不懂英語家庭，請聽錄音在底部.
(Please listen below if you can’t read English)
A few months ago, my maternal grandmother fell ill – the specifics I was never told but I had heard of the multiple hospitalizations, the medication, the complications. Even the doctors weren’t exactly sure of how to diagnose the conditions. My mother went back to Taiwan to take care of her and my grandfather, and has been there since. A week ago, the doctor said she only had a few days left. Two days ago, I saw my grandmother for the first time in over a year – through a cell phone screen. Last night, her monitor displayed a severely low blood pressure.
Grandma Liu was born into the Great Depression and grew up as the bombs fell during the Second World War. She raised a family, despite hardship and the political and economic turmoil Taiwan faced in the years after the war. That family of six children would grow to include nine grandchildren, from 1990 to 1999.
This is the extent of what I know about my grandmother’s history. I was born in Taiwan in 1994, and had the privilege of seeing her for nearly every summer up until I started high school. But I was raised almost entirely in the United States, separated by at least 2,500 miles from the nearest extended family. I’ve always lamented how this resulted in cultural short-sightedness, a lack of experiences peers and media popularized.
But I realize now that it also means I have a limited way of expressing the grief and sorrow I bear. In English, I know the words and the actions – knowing that I’ll miss her, that I wish I could be in Taiwan to hold my mom and my grandfather, to pay my last respects. But there’s a language barrier, no, a cultural barrier as well. “I’m sorry for your loss” doesn’t come out the right way, nor is it or something like “I’m sorry to hear that” used. I’ve had to piece words together with the help of Google Translate, typing because I know stuttering my way through these unfamiliar characters will ruin the sentiment.
These life lessons, experiences, and discussions were passed off as “大人的事” (adult things) when I was little. My basic Mandarin and Taiwanese only came from everyday phrases with my parents, with vocabulary and grammar escaping me. On my paternal side, my grandmother passed away before my earliest memories and I only share a few with my grandfather. An uncle and cousin I had never met passed away as well during my lifetime, but I had never attended any of their funerals with reasons mixed from a protection of my innocence, preventing me from missing school, and the thousands of dollars in airfare.
When I became old enough to fully understand these things, my focus was driven towards getting into a good university, getting a good degree. Once I entered high school, it was five years until I visited Taiwan and saw my grandparents during the summer of 2014, and even then for no more than eight days. I haven’t been back since. It’s a guilt I hold onto.
I thought about how bewildering and tragic it all was. My parents came here to America because it meant that I, my grandparents’ grandchildren, would have a greater opportunity and higher standard of living. Phone calls every Lunar New Year and birthday would include my grandparents reminding me to do well in school, to take care. I rarely visited in high school and college because I was busy preparing for college or taking summer classes or trying to find a internship. I owe so much to my grandma for helping put me through college as well – I had hoped to visit my grandparents after I graduated because I knew how proud and happy it would make them. All this success that they pushed for, all thousands of miles away.
I still will visit in May, to see my grandfather, to pay my respects.
=====
As a kid, I dreamed of becoming a pilot for EVA Air. I thought, “My parents would be able to visit Taiwan and family for free! I’d get to see them too.” Now the mantra has become, “I’ll make enough of a living so that the price of airline tickets will be insignificant for them, so we don’t have to gamble with when to buy airfare months in advance.”
The dream hasn’t ended, but it’s been rattled with the reminder that time is short. Time is short to achieve those dreams, time is short to live the rest of life, to be with family.
=====
“阿媽, 放心。” (Grandma, be at ease.)
Those were the last words I said to her.
I can see her sitting in her chair in the living room, watching her favorite Taiwanese television dramas or the Taiwanese Stock Exchange channel. I can hear her practicing her Japanese with my aunt and cousin who lived in Japan, imitating the impression Taiwanese people seem to have of Caucasian Americans. I can see her holding my grandfather’s arm as they walk down the street. I can see her chatting with a local tea shop owner. I can hear the myriad of her Taiwanese expressions, her light-hearted character. She was never mean to us, stern at most. She gave us as much love as she could to her Americanized grandkids who failed to understand maybe every tenth phrase.
I’ve always had a strong memory – moments played like film reels, sounds and smells sometimes returning. It’s something I curse as I’m plagued from time to time with an embarrassing or humiliating memory. But right now I’m thankful for it. And one day it may be gone. So I write things like this post.
阿媽, 放心。 你永远會在我的心裡。
*In Taiwanese, it’s customary for the paternal grandmother to be called “阿媽” (A-ma) and maternal grandmother to be called “外媽” (Gua-ma), but I wasn’t taught to follow every single correct phrase.