There are few people in this world whom I love as much as I loved my Grandma. She passed away recently and while I had the chance to say goodbye (over and over again during that last week) there is nothing in this world that can truly prepare you for this.
I am thankful that in these last few years, Iâd been able to spend a little more time with her. Â I am thankful that the week before, my mom, dad, sister, and I had one last visit with her, one last group photo; she looked so well and in such high spirits. I am thankful that in the last few minutes the family got to see her off.
In the past few days, fragments of memories rise up to remind me of how incredible a person she was and what she meant to so many people. She was the matriarch of our family and my Popo.
She lived to see the end of a war, a new life on the other side of the world, and even two beautiful great granddaughters.
She was the embodiment of strength and true to her ox nature, was extremely stubborn.
She always took care of everyone else first and never hesitated to put the needs of her friends and family before her own.
I know that she lived more than a lifetime before I ever came along and these are stories I can only imagine through her words and the words of my relatives. At the end of World War II, when the Japanese occupied Hong Kong and she was only 15 years old, she had fled on a British ship, bound for China, disguised as an old beggar, to seek safety. She ended up in Shanghai and went from babysitting to bookkeeping at a Cantonese restaurant. There she met my Grandfather, a longshoreman from America who stumbled into her restaurant, homesick for some decent Cantonese food. They eventually married and she ended up staying on the mainland for 7 years.
I heard amazing stories of her dancing in teahouses with friends until late in the night and, in earlier years, acting in plays at large theaters.
In the late 40s, when she was pregnant with my uncle and the rumblings of Communism began to spread through China, she fled once again, now to protect her new family. They ended up back in Hong Kong where my uncle and mom were born. Eventually, years later, she and her young kids came to the states to join my Grandpa.
In fact, unknowingly, she has influenced me in so many ways. I think she is why I ended up studying abroad in Shanghai, the place she first found refuge and eventually, my Grandfather.Â
She is why Iâve become so fascinated by peopleâs origin stories and this concept of what home is. In a strange way, she is part of the reason why I even ended up here in New York, my familyâs adopted home. And I most recently realized, her stories are why I became so interested in this Syrian refugee documentary project itself. I grew up hearing stories of how âGrandma fled warâ but I never made the connection to her being a refugee. She was a strong woman who had to start from scratch and rebuild a life, not once, but twice in places where she didnât know the language or have family support. But she was so much more than that.
Here in America she worked in a sewing factory; was essentially a single working mom while Grandpa was away; became a citizen; lived the dream through her children. These are incredible stories from her past, but this is also not the Grandma I knew and remember.
I remember the Grandma who played mahjong all the time and befriended people, in the neighborhood and on the subway. Not knowing the language, she would often just smile, and would open doors to what would become long held friendships. Iâve learned from her that there is so much more to communication than words.
I remember the woman who took so much care tending to the chives, melons, green beans, and tomatoes in her garden. And who, when neighborhood kids would steal her tomatoes, would turn a blind eye and just continue to nurture her plants.
I remember the woman who stood strong and would not shed a tear in public when my Grandfather passed away as her kids and grandkids wept throughout the funeral.
One of my oldest and favorite memories, perhaps half imagined after all of these years, is of my Grandma and me sitting in the backyard of her Brooklyn apartment watching the fireflies blinking through the sticky summer air and listening to her sing Chinese lullabies about roses.
I remember countless birthdays and Thanksgivings, Chinese New Years, and Christmases. I remember following her to temple over on Centre Street and kowtowing and meeting her friends after, as we ate jai perched on stools in the temple basement. I remember watching The Price is Right, the Olympics, and the Wheel of Fortune with her. I remember how much she loved her classic Canto pop stars, Wong Ming Cyun, Donny, et al. I remember how she smelled of incense and Chinese ointments and tea and face lotion. I remember that time I went to see Secret Garden with her and my mom at the local theater and discovered for the first time, light and projection and image and frame. I remember how much she loved Vietnamese coffee (instant) and how we would share McDonaldâs fish filet sandwiches. I remember how, even at the end, at 90 years old, she always stood a tall 4ft10 with a back straightened by pride.
And more. There is so much more to say and yet it will never be enough.
I know this is selfish that I wish we could have spent more time together. That, now as my Cantonese was improving, that we could sit and talk more about the past and future. That she would never see this movie, which has so much of her heart and is so much inspired by her.
She rarely sat me down and told me these things but rather lead by example. From her Iâve learned:
That so much of whatâs important in life is family, whether blood or forged from friendship.
That Chinese medicine is slow healing.
That âeat more fruitâ and âwear a scarfâ and ârest earlyâ are other words for âI love you.â
That itâs important to keep a diary.
That there are gui yun, guardians, hidden everywhere in this world who will help you when you most need it, and often least expect it.
And so many things that might slip in when this murkiness of sorrow lessens.
There are a few close friends, for whom I know this Motherâs Day will also be difficult. Who have a lost a grandmother or mother, in the last few weeks as well. April has been a tough month. But I know that these amazing women will live on through the people theyâve left behind.
Popo would often say, through our various conversations, âchuen sai gai kongâ / âthe whole world is sufferingâ and I realize now that itâs not a statement of sadness or defeatism or even sympathy. Itâs a statement of solidarity. Itâs a statement of acceptance and strength and compassion.
She is the truest meaning of the word Survivor.
To Popo, I love you and I miss you. I hope you rest well.
