The very first apartment I lived in when I got to the States still exist today in exactly the same condition as it did back then. They’re two stories and built in the faux “Adobe” style to reflect the South Western nature of Southern California. One family lived on the first floor, one on the second. There were no yards, but a small patch of grass in front, and even more apartments in the back though I don’t think I’ve ever wandered through them. There were some trees between the buildings. Back then, we had a neighboring Chinese family who had a son just about my age. I remember spending some time with him playing, mostly after school while my parents were both still working.

Of the things I remember doing:

We played Nintendo; Duck Hunt, Metroid, and 1941, a vertical scrolling one-plane-versus-a-million-enemies type of game. I was never that good at those games, and still am not today, but I remember even then enjoying watching other people play, demonstrating skills that I would secretly be jealous of.

Now this is a little out of order chronologically, but I want to take care of everything I remember about this particular child, but around 5th grade or so I was really into Magic the Gathering, the card game; more on that later. This friend didn’t play, but he had a lot of baseball cards. At some point I became tired of playing Magic, again, more on that later, but for some reason all of a sudden really wanted baseball cards. I remember offering him a deal: all my Magic cards for as many baseball cards as I can wrap up with rubber bands. He agreed, and I spent an entire evening sitting on his carpet, wrapping up neat piles of baseball cards with rubber bands. He was busy doing something else, watching TV I think, so he didn’t notice that by the time I was finished, I had wrapped up all of his baseball cards. He was a little angry at that actually, but I reminded him of the deal and he got over it.

In the trees in between the buildings of the small apartment complex we lived in were lots of different kinds of snails. One time, we found a derelict old plastic rodent cage, the kind one would use to house small hamsters and such, and decided to use it as a snail cage. We ran out to the trees and started looking and it didn’t take long before we found a fine specimen of snail to put in our cage. We filled it also with some twigs, leaves, and a bit of dirt, and were quite proud of ourselves for having created such a perfect little habitat for the snail. We brought it in and set it like a trophy on top of a bookshelf, then busied ourselves with other things. Hours later, we decided to come back and check on our catch, only to find that the cage was empty. Apparently, the cage was so decrepit that it had been punctured in certain places and allowed the snail to escape; in our excitement we neglected to thoroughly examine our find. All along the wall right around the cage were trails of slime where the snail had ran off, trails running the entire height of the bookshelf even before disappearing somewhere in the carpet. We searched for quite a long time but never found the snail again. Even after the escape incident. I remember being paranoid about slime trails on the walls and started seeing them everywhere, constantly on edge and worried that I might accidentally step or sit on a snail; the thought disgusted me. This is the first time I remember being afraid of slimy little things like snails.

There was another friend who lived a little further away but was nonetheless within walking distance of that first apartment. I think they were people my father had met while at Caltech. They also had a son, just around my age, and I also spent some afternoons there when my parents were away. I spent most of the time I was there wandering the grounds of Caltech since they were just across the street. I remember that the large circular fountains were rarely turned on, all the water having dried up, and that I’d climb up into it and play in the dried leaves that stuck to the bottom of the fountain bowl. I remember fishing for crayfish in the large rectangular lily ponds, poking at them with a stick until they were just angry enough to grab on with their claws then pulling them out and getting a real kick out of the splash they made when they let go and fell back into the water. I remember afternoons spent eating deep fried fish that the boy’s mother would make, whole, tiny fish, fried golden and delicious.

That’s all that I remember about these two, though I think years later when I was a teenager I ran into both of them at least once again and completely did not recognize them.

A note:

It’s going to get more and more difficult keeping things in chronological order from now on, especially since I’ve somehow decided to structure this thematically as well as chronologically. I find it easier to group memories together because I can then be sure I didn’t miss one. It’s also a kind of “getting out of the way” type of mechanism so that I can move on to other, more detailed memories; these early ones are still quite fragmentary.

Some short memories of my first school in the States, Don Benito Fundamental in Pasadena, for first and perhaps second grade, I don’t remember specifically; these are all the memories I have of that school:

There was one teacher who I liked the best, and who seemed to care about me the most. I don’t remember her name, but I remember she was old, had curly white hair, and wore glasses. She used to help me figure out difficult math problems because she knew that those were the only problems she could help me with since my English was still so poor at the time. I’d be sitting at my desk, she’d be hunched over me, and she take me step by step, showing me by example more than anything, of how to do fancy addition. She’d show me once and I’d understand, and she’d give me a big smile telling me how pleased she was that I had learned something new.

