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There’s been a smattering of good music lately, but this is the song that haunts me; Love and Greed by Magneta Lane. I added it to my collection on the 12th of October, and it’s already in my Top 20 Most Played. By no means is it the best song on the album; it’s just the one that hit me the hardest.

To hear it as a track by itself is a little out of context. It comes as 7 of 10 off Gambling With God, their latest album, and the songs leading up to it charge at a much faster pace. The dramatic change of tone between the verses and the chorus are effective in subtly drawing you in, against lyrics that should be screamed more than anything else.

My favourite part is when Lexi says, “I don’t want recycled love / if I did I’d pour wine in a cup / and get all liquored up / and fucking crawl in front of you” when the guitar and bass stop, and it’s just Nadia doing the bum-ba-da-bum-ba-da-bum-ba-da-bum underneath on her toms.

It’s stuff like this that makes rather plain looking Lexi Valentine so goddam attractive, very much in a Karen O kind of way. I guess you could say I have a fascination with Lexi swearing, because she does it so infrequently.

So…

I gave this song to Darren, and he sent me back this reply:

shit this song is on auto-repeat right now…. ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Darren’s the only person in the world who sees love the way I do. John knows me in every other way — logic, mindset, emotion, personality, habits, taste — but he doesn’t understand my love, which is a big part of me. The only one who understands is Darren¹ because we share the same quixotic ideas about it. It’s as if we developed this romantic attitude as a backlash to how our fathers (brothers, who also look the same) raised us with such aloofness. This ideal is how we bond.

One time he told me he can’t wait for the day when we’re at his house with our girlfriends, and we’re playing Cranium, and we’re just…happy.

This is how I know he’s the only person who hears this song the same way too.

1. Not even my girlfriends have come close to understanding, aside from Bronwen. [↑]

Misun, aka my big sister, visited from France yesterday. We gorged ourselves on all-you-can-eat sushi, and I let her surprise me by choosing not to know what she ordered for us. Now I wish I had kept note so I could order the same things again.

It was hard to argue with her about the bill. She kept insisting that she pay because she’s older (from her Korean culture), and I kept insisting that I pay because I’m the host (from my Chinese culture). I even used the argument that if it’s the elder who pays, then she would always be paying. Unfortunately, the hostess took her side and refused my money.

She was only able to stay in Ottawa for the night, but before turning in well beyond our bedtimes, we caught up as people can only do in person. We’d been keeping in touch the whole time we’ve been apart, and now had the chance to fill in the details.

When I woke up, I found this cute note, with our faces (including Dolly’s) drawn on it.

When I was young, my dad had a fight with his brother over opening a convenience store next to a pharmacy (my uncle is a pharmacist) in a plaza that my grandmother owned. Both types of stores have lots of competing products, so the argument was about who would be the one to open their store. I guess my dad won, because he bought the convenience store and ran it for quite a few years.

After that, I didn’t see my uncle or his family at all. For so long that I completely forgot that I had a cousin, Crystal.

When my grandmother came from Hong Kong to visit one year, she reunited the families again, and I saw them for the first time in a long while¹.

At that time, the popular thing to do was play cards. I had the reputation as being the fastest, most dexterous dealer out of all the kids. But when I went over to my uncle’s house one day and we were playing Asshole, I noticed Crystal dealing exactly the same way I did, except faster, without even paying attention.

The only other time I had such a stark realization was during my trip to Hong Kong earlier this year. At an international buffet, we grabbed some dessert from the cart and ordered some tea. My uncle, aunt (both siblings of my dad), and I were sitting at the table, with delicious pastries in front of us, but none of us were touching them. When someone asked my uncle why he wasn’t eating his dessert yet, he said that he has to have tea with his sweets. And it turns out that was the exact same reason me and my aunt were waiting too. One of these little quirks that one never expects someone else to have, and sometimes we’re even ridiculed for it, and yet here we were, three people doing the exact same thing for the exact same reason.

I generally believe that humans are more likely a product of their experiences, with a touch of inherited qualities too. After all, I’m almost nothing like either of my parents. It was only these two experiences that made me admit that there’s a little more of us that’s inherited, that we’re a product of our genes, than I would have believed.

1. I even discovered that I had a new cousin, Darren, who was Crystal’s brother. [↑]

Few people in my family seem to understand my art.

When they look at my pictures, they make comments about the quality, or whether or not they’re smiling, or ask how much money I make. It’s never about the meaning, or my intent, or what I’m trying to express. Only one of them saw what I was going for in composing this photo of my grandma and aunt with the poster in the background.

They also talk through my videos when watching them, when every bit of pacing is important, missing significant establishing shots.

Maybe it’s the culture. Very few Chinese kids are allowed to be artists, as it’s seen as too risky or impractical. My generation of family seems to be full of accountants, and engineers, programmers, or anything else with security. Even though piano or violin lessons are common (I can’t think of a single Chinese friend who didn’t take piano lessons at one point), it’s more of a status symbol to be able say that you can afford the private lessons and instrument.

