’t dare to agree, nor did I dare to argue. But I refused to report anyone. I could only bury that small piece of tenderness quietly in my heart.
At the 1985 Spring Festival Gala, Zhu Mingying performed “Back to My Mother’s Home”:
“Left hand a chicken, right hand a duck, with a chubby baby on my back…”
It was vivid, lively, and became an overnight sensation. Everyone thought it was a Hebei folk song.
Only years later did I learn—it was originally a Teresa Teng song. Because her ancestral home was in Hebei, it had been cleverly repackaged as a local folk song to make its way onto the national stage. The Hebei Music Association later combed through archives and found no trace of its supposed folk origins—a small, curious footnote in history.
That year, the air was still tense—but people’s hearts had already begun to loosen.
A phrase started to circulate quietly:
“Listen to Old Deng by day, Little Deng by night.” (Old Deng referred to Deng Xiaoping, the leader of China, while Little Deng referred to Teresa Teng.)
In the years that followed, things grew steadily more relaxed. People began listening to all kinds of music openly. More and more of Teresa Teng’s songs were introduced to the mainland—“When Will You Return?” “Strolling Down the Road of Life,” “Story of a Small Town”—each one a classic. And yet, to me, the most moving remained the first one I had ever heard: “Sweet Honey.”
Especially that line, softly hummed years ago by the boy from the county town, in his slightly rough voice:
“It’s you, it’s you, the one I see in my dreams.”
By 1988, the political atmosphere had fully relaxed. A journalist named Guan Jian made an overseas call and managed to interview Teresa Teng. The full interview was published in the Yangcheng Evening News. In it, she spoke of her deep homesickness. The journalist invited her to return to the mainland for a concert—and she gladly agreed.
When I read that news, I felt a surge of excitement and anticipation.
I told myself quietly: if she comes to mainland China, no matter how far, I will go and hear her in person.
But I waited—and slowly, the news faded without follow-up.
Then came a night in 1995. After a long day of work, I returned home and, as usual, turned on the television to Hong Kong’s TVB Jade channel.
Mid-program, everything was suddenly interrupted by breaking news:
Teresa Teng had died in Chiang Mai, after an asthma attack.
I felt as if struck by lightning.
I stood there, frozen, unable to come back to myself for a long time.
I paced back and forth in my room, murmuring over and over, as if lost:
“Teresa Teng is gone… Teresa Teng is gone…”
In that moment, it felt as though I had lost someone closest to me.
Later, the market economy surged ahead, China joined the WTO, and life changed at a dizzying pace. Stars came and went, trends turned again and again. Teresa Teng—and “Sweet Honey”—gradually became distant memories. To bring her up felt almost old-fashioned. I, too, rarely spoke of that youthful tenderness hidden in her songs.
Then, in 2015, on the stage of The Voice of China, there appeared a sixteen-year-old Thai-Chinese singer, Langgalamu. She was born in 1999—after Teresa Teng had already passed away.
And yet, when she opened her mouth, she sang:
“It’s you, it’s you, the one I see in my dreams…”
The moment her voice rose, I almost believed Teresa Teng had come back to life—standing right before me, singing softly.
And suddenly, I understood:
Teresa Teng has never been forgotten.
A child born after her passing still sings her songs with such feeling.
And I believe that in the future, children of the 2000s, the 2010s, will go on singing them too.
Wherever there are Chinese people, she will be remembered.
Because Teresa Teng did not only lend tenderness to my youth—
she gave her tenderness to an entire era.
About the Author
Eddy Lee traces his lineage to Yashan, site of the last battle of the Southern Song dynasty in 1279. A member of the Third Front generation—families relocated during China’s industrial campaign of the 1960s and 70s, he now lives in Guangzhou, China.
© Eddy Lee 2026 Copyright
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Article Information
Category: Non Fiction / Essay
Tags: Society Observation / Youth / Music
This piece resonates with me deeply. I remember first encountering the concept of 'Spiritual Pollution' during my junior high school years.
I resonate deeply with this piece. When I was in fourth grade, I got a cassette tape of Teresa Teng. It had a song called 'Dearest Brother' (Qing Gege) that I loved, so I kept singing along to it. My mother was scared to death; she was terrified that someone would overhear and report me for listening to 'pornographic' songs.
I resonated with Eddy Lee’s essay about: Teresa Teng “Resurrected,” for two reasons.
First, I was moved by Eddy's deep affection for Teresa's song: “It’s you. It’s you. The one I see in my dreams.” Eddy expressed his raw emotions about Teresa’s song from the time he was 12 years old right into his adulthood.
Secondly, like Eddie, when I was a teenager, I also became enamored with the lyrics of a song sung by a female singer. That singer died abruptly in her mid forties. I was saddened by her death; I felt that the lyrics of the song died with her. Fortunately, the lyrics lived on when other singers, who improvised on it, continued to sing those lyrics.
In the same spirit, when I was young, I fell in love with Ludwig von Beethoven’s classical music, especially his fifth symphony. I was deeply saddened to learn that he composed his best pieces when he was fully deaf, and could not hear his own music. His music, and that of other classical musicians, became my daily bread. My day is not complete without an hour of listening to the classical music that I have collected over the years.
I remember the school assembly back then about “eliminating spiritual pollution.” And yet, some classmates continued listening to Teresa Teng’s songs at home, and they never seemed “polluted” at all. The mind is a curious thing—whether it is “polluted” or not is something no one can see from the outside.
I only started liking Teresa Teng after watching the movie Comrades: Almost a Love Story (even though she doesn't actually appear in it herself).
We can truly empathize with Leon Lai and Maggie Cheung’s experiences in the film—struggling to make a living in a foreign land and navigating a relationship that is both sweet and bittersweet.
The first song by Teresa Teng I ever heard was "When Will You Return?" (He Ri Jun Zai Lai). “Beautiful flowers don't bloom forever, and beautiful scenes don't last. Sorrow knits the brow while laughter fades; tears soak the ribbon of yearning. After we part tonight, when will you return?“
"Morning dew dampens the courtyard; the scent of agarwood drifts outside. Cold crows perch in the trees; the bright moon shines upon the high terrace." — I actually never noticed these lyrics before, which read just like a five-character quatrain (Wuyan Jueju).