I stopped wanting to speak Chinese as soon as I could speak any English. It was just the nature of the time; my parents wanted me to master English as soon as possible so it just disappeared. I touched on this before, but only until very recently I found the prospect of speaking Chinese highly uncomfortable. I didn’t like how the language sounded, and I didn’t like the idea of having to make those sounds. Obviously those prejudices have changed, but the point was that at that very early age, I stopped speaking it, and never wanted to again. But there was one time, at school, when it became necessary for me to do so. There was another Chinese student there, of all things, not much unlike myself when I was younger who also didn’t speak any English. I had learned English by then and so it fell to me, or so the teachers would like to think, to try to speak to this young child. They wanted to know what time his parents were coming to pick him up. I made some show about not wanting to speak or not knowing how, but they finally convinced me. I was embarrassed. I walked up to the child, unsure of what to do, then leaned in very close to his ear and literally whispered to him, asking in Chinese what time his parents were coming. I was terrified that someone would overhear me so I spoke as softly as I could, to the point where I’m not even sure if the other boy understood me because I don’t remember anything that happened after. I don’t know if I was successful in getting the answer.

The only time I’ve ever cheated in school was during these surprise spelling quizzes they would give us at the beginning of class. There was a big stand at the front of the classroom with lists of words on it that the teacher would flip to a new one of every day. I remember the words as being quite challenging actually, very long with many letters, and I hated having to do these quizzes. I felt at the time it wasn’t actually as if I was learning anything. It didn’t include the meanings of the words so it’s not like I acquired some new vocabulary, it was really more of a lesson in rote memorization and who can do it the fastest because the teacher would flip to the new set of words and only give us a few minutes before asking us to write down again all the words on a piece of paper. Now I’ve always sucked at rote memorization, and still do, and definitely did then. There was no way I could do what they wanted me to, so I would take my mechanical pencil and very lightly, all the while still looking at the words intently as if I was trying to memorize them, write all the words on my desk as small as possible. When it came time to take the quiz then, I had all the words written down and would of course ace the quiz, every time. I’d then lick my finger casually and smear my cheat sheet off the desk nonchalantly.

Even though I sucked at rote memorization of words, I seemed able to do it quite well when it came to spatial patterns. My school at the time had a “gifted” program that I was accepted in to. It took place during a special class session and we had our very own teacher and there were just a few of us. I don’t remember doing very much along the ways of studying, but we did play a lot of cards. Specifically, the teacher she’d lay matching cards shuffled face down on the table and you’d have to pick out the pairs; I’m sure everyone’s played this game, and I was quite good at it. Due to my lack of actual memories involving learning anything special, by which I mean my lack of doing anything in this “gifted” program other than playing cards, I’ve since to wonder whether it was really a “gifted” program or more of a “special” program…I mean, I was an immigrant, with only limited grasp of English (though I did fix that rather soon), maybe I’m painting too pretty of a picture on my early, early education to think that I was already “gifted” instead of just “special” at the time. And by “special” I mean “short bus” special if you know what I mean.

I remember it taking a while for me to get over the jet lag. I’d sleep at weird hours during the day and be awake at odd hours during the night. My father was working a lot of overtime back then, he’s actually always worked a lot of overtime in whatever job he was doing, and he’d be up and awake right along with me in the middle of the night, working away in front of the computer. I remember once I was playing on the carpet behind him, sitting down. I had these wonderfully detailed miniature metal tanks that I was playing with, leaning over them, staging epic battles on that field of beige.

I remember my mother and father getting into fights, usually about things that I didn’t understand. They’d shout at each other in the living room, scream, and my mother would run off to the bedroom in the back. Once, after a particularly bad fight, my father walked me to the backroom to see her and there she was, lying face down on the bed, crying. We stood in the doorway in silence until my father broke it and told me that it was my fault she was crying.

Right around the beginning, it was very important for me to learn English. In the Fall I was expected to start attending school, first grade I believe, and it was vital that I be able to communicate with my fellow students and teachers. My parents stopped speaking to me in Chinese very early on, and I must say I actually picked English up rather quickly. What this meant though, was that I actually found Chinese to be something I’d rather not say. All through my life since then I’ve found the language to sound abrasive, harsh, and by far too loud; I didn’t like the way it sounded. Of course this has changed lots now that I’m back in China and actually speaking it again myself, and I wish that I hadn’t forgotten as much as I had, or rather I wished I had learned more while young, but that’s a separate issue. I may have a greater appreciation for it, even a liking if I dare say, but in those early days, and the many years that followed actually, I wouldn’t for the life of me speak it, and when insisted upon, I felt very embarrassed, almost ashamed at having uttered it.

