BY NICHOLAS CHAN
The author and his grandmother above.
Some kids grow up enthralled by the flicker of the television; others with video games, the Internet or MP3 players. Me? I had “Mah-Mah,” my grandmother. Every weekend, for as long as I can remember, Mah-Mah ate dim sum with my family. But during the weekdays, I had Mah-Mah to myself. I loved how she spoiled me with mouth-watering food, but, more importantly, I cherished her stories.
Without fail, she could entice me, a young elementary school student, away from the lure of afternoon cartoons. A commercial for a local Chinese restaurant might be blaring in the background, but I would be entranced as she vividly recited memories of World War II – fleeing her village to a mountainside cave, digging desperately in the dirt to find yams to eat, and huddling in fear as Japanese soldiers searched rice paddies for refugees.
Mah-Mah told happier stories too, of course. She would recount how her father shared his food with less fortunate neighbors, how my grandfather captured her heart in Hong Kong, how her mischievous brother wreaked havoc throughout town with his shenanigans. A peerless storyteller, she immersed me in foreign lands – she made exotic landscapes that I had never seen seem, somehow, as if they were a part of me.
Last winter, when I visited Hong Kong, I finally saw the squalid apartment where my dad was raised, the ocean that my grandmother gazed at daily, and my grandfather’s herbal medicine shop where a scent of ginseng still lingered. I had found my past.
What I did not expect to find was my future. Because of World War II, my grandmother never had the opportunity to attend school; however she taught herself to read and write Chinese and learned English to pass her U.S. citizen exam. Whenever she heard that I did well in my classes, Mah-Mah would brighten, knowing I was making the most of my education.
She was never angry if I did poorly, but I always kept her stories of perseverance firmly in mind. Although we came from entirely different worlds, the magnitude of her experiences compelled me to excel and guided me through my own difficulties. Her zest for life has inspired me to open myself up to new experiences. The positivity she exuded emboldened me to create my own opportunities in the future, enriching my life in ways that I can’t yet imagine.
Mah-Mah passed away peacefully on November 18, 2009. In her final summer, I remember walking to her convalescent home every day after class. Although she was diagnosed with diabetes and lung cancer, her hair remained radiantly black. Her skin, much smoother than mine ever would be, still glimmered with vitality.
In the distant future, I hope to be the one entertaining a wide-eyed child, one who is also eager to hear the stories I have to tell. I have much to live up to, but I will make it count. I know Mah-Mah would not have it any other way.
This is an excerpt from a full length piece that will be featured in an anthology by Asian Women United. For inquiries and submissions, please contact motherofallstories@gmail.com.
