thoughts about my grandfather
When I was born, my parents did not have much. I had a brother, but my parents couldn’t afford to take care of him and I at the same time, so they sent him to live with my paternal grandparents in China. Still, my parents did not have much. They worked full time to afford a basement in Queens that we called home. On most days they weren’t there, so I spent my time with my maternal grandparents. They too lived in Queens and were a highlight from my early childhood. I would spend many mornings and nights at their tiny apartment. There were three rooms—one kitchen, one bathroom, and a bedroom. In the hallway connecting them, we stuffed a makeshift table and stools my grandfather carved for a makeshift dining room. The furniture was uneven and took up too much room, but he was proud of the set, so we kept it. Like my grandfather, the whole apartment smelled of cheap wine and cigarettes.
On clear mornings, my grandfather would take me out on the balcony, and we would point at the planes flying above. He called them “fart machines” because of the trails they left behind. In the afternoon, I would follow him onto the apartment roof and into the makeshift greenhouse he’d built. As he tended to plants, repotting and watering, I would tap on the wall with a stick, coaxing out and squishing the clover mites. At night, I would be squished between my grandmother and grandfather. The space was tight and I often woke up with the bamboo slats of the mattress topper pinching my skin, but it was bliss.
As I grew older, fortunes changed for my parents, and we moved to a proper home in suburban America about an hour from my grandparents. I still saw them, but the visits became less frequent with each passing year as I became more integrated into my new life. Of course, it didn’t help that my ability to speak Chinese deteriorated rapidly after my parents decided it would be better for us to speak English at home to try and “catch up” before we started school.
Ironically, with the distance, I grew closer to them. My mother took it upon herself to tell my grandparents’ story, even as I spoke to them less. She told me about how my grandfather was highly respected in China but chose to move his young family to the United States hoping that it would be better life. That when he arrived, his efforts fell short and he became a lowly fry cook in Chinatown. That he scrapped and saved, joining a partnership with a close friend to open a restaurant. That this friend took all their savings and ran. That he grew bitter and resentful, and prone to drink. That he kept himself busy with woodworking and gardening, cursing America while dreaming of a return to China—until I was born.
By the time I was in college, my mother told me that he had lung cancer. By then, I was barely able to communicate with him. My Chinese was rudimentary at best, but as my grandfather grew older, his language decayed as well. He didn’t speak Chinese anymore—he spoke a hybrid of his native minority dialect mixed with Chinese. Only my mom and grandmother could understand him. With every Thanksgiving or New Years, he faded more. That’s when things get truly scary—when someone who has looked old your entire life starts to look even more haggard and aged. And yet, he’s hung on. It’s been almost five years since I was warned to make peace. Now, he’s flickering and paperish, He spends most of his time in bed or on the couch, a man who once couldn’t sit still for an afternoon. And yet, on occasion there is a sudden moment, and I’m reminded of his flame. One time, I mentioned to my mother that I was looking for a watch. About half a year later, I saw my grandfather and he was passionately insistent on handing me a cheap Seiko that “glowed in the dark.” In that moment, he was animated—just like years ago. I’ve worn it ever since.
Now, at Thanksgiving, there is only so much I can do. So, I smile at his comments about my height, nod at his ramblings about a new life without heart aches and pain, and hand him a crab leg in celebration of the fools who dare to dream.