My mother was still attending school at that time, earning her Masters. This meant that she also had an apartment on campus. I remember going there for the first time, on the West side of Los Angeles. It looked like any other apartment complex in the area, quite indiscernible really. I remember walking in the front door to her building, a skinny thing with a handful of floors, and being overwhelmed by the smell of it. I couldn’t place it, and still can’t to this day, but it was foul. A sort of sour, musky, herbal scent that one could almost taste. My mother didn’t seem to notice it, so being a good little boy I didn’t bring up how bad it smelled. And this was just in the hall way, so hardly an issue, and we were just there to get her mail that first time, and wouldn’t be staying long. Come to think of it, I’ve never said anything about it until now even.

As I said earlier I was starting school in the Fall. At first I attended the local public school that was in my district. The first day school started, I had no idea here I was going or what was going on. As far as I knew, I was just in the back of my father’s car, being driven to some place like I normally was. Speaking of cars, I think I mentioned that it was a sky blue Subaru, my most favorite car of all time. It’s always held a special place in my heart being the first car I’ve ever been in while in the States. I cried when we had to get rid of it, but that memory will come later. I bring it up now because my parents had another car before I arrived, a beat up old 1980s Volkswagon Rabbit. It was a hatchback and the air conditioner didn’t work, so during the summer months you had to roll all the windows down or you’d be smother to death by the heat and when driving on the freeways you had to turn the radio up as high as it would go to be heard over the roaring wind. It was decided that such a car wouldn’t be suitable for me, so they got the new one, making it that much more special as it was bought specifically because of me. I remember years later being in a car very much like that very first car, the Rabbit, and being told this story. I remember thinking that the Rabbit held a lot of character as well. But actually the point of this paragraph is my first day of school, which I wasn’t told was the first day, and when my parents dropped me off at this wholly unfamiliar place and started driving off without me, I chased after them down the school driveway, crying, stopping only when I realized I’d never catch up to them as I watched them drive down the road.

A member of the school staff came and fetched me out of the road and explained to me what was going on later, that I was starting school.

I’m standing next to a large, well kept field of grass on the campus of Caltech, something like the main quad. I’m standing on a pure white sidewalk that runs the entire perimeter of the field. At the head of the field is a large, white ornate building that looks like any main university administration building, and at the foot is a large, shallow pond that’s filled with lily pads and flowers, thick underwater growth, and crayfish. There’s also a single fountain spout at the center of the pond sending up a constant stream of water. I’m standing there completely still and silent until I realize there’s a large, green praying mantis at the edge of the grass in front of me. I stoop down to get a closer look at it, then put out my right palm for it to climb onto. I stand up with the praying mantis in the palm of my hand, its size dwarfing my palm. It turns around a couple of times as I stand up, examining my hand, then with one quick stroke it cuts a huge gash with into my palm, and I wake up. I look at my hand and wouldn’t you know it, there’s a scar right where the mantis had cut me in my dream. (Oooooh, spooky!)

Now for the context. I arrive in the US shortly after Easter 1990. I am six years old at the time and living with my father and mother in a small one bedroom apartment in Pasadena. My father had finished attending Caltech at the time, hence why I’ve been to the campus a few times and know the layout and can conjure it in my dreams. There actually is a quad there, a nice well kept piece of grass, multiple fountains actually but they’re round and without vegetation, and two shallow rectangular ponds with lilies and undergrowth and crayfish. I actually remember fishing for crayfish when I was young with twigs. I’d poke at them with the twig until they’re angry enough to clamp a the stick with their claws, then I’d pull them out of the water. It’s a running joke that my mother would eat anything; she’s been known to go crabbing at the local beaches for those tiny little crabs that run around the breakwaters; I don’t think she’d actually eat them, or has, but I think my catching the crayfish may have had something to do with that joke. Not that they were ever eaten I don’t think. So I knew the area well and had wandered around it. Now this obviously also can’t be my actual first memory of the States because I would’ve had to have been to Caltech at some point first, but I don’t remember that. As far as the scar on the palm of my hand goes, it’s actually the natural lines everybody has on the palms of their hands; I was just too young at the time to realize that everybody had them and so was rightly scared out of my mind when I looked at my hand after waking from my dream to find multiple scar like lines right where the mantis had cut me. I’ve also been rather afraid of mantises since then, and bugs and insects and the likes in general; this may also have something to do with my earlier memories of smashing then marveling at the beauty of earth worms. Though they’re still really gross. I remember once, having horrible indigestion while climbing up a mountain in China no less being forced to use the most disgusting squat toilet I’ve ever seen in my life, shoes inch deep in I can only imagine, starring in horror at this earth worm stretch then shorten as it moved its way through this rather unholy muck next to my shoes. I also don’t know why this particular dream has stuck with my all these years. I’m sure of the details, I’m sure that it was a dream, and I’m sure of when it happened. I have no such assurance for any other dreams I’ve ever had, though I do have the benefit of having written some of them down in the past, not that I know where they are now. Hmmmm…I wonder if I can find them.

