Family Revisited
I’m back in Wuhu after a month of traveling; a strange mix of rest and restlessness, peace and struggle. In a day I will be teaching classes again. It's time to find a new routine.I spent the last three days in Qingdao, a city on the eastern coast of China in Shandong province. It's a space that carries great significance in the history of my family. It is where my Yangzhou forefathers moved early in life and where my grandfather spent his youthful years before moving to Taiwan to work. It is where the vast majority of my Chinese family now resides, or at least used to reside before moving on to places like Shanghai or Beijing.
I am staying with my Mother’s cousin, my Uncle, outside the city center by the highway. He has a great hight pitched chuckle of a laugh and a deep love for things cultural and historical. His bookshelf is littered with volumes of history and over dinner he loved asking questions about the cultural conditions of America from race relations to individualistic worldviews. I’m surprised I’m able to discuss such things in Chinese at all. I guess I have gotten better. He holds America highly and dreams of visiting to see for himself where this nation’s strengths and weaknesses really are. "America is a good place," he says, "Some people hate the fact that they try and act like the world's poice, but the reality is that the world needs someone to keep order and America probably does a better job than other countries would."
When buying me a copy of the latest map of Qingdao, he first asks if he can compare it to his older map from 2004. “Things change so fast these days,” He tells me, “It takes a lot to keep up.” He proceeds to mark the new additions on his older map, specifically the two new bridges that span the inner bay. It felt like something I would do.
My Auntie is an aggressive women in attitude, but takes pride in her ability to be a strong and caring house wife. Such a perspective might seem strange in the US, but it is refreshing. She brings a poise and dignity to a role that the modern woman seems to shun. I especially loved her remarks about how laundry machines don’t clean as well as the hands. She insisted on washing my laundry the old fashioned way. She even hand washed my dirty, faded, and fake Nike hat that I got back at Wheaton for subscribing to the Chicago Tribune. I think she’s right, my hat looks as good as new: bright North Carolina blue.
As is typical I am treated to large home-cooked Chinese meals that no normal person can intake. The highlight is a side dish called “Shi Xiang Chai” or “Ten Fragrant Veggies.” It’s evidently a Wu family specialty (My mother’s maiden name is Wu). “Your Mom probably doesn’t even know about this dish,” says my Auntie, “Since she was raised in Taiwan.” It’s a pickled conglomeration of ten different vegetables minced to a fine mush. It doesn’t look very appealing, but you can all the tastes come together to create quite an effect.
“The more you taste it the better it gets!” my Uncle exclaims, “We only make it once a year for the Spring Festival. Good thing you got here when you did or we’d not have any left. Make sure to tell your grandpa in America that you had some, he’ll be surprised and jealous.” He laughs and takes a swig of Chinese white wine, encouraging me to eat more and to take it slow.
“It’s really a Yangzhou area dish, since you know we are originally from there,” my Auntie explains, “I’ll make a list of the ingredients and you can tell your Mom.”
We visit my grandfather’s older brother, my granduncle I guess, in the old city back in the very apartment my grandfather lived when he was in the Mainland. My grandfather is already in his early 90’s, which makes my granduncle in his mid 90’s. Wu’s have good genes I guess. Along the way walking or by bus my Uncle points out all the change that surrounds us.
“That’s where your grandfather used to go to middle school... this here used to be a horse racing track... these buildings weren’t here before, it used to be such a nice field... I went to school right there... that theatre there is being torn down now, your Grandfather might actually remember it.” I marvel at the space around me, and suddenly I am touched to realize that every space is significant and holy when considering all the things that it held.
When I enter my granduncle’s home to find him sitting at the table eating a full bowl of rice and dishes before him with his attendant and another uncle with him. He doesn’t remember me, nor should he at his age being as he only met me once tow years ago. My uncle tells him I’m “Wu Ming’s Son” in hopes that it will jog his memory. It doesn’t seem to work. I pace around the small apartment and glance over the many pictures, some of which include my mother and gradnparents from their own previous visits. Hanging over a wall are pictures of my great grandparents, evidently a Qing Dynasty scholar who passed quite a few stages of the Confucian tests of the day. After sitting a short while and chatting we are off. I snap some pictures and a little video of the space: it’s historical and important to my very existence.
Man, am I over-dramatic or what?
posted by Unknown @ 12:37 AM
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