Chapter 1
His visage haunted me, as his stretched arms dangling with dry, loose skin reached out, persistently trying to catch up me. Memories are especially fearsome in the darkness of night, when shadows reflect the full spectrum of melancholy and fear at our most vulnerable times. In the glimpses of fading shadows, I saw him, still wearing his brown, sweat-stained corduroy sweater that smelled of old books.
I saw him again.
He stood in a buttercream-colored living room. His face against the dying sun that casted smears of golden hues on the floor;
“‘I know you’ve come to kill me,’” he swung his fist in the air. “‘Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill me!’”
Then he turned around. In indescribable terror, I saw that his face had turned yellow and thin, not to mention the unnatural layer of crumbled makeup caked on top. He stared into me.
“Oh, my sweet darling.” His face softened. “Eat more. Your grandma made some longevity buns for you.”
And then, he cradled both sides of my head with such dubious angling that made me wince in fear. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. He hit my head against the vintage hardwood table with such voracity that I felt my skull cracking.
Grandpa, you’re only going to kill me.
I woke up in a yelp. Pa was startled and comforted me with the closest bag of free airplane peanuts. He told me to get some more sleep whilst I still could. I shut my eyes tightly, not even anticipating familial warmth or any further comforting, as I shifted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable posture. I calmed myself, trying to coax myself to act with the alleged composure and maturity of a teenager. We were leaving that abusive life behind, were we not? The plane scooted mechanically across the skies, each spool of fluffy clouds looking so relaxing and devoid of worry. Each mile taking me further from the trauma of the soon to be past.
I bit my lip hard and told myself that I was leaving for good. I was eight.
The week before our departure from China to the States, I went to the nearby temple to pray for a safe flight, and a better life. The sandalwood incense wafted along the walls. There was a couple in their thirties fervently praying for a child. And another lady in her late twenties asking the fortune teller when she would find “the one” and make a family of her own.
Children never asked to be born. And yet, adults who can’t give them a good life choose to bring them into this world. In this world, I have seen despicable, adulterous men marrying good women and having children, only to destroy the lives of their very own wives and offspring by extramarital affairs, abandonment or divorce. Do people not even have the decency to at least not drag an entire family – their own family, down into the spiral of emotional and familial despair? Then there are other wannabe housewives, who marry someone whom they know can barely afford to support a family so they won’t be a spinster or so they can get on with their lives. To be a mother and housewife or to justify their role in society, they need a child to take care of despite neither wanting to love nor having the resources to care for him/her. In the East, despite not being a good parent, and having had that child as their tool for self-fulfillment, they nonetheless oppress and control through one-sided concepts like Confucian filial piety.
Oh, did you know, Confucian thought presupposes the parents are good Confucian subjects? That filial piety is owed to those who already fit the Confucian standards of good morality? It betrays common human notions of gratitude to treat someone, such as your parents who have treated you well, poorly. But certainly not when they do not treat you as they ought to, to begin with – for there was never anything to be grateful for.
All these people, from all walks of life, gathering at the temple to pray for a child… Of these, how many would actually cherish their little ones? After the child fulfils his/her purpose as a tool to beget a new life as “parents” or to be the foundational unit of “the family”, will they fret over whether their little one’s hair isn’t as shiny or complexion is dull and search high and low for argan oil, acai berries, ginseng or whatever not? Or are they merely going to be a pretty doll or the trophy child?
I returned home to a bustling crowd of relatives and well-wishers, coming from far away out of perhaps a basic courtesy to see us off.
“Long time no see, Han,” Aunt Ting broke the silence at last. “How’s school?”
“It’s alright,” I replied. Silence.
“How’s your grades?”
“Yeah, I’ve read some new novels. I really liked one of them, by, um, Virginia Woolf? I don’t know her name in translation but she is ––”
“Sweetie, enough about Woolf or Wolf. So how did you do on your last exam? What are your grades?”
“Well, um, I got a B for my English test” I didn’t need to look up to feel the scorching gazes around the room. “But just before we came back I had my first solo concert at my school–– many people came, actually–– and my teacher was hap––”
“Han,” Aunt Yun interrupted. “We thought you can do much better than this. You should know better. How are you so stupid? If you can’t even get an A in China for English, how are you going to survive in America?”
“My dear, we all know you love music,” added Aunt Ting, “but even for music, you should at least be like your cousin Yongting on this. She got ABRSM Grade 8 and a Diploma on the piano. She also got the second highest mark in a 200-people grade and she still wasn’t satisfied. She’s learning the zither and violin now.”
Ma cut the conversation short: “Please, Ting. My child’s different. ‘Rotten wood cannot be carved’.”