I think it’s going well, the project that is. It’s gotten me writing, at least more, and though I’ve not uncovered any new memories, it’s good to affirm the ones that I do already have. It lets me take stock of my life in a way. It’s been suggested that I tie these together more with who I am now, offer a reflection on each memory, but I’m not entirely sure I want to do that because I’m afraid it will sound, whiny. I mean, they’re my memories, no reason to fret over them in any great detail. No particular reason to analyze or dissect them too much. I actually like the stark approach, the simple presentation. This may actually reflect a writing failing on my part. It’s also been said that when I write, I’m afraid of giving or putting in too much, that I leave too much for the reader to figure out. That instead of expanding upon a work, I prefer to shorten and tighten. I think my earlier writing professors would be proud as it was like pulling teeth in the past to get me to be the least bit concise. Now, I fear, my concision may be affecting my clarity. Nevertheless, I don’t think I want to change my approach to this project. Simple it shall be.

I know some people are reading this, and for that I’m grateful. It helps to allay my fear that I will die unremembered.

I’d also like to take this time to update some things in general. Maria had her interview with BiMBA yesterday, and though it went well, she found it sort of odd. She said it didn’t seem “fun.” She is going into business with my father, don’t tell anybody, and she and I are going to go into business for ourselves as well doing…wait for it…SEEDS! We bought lots and lots and lots of vegetable seeds, things that you can’t normally get in China. Our hope is to be able to grow and harvest them at the farm that’s available to us, where we’re also going to make CHEESE. We will become the number one purveyor of fine salad greens and cheese in all of Beijing.

I had just spoken to my parents for “the first time” a few hours before on the phone. I was very excited, so much so that I couldn’t sleep. I spent some time lying in bed, waiting, then went out into the living room to sit on the couch. I turned on all the lights and sat there watching the clock, listening to the rhythmic sound of the seconds ticking by. Lights in China back then were all yellow, and the living room was a bright shade of orange, tinted by the moonlight shining in through the windows.

My grandparents had called for a taxi to take me to the airport. I had very little baggage, none at all actually the more I think about it. The only thing I did have was a sign, written in English and Chinese, that said who I was, what flight I was getting on, and where I was going, which was hung from my neck with string. That morning, I gave my grandmother a hug goodbye, and got in the cab, and as it drove off towards the airport I waved to my grandparents through the rear window of the car, crying.

When I got to the airport, I did a little bit of random wandering before someone caught sight of the sign around my neck. I was directed towards an airline attendant of some sort who helped me get through the necessary channels and paperwork. I don’t remember any of this, but there would have been check-in, immigration, customs, and then the gate. I do remember being amazed at how many people there were though in the airport; I’d never seen that many all in the same place before. I was led by the attendant to where I needed to be, and boarded the plane.

747s were all the rage back then, before the prominence of Airbus airplanes. The particular one I flew in that first time from China to the States had one of those domes in the front for the really fancy people to fly in. When I got on the plane, a stewardess saw my sign, took my ticket, and directed me to my seat. Now, both my grandparents are quite noteworthy within the Chinese government and the Communist party. Granted, at one point my entire family was arrested by those same people, but afterwards they were given a very heartfelt apology and eternal subsistence basically. As I mentioned before, my grandparents lived in government housing. From what I hear, my grandfather in particular is of note. I’ve been told that he helped sort out China’s first space program, helping to launch their first rockets and satellites in the remote deserts to the Northwest. He was also apparently invited by Castro to go visit Cuba, where he was given a box of Cuban cigars (later confiscated during the Cultural Revolution) as thanks for his help in reverse engineering a crashed US cruise missile. He did his studies at Caltech, earning a Masters and a PhD; apparently he was recalled to China before his program finished so he wrote the remainder of his dissertation while on the plane back to China and mailed it in to complete his coursework. The point though, is that someone else, equally prominent within the Chinese government and Communist Party, somehow got wind that my grandfather’s only grandson was traveling, alone of all things, in coach since my parents and family are not wealthy, for the first time to the States. He took pity on me, and invited me to join him in first class. And not just first class, but in the dome.

