By Helen Xiaomo Johnson
When Chinese American women think of matriarchs in their families, they often think of the sentimental Joy Luck Club stereotype or of Amy Chua’s “tiger mother.” However, my Lao Lao was neither. She was a fierce Beijinger born in the 1940s who could be both strong and warm, like the Nai Nai in the movie The Farewell. I knew her intimately since my parents left me in her care between the ages of one and seven when they left for the United States.
Growing up with Lao Lao, I remember that she wore her heart on her sleeve. Unlike the stereotypical unemotional Asian mom, she frequently cried and exclaimed, “Ai ya, I can only hold onto you for so long before I must let you go (to America)! And then I may never be able to see you again!” And then she would hold me in a death-grip hug until I squirmed away to get some air. These hugs happened suddenly and spontaneously as we went about our day – when we were in a taxi van, she would squeeze me like a python; when we drove by the airport, she would cry a river. It was as if she knew that we would be separated later by wide geographical and cultural distances that would be difficult to close once I moved to America.
I love my Lao Lao not only because of her affection, but because she had a feisty and assertive side. One memory I have of her was when she needed to get to the apartment of her best friend, Yu-Lin, in Beijing. On the street, she immediately waved a taxi down by shouting into the wind, “Ay, someone has to stop to help this poor old lady to get to her sister’s house! You are doing something honorable if you help me!” She was so sure of her worth that the taxi driver could not help but be deferential and help her haul her luggage into the car. Needless to say, she got to her friend’s house in record time in Beijing traffic. Today, I still think of my Lao Lao in moments of self-doubt because the memory of her makes me feel stronger and more capable.
Lao Lao also lived life to the fullest. The last time I saw her in 2010, she was in her late 60s and living in a senior community complex. I remember in the mornings when I visited, she would show me a cake catalog full of the creamiest, most decadent Asian cakes. I never saw someone so full of joy anticipating the cake that we would order that day. Her face would light up like a child’s as she described the textures and flavors of each cake. She even talked in her sleep about those delicious cakes. In the afternoons, we would go feed the ducks, and I can still hear her shouting enthusiastically, “Here, ducky ducky ducky ducky!” as if those ducklings were her own children. Her happiness and love of life were contagious.
My Lao Lao passed away in 2018. Like Billi in The Farewell movie, I never got to directly say farewell to her. Chinese culture shies away from expressive displays of emotion. So Lao Lao, this tribute is my display of emotion for you. In a way, this is also a closure between us. May you never be forgotten, and may you know that you are role model for how I mother my own son.
About the author: Helen Xiaomo Johnson is a 1.5 generation Chinese American living in Maryland with her toddler son. She was born in Beijing and came to the U.S. when she was four years old. She writes, “I try to keep my family and cultural heritage alive through writing, storytelling, and attending Chinese cultural events with my son whom I hope one day will be proud of his ethnic and cultural identities. In the meantime, I will be patiently teaching him to stand up to Asian American stereotypes (perpetual foreigner, model minority) and to embrace diversity.”
