A couple of weeks ago, my dad’s side of the family all got together at a Chinese restaurant. We hadn’t done that in about twenty years. The last time all my cousins and I were together, I was three, and we were just playmates—not the “smart cousins,” the “popular cousins,” or the “freak cousins.” (Angela and I are, of course, the freak cousins.)
The reason for the gathering was my grandmother’s 90th birthday. I love her so much. She’s amazing.
Everyone loves their grandma, of course. But has your grandma ever had to share a husband with two other women, escape both the Communists and the Japanese, and then move to a country where she didn’t speak the language?
That’s why I think she’s a trooper. When I was four, I used to spend whole afternoons at her apartment, looking through old photo albums. There were pictures of my family in the 70s, when my mom was pregnant with me, then earlier, when my grandfather was alive, and even earlier, when he was in his twenties.
“Nainai,” I would ask in my tortured Chinese, “who is he?”
“That’s your grandfather, honey,” she would reply. “Here, have some more orange slices.”
She always bought the sourest oranges in all of Oakland Chinatown, but I would eat them anyway.
“Where is Grandpa then?” I would say “Grandpa” in English because I didn’t know the Chinese word.
I honestly don’t remember what she said to that. I probably wouldn’t have understood the whole story anyway. My grandfather was in the Chinese military, fighting under Chiang Kai-Shek. My grandmother was the second of his three wives, and none of them got along—they argued with each other and with him. I can’t imagine my dad going through the same tough family stuff I did. My grandma is a strong Christian, and from what I know, wife number one was a Buddhist. I’m not sure if that made things harder, but I like to think it did.
But what she did say to me was this. She would give me a look I can’t really describe—somewhere between sentimental and troubled—and simply say, “He is a very good man, but he has many faults.” Then she would kiss me on the forehead, and I would smile, eat more sour orange slices, and watch Grover explain near and far on Sesame Street.
She’s been through so much in her life. I’m sure she’ll live another ninety years.