What I remember of it is not at all like what it must actually be, having never actually been upstairs before on a 747. But I remember a vast space, though most spaces must seem vast to a six year old Chinese boy, and at one end was a huge buffet table, full of exotic foods I’d never seen before and lobster. I specifically remember the lobster. I did not recognize the elderly gentleman who had invited me up.

At some point during the flight, I must have fallen asleep because I remember being woken by the sunrise. Now, when flying from China to the States, you’re chasing the sun, so at some point it will be night, then sunrise, then perpetual day until you land. This particular sunrise though was very noteworthy. We were flying above a thick layer of clouds, completely white and looking very fluffy, very thick and dense. All of a sudden, a circular patch literally burst into flames and melted away, downwards, like molten metal, and from this ring of fire rose the sun, unlike I’ve ever seen it before or ever after. It looked like a literal fireball, nothing like the bright circle of light one would normally see. I could see the licks of flame flying off in all directions, see the curvature of its spherical shape, see it spin, suspended in the air, feel the fire upon my face as I gazed at it. It rose through the burning clouds, sending off small flares of flames, catching other patches of clouds on fire which melted away as well. Before long, all I could see was a sea of flames.

Obviously, this could not have truly happened. Although it would be really cool if it did.

The next thing I know, presumably twelve hours later, I had landed at LAX, the international airport in Los Angeles. I was greeted by a very nice looking American airline attendant who directed me through the necessary channels, immigration, customs, etc. Seeing as I had no baggage, she pointed me in the direction of the exit to where all the visitors were eagerly waiting to pick up their loved ones. I remember walking through a glass hallway with tropical trees and plants all around. I remember the sun shining through this canopy. Little by little though the plant life began to be replaced by people, more and more, until instead of a rain forest around me, there was nothing but people pressing their faces and their hands and handwritten signs against the glass hallway. I could hear them shouting. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be looking for, didn’t know how I would recognize them, so I just kept walking. And then in front of me stood a woman with medium length blond hair and a box of chocolates in her hand. She smiled at me, as if she recognized me, and I thought that this was it, my mother. This would turn out to actually not her but a good friend of hers; the woman I wanted was next to her, where stood my mother, an even bigger smile on her face, with long black hair. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

We walked out to the parking lot where my father was waiting for us in a light blue Subaru station wagon. We got in and headed out. Apparently I was underweight to use the child seats that one is supposed to for kids my age. I think we fudged it and just had me sit in the back, using the lap belt one would normally use to hold down a child seat. As we drove on the freeway, I remember seeing billboards for the first time in my life. I remember asking my parents what these massive, brightly lit and colorful signs along the side of the road were, literally wide-eyed at all the new sight around me.

My parents were living in Pasadena at the time, in a small apartment. There wasn’t a bed for me yet, no place for me to sleep, so that first night I spent on the couch in the living room. I didn’t realize this, but I was horribly jet lagged. Usually, when traveling from China and the States, one gets completely turned around for a while due to the time difference. But I didn’t know about this, and no one had told me, so that first night was terrifying for me. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t fall asleep. I laid there, on the couch, in a brand new apartment with brand new parents, looking out an unfamiliar window at unfamiliar trees lit by streetlights, and I was terrified. I thought something was horribly wrong with me because any normal person would be able to sleep in the middle of the night. I remember pulling the blankets up over my face and telling myself, “It’s alright, don’t worry. You’ll be dead in the morning and everything will be alright.”

The let’s call it the first time then was over the phone. I was going to meet them for what I considered to be the very first time, very soon. Again, supposedly I had met my parents seeing as my mother didn’t leave for the US until I was around 4. I again, unfortunately, have no memories of her from before the age of six. So the let’s call it the first time I heard her voice was just before the let’s call it the first time I’d get to meet them. It was very late at night, for reasons I didn’t understand at the time but have no come to understand as due to the time difference. It was at least very late for a child of that age to still be up. I was told that the phone call I was about to make would be very expensive, and that I shouldn’t talk for too long, even though I would want to. I was very excited to be talking to these people who are my parents, so it was no difficulty for me to stay up that late. I watched the clock tick by, counting the minutes until some late hour in the evening. I’m not sure why we were waiting for on the hour but we were. When the time came, my grandparents dialed the phone for me, and I eagerly picked up the receiver.

As I said earlier, I have no recollection of what we talked about, what they sounded like, or my reaction to the conversation. All I do remember is that as we talked, my eyes were fixed on the clock on the wall. I was determined to keep the conversation to only one minute in length. I’m not sure why or how I decided on that interval, because I’m pretty sure I did not know that phone charges were by the minute. Perhaps it was just arbitrarily short. I deduce from this though that mostly what I did during the conversation was listen since I was counting down the seconds. When one minute had passed exactly, I hung up.

My grandparents must have called them back later because I remember hearing them laughing on the phone at how silly I was trying to keep the conversation to just one minute long.

I believe though that that was the last night I’d be in China. It makes sense in my mind that the night before my flight to the States would be the time for me to call my parents, in my mind for the first time. China flights to the States also happen mostly in the mornings because of how weird the time difference is; when you fly from China to the States you arrive on the same day, a couple of hours earlier, so it’s convenient to leave at like 11 in the morning because you’d arrive around 9 in the morning that day. I also make this assertion because I remember being tired on the flight because I hadn’t slept all night due to how excited I was. I had never flown before, and I was going to meet my parents in a whole new country. It makes sense then that I was up late first to call my parents, then up all night before my flight.

Edit:

I realize I’m skipping Day 10. As I was writing this I realized I have one more memory that happened before, but I was already mostly done with this one, and it’s late and I don’t want to write the other one, and I’m already messing around with the actual dates these things get written anyways so I figured what the heck, I’ll just write this one first. Speaking of which, I am messing around with what WordPress says is the date I wrote these; I like things to be neat so I’m putting them all in the appropriate order as if I had written one every day. It’s close enough :P

So maybe not the world’s realistic memory, but that’s how I remember it. I did sit on those stairs, and there was a Ms. Pear still waiting with me. We were the last ones. We were waiting for someone from my family to come and pick me up, though we didn’t know who it was going to be. The person who ended up coming was my uncle, the middle aged man riding the bicycle. Apparently there had been a big argument back at my home over who and how they were to come and pick me up from the school. Nobody drove, the streets weren’t safe, and the public transportation systems were also closed. It was finally decided that my uncle would come on his bicycle, in place of my father, he being my father’s older brother actually, but then his bike wasn’t meant to have anybody else riding on it. You see, in China, most bicycles have that rack attached to the seat that hangs over the back wheels. You know, the racks that say are not meant for carrying people. It’s quite common for that to be exactly what they’re used for and it’s common even today to see three or more people somehow all attached to one bicycle heading down the street. Either way, so they were arguing over how my uncle was supposed to put me on the bike, and it was taking a very long time apparently, so long in fact that my uncle just up and left them all in the middle of their conversation. I’m not entirely sure how I rode on the bike then, since the concern wasn’t resolved, but ride on it I did.

There was gunfire, and tanks, and bullet strewn streets though, and we did ride down them on our way home. I actually knew nothing about what was going on at the time, and I didn’t for the longest time. I’ve always had this memory and it’s always confused me about what’s going on. And running the risk of getting my blog blocked, but I think the Chinese version of events are different from the rest of the worlds, not to say that I believe in or endorse either, so please don’t block my blog. But it was only after internet research, and the advent of doing research on the internet, that I finally found out what had happened that day. I remember once in middle school, on a field trip to Alvera Street in Los Angeles, when the rest of the boys were all very impressed at seeing the spent bullet shells they sell there on necklaces, that I couldn’t understand what they were so fascinated with. It was just bullet shells.

My great grandmother lived to be 96 years old. My grandfather is already that old, with my grandmother, 93, soon along the way. If there’s one thing that can be said about my family it’s that we are indeed long lived. As I mentioned, when I was growing up there were at one point four generations all living under the same roof, a fact that my grandmother took a lot of pride and joy in. Though I don’t actually live with her at the moment, she can still claim such moments of joy when I come over to visit with my father, though short one generation obviously since my great grandmother is not still alive. My grandmother does hope to one day have four generations under the same roof again, though I think she may have given up that particular hope.

Being 96 meant that my great grandmother was basically in-firmed and stuck in bed. She was a very short woman, not quite five feet if I remember correctly. She’s also lived a fascinating life, one that I only know bits and pieces of. My grandmother is attempting to finish up a biography of her mother before she dies. Of what I know, part of it is that she served in a hard labor camp during the cultural revolution, moving large pieces of stone from one place to another. She also had her feet bound, a tradition I’m sure some of you may know. She was also a beautiful woman in her youth, and very refined in her old age.

One night it was just she and I in the apartment. I’m not sure where my grandparents were, and it must have been the maid’s day off. My great grandmother had been recovering from some illness recently and was even more bedridden than normal. My grandmother had told me specifically that while they were out, my great grandmother was not to get out of bed under any circumstances. I’ll leave out any snarky comments about the intelligence of leaving a five or six year old in charge of a 94 or so year old woman for now, but I think, obvious enough, and quite expectedly, my great grandmother wanted to get out of bed. I don’t remember what it was she wanted or needed, but I knew I couldn’t help. All I could do was watch as she got out of her bed, which was in the back where my grandparents now sleep, put on her sandals, and shuffle across the tiled floor. I managed to see her through the hallway and into the living room where she promptly slipped and fell. I was panicked. I was five years old, unable to lift her up, and completely ignorant of what to do. She laid there on the floor until my grandparents got back. They were so angry at me. They scolded me for letting my great grandmother get out of bed. They scolded me for not doing anything and leaving her on the floor. They had to call a doctor to come and examine her, and he found that she had scraped up her lower back on a piece of furniture as she fell and was bleeding. As she laid on her side, the doctor cleaning up and examining the wound, I looked in from the doorway to the bedroom. My grandmother told me that it was my fault that she had gotten hurt, and years later, though completely irrational and not even close to being able to be related, when my great grandmother finally died the first thing I thought was “I shouldn’t have let her get up that night.”

One of the most popular drinks in China is ??, “suan nai,” “sour milk,” yogurt. It’s a little unlike US yogurt because it’s much thinner, meant to be consumed with a straw. And there’s no such thing as “plain” yogurt, something quite popular in the States right now; there least flavor you can get is “sweet.” And when I say consumed with a straw, I meant it; you know how in the States some times yogurts come with little plastic spoons so it’s convenient for you to eat? Well I have a fridge full of tiny little straws that can attest to just how much yogurt I’ve bought but used a spoon instead of the “recommend” utensil to eat. When I was young, the only kind I ate was from off the street. I remember that there would be huge pickup trucks with a bed full of crates, all full of yogurt. They came in these round, ceramic jugs, sealed at the top with a piece of paper and a rubber band. These crates would get delivered to all the local convenience stores and shops full in the mornings, and picked up at night full of empty jugs. The particular time I remember was in the summer, behind the pick up truck, with men standing on the bed of the truck, handing out jugs in exchange for money. I’d give him the bills, very inexpensive by the way, and he’d hand me a yogurt and a straw, I’d puncture the sealing paper with the straw and I’d just stand there and contentedly drink. Incidentally, I’ve discovered that the ceramic jugs themselves are also quite cheap to purchase as I bought some for the restaurant to put fake flowers in. They work quite well as individual flower vases. For those arty folks out there, I highly suggest obtaining some. It is quite unlike any other yogurt I’ve ever had before, and I remember that in the States, whenever I’d come close to this long ago flavor, I’d always think back on it fondly. It’s actually sort of like Chinese vanilla ice cream, which again, tastes nothing like US vanilla ice cream. I remember once at San Dimas Dam, a park in Southern California, that an ice cream man pushing around a little cart had a popsicle that tasted an awful lot like the ones I had in China when young. I remember going there to bike with my father, and getting this popsicle every time.

Winters in China are traditionally cold, in Beijing that is. There’d be snow, rain, sleet, hail, and all the lakes and rivers would freeze over. It’s actually warmed up a bit these last few years, and this past time when moving over, I’d specifically asked if it still snows in China, with many of the answers being “no.” Probably just for me then, this has been one of the coldest and worst winters in China in recent history. It snowed on us this past Sunday actually, trying to get to Hong Kong and delayed our flight about an hour. Despite the cold and the inconvenience, I still love it. But the memory is of ice skating at YuYuanTan, a local park within walking distance from my grand parent’s house. Maria’s actually taken quite a few runs there and I’ve uploaded some of them to this blog. Despite the “No Ice Skating” sign posted prominently all over the place, I remember as a child heading out onto the ice with the maid. I didn’t know how to ice skate at the time, so all I could do was sit on this foldable stool that had been converted into a sled and get pushed around by those who knew how. It was actually a service you could buy, much like renting ice skates. These people had taken old skates off of old shoes and tied them to the bottom of this stool. You’d pay them some money and they’d push you around for fifteen minutes while you sit. I remember being able to hear the man pushing me breathing hard, the sound of his skate scratching as he pushed off step by step, and the wind from across the frozen lake top blowing in my face. I still don’t know how to ice skate by the way, and unfortunately such services don’t exist, as far as I know, in the States. Though people still operate this way in China, and it’s my regret that this past winter I was far too busy to do any ice “skating” out on the frozen over lakes. Ah well, there’s always next winter.

There’s this special kind of Chinese sausage that I’ve always enjoyed. It’s been salted and dried so it will last longer, is most likely made of pork, but has a very nice sweetness to it as well when you eat it. It’s a bit fatty, like most Chinese meats, so a bit oily when cooked. It’s traditionally sliced thin and served as is since it’s already fully cooked, but sometimes it’s pan fried or served in soup. I also loved this sausage when I was a child, and being a preserved dish, it was something we could afford to have on hand. The maid would always pan fry it for me, something that thankfully doesn’t need cooking oil since the meat is so fatty anyways. I remember she’d always cut one in half, fry it up, and give it to me on a small plate with a piece of Chinese steamed bread. I really liked them cooked this way because of the small bits of crispiness along the edges. The maid, though live in, also has her days off, once a week. One time, when she wasn’t there, I really wanted this sausage, so my cousin took it upon herself to make it for me. This would be my female cousin, Michelle, one of my father’s older brother’s two daughters. She did her best to make it for me, but unfortunately burned the sausages as they cooked, trying to attain that crispiness that I liked. She was also young at the time, a teenager, and she cried on the bedroom table when she burned my sausages. I ate them anyways, and promised her that they tasted very good nonetheless, and that it wasn’t her fault, and that I was thankful she cooked them for me.

Edit: I wonder what I’d have to do to make WordPress render Chinese…I could swear this isn’t the first time I’ve tried, with success the last few times. I wonder if something’s changed or my memory’s just faulty. Hmm…..

I’ve always had a fascination with and hatred towards my teeth, probably stemming from my wonder over why all my classmates had black ones. I’ve never quite understood why we’d be equipped with something in our bodies that requires such obtrusive maintenance. I mean, it’s a pain in the ass to floss, but apparently I have to if I want healthy teeth. Who decided that? And there’s even people nowadays who floss their dog’s teeth; seems kind of overboard to me to require something that an animal is not capable of providing for itself. I understand there are scientific theories out there about how our diet has changed too much, same for the dog by the way, so it requires a different cleaning regimen. But still, and that’s not really the point. Hatred aside, I’m still fascinated by them, ever since my first set started coming loose when I was very young.

I remember that I was spending the night at my cousin Michael’s place again, as I did so often when I was young. One of my back tooth had been loose for a while and I was playing with it instead of sleeping. I kept pushing on it with my tongue, a little this way, a little that way, to see how it would bend and how far it would bend. I must have stayed up all night doing this, wiggling that tooth back and forth. It felt very visceral to me, very unlike anything else physical I’d normally experience day to day. I thought that this must be how it felt to go out hunting and actually kill, prepare, and eat something on your own, a sort of “back to nature” kind of physical sensation. And I was getting it through my teeth. I’d push it as far one way as I could, until I couldn’t stand the pain anymore, then let it return on its own. Then I’d push it the other way. I pushed so hard that all of a sudden I heard a tearing sound reverberate through my head, much louder than anything I’d expected, and the tooth was left hanging by a literal thread, a gush of warm blood flowing out of the socket. Now a hanging tooth is also a very annoying thing, and being in bed, supposedly sleeping, I had no good way of removing it or seeing what needed to be done. So I began to turn it in circles, around itself, like one would trying to remove tomatoes from the vine, causing more and more pain with each turn. I’d hold my breath, clench my eyes, then explosively give it just one turn, then stop. I spun it like this until the string of flesh broke, and there was finally relief. Since I’d been holding my breath the entire time up until now, that when I finally took in one, I knew that that’s what it felt to be alive. Outward appearances and politeness aside, I ran to the bathroom to look at the prize I had pulled from my mouth, washed it clean under the sink, and marvelled at how sharp and jagged the root of the tooth looked.

I would continue like this through most of my baby teeth over the course of some time. Some I’d even break off far sooner than they were ready, leaving only the sharp stump of the tooth still in my mouth. These obviously needed to be extracted because for some reason, my tongue just can’t keep away from any new abnormality in my mouth, no matter how sharp and injurious to it they may be. So I’d start in again with my tongue, at night while laying in bed, pushing the stump back and forth, back and forth, a little further each time, until I’d hear that tearing again and feel the warmth flow to the back of my throat.

Since then, I’ve still not yet developed a full appreciation for my teeth or for how to properly maintain them. This has lead to some general suffering on my part, some of the time, due to emergency root canals (only once) and the likes. I’ve also had dental work done on almost every single tooth in my mouth. Nevertheless, though the expense and the time and the suffering have been extensive at times, I still like my sort of pseudo-practical approach to my teeth: I leave them alone and they, hopefully leave me alone.