This is probably why I feel like I don’t relate or can’t speak to most of my family. When they don’t understand my art, they don’t understand me.

Grandma was born in Hong Kong, but she fled to Chiu Chow during the Japanese invasion by climbing a mountain with her only son slung on her back. For some reason, she feels a lot of pride about Chiu Chow even though she wasn’t born in that city, and always points out people from there¹. As a result, she can speak both Cantonese and the Chiu Chow dialect.

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1. She says she recognizes them by their faces. [↑]

I found this picture at my uncle’s house. It is:

1. Hilarious
2. Hilarious
3. Hilarious
4. All of the above

How weird is it that I didn’t even recognize myself. And look at those glasses! They were my first pair, which probably means I was around 14 or 15. Apparently, I was still wearing my calculator watch at that age.

I’ve been getting to know one of my aunts.

Aside from annual holiday parties where the families would gather, we never spoke. But then again, I never spoke with any of the “grown-ups”¹, as they offered little of interest to someone my age.

We’ve become sounding boards for each other. She tells me about how she’s approaching my grandmother’s treatments — the types of therapy, the medications, decisions on when to go to see the doctor — and I tell her about my relationships with my mom and dad.

I find it quite amazing that she’s so aware of the influence of Chinese culture in her life. She seems to be adapting to the generation gap and culture differences, or perhaps keeping them in mind, when it comes to treating her own Canadian-born daughter, which is far beyond what my parents were capable of. Until I really started talking with her, I believed that all Chinese parents were the same; too blind or too stubborn to understand how to raise first-generation Canadian children.

It amazes me how strong she is. She’s the one who makes sure my grandmother eats, drinks, takes her pills, sleeps, and walks. The one who cleans up after grandma when she has to go, but can’t make it to the bathroom in time. She dropped everything — her husband, her daughter, her real estate practice — to be here indefinitely, and has taken charge of all my grandmother’s care.

I tried to tell her that I admired her for everything she’s doing, but she wouldn’t let me continue. She’s having a hard time keeping it together, and is afraid that grandma may see her crying and realize how serious her sickness is. I wish I could give her some relief, a hug even, or just 15 minutes to let it all out. I guess there will be plenty of time for that soon enough.

For now, we have each other.

1. The parties were a chance for adults to sing and talk, so the kids did their own thing. [↑]

It’s been a relaxed existence here. Aside from spending time with my grandma when she’s awake, making sure she eats throughout the day, and the occasional visit to the hospital, there’s no set schedule for anything. I’ve only been to this house a handful of times in my life, but I feel remarkably comfortable. There’s no formal need to sit at the dinner table until everyone is finished eating. There’s no obligation to talk to someone. No one feels the need to entertain me. I can nap when I want. I can raid one of the three fridges when I wake up at night and can’t fall asleep. I can walk around in my pajamas all day. I can disappear for hours to write. Like we’re actually family, even though I barely see these people.

My grandma tells me feel at home because we’re “our own people” as it’s said in Chinese. Even though I always understood the expression, I’ve never really felt it until now.

The cancer has spread to her bones and several major organs now. We asked the doctor not to tell her, but we can’t do anything against his moral obligation to inform the patient. Either way, she doesn’t know how serious it is, whether it’s from shock and denial, or memory loss.

But she’s awake, and aware, and feeling no pain, which is good enough for me. The most we can do now is to try to make the rest of her life as enjoyable as possible.

She thinks she’s going to be fine. Keeps telling me that she’ll take me to a nearby park when she’s better. As much as it hurts me to know this won’t be possible anymore, it’s relieving to know she’s so oblivious. We don’t let ourselves cry around her, for fear that she may realize how bad it is.

Her face is more sallow, her fingers and legs emaciated, but she still has her thick, black hair¹. Aside from a distended stomach, it’s hard to tell that she has such a grim prognosis.

But by far the hardest part is having to coddle her like a child to take her medication. Telling her she’s a good girl if she swallows her pills and rewarding her with ice-cream. That we’re only strict because we care about her. It tears me in half when she gives such a painful look of distaste with every pill we hand her, 18 a day.

She used to be so strong. Now we have to be strong for her.

1. “I used to have even more”, she tells me. [↑]

 

In the last few weeks, she’s been too weak to leave the house, but we can take her for walks in the afternoon now. Going around the block takes half an hour and leaves her legs shaking, but she’s happy to be out. Before we go, she gets dressed and puts on her makeup and does her hair. Even now, she retains the class and dignity I’ve always admired in her.

My aunt — the youngest child of my grandmother — has been here for weeks. She stopped taking her clients at work, and has been overseeing my grandmother’s treatments, as well as making decisions on her behalf.

They sleep in the same bed now, which I think is adorable, like regressing to some childhood time, except the roles have been reversed. Yesterday, she told me my grandmother had the best the night of sleep in a long time. She attributes it to my grandmother’s happiness that my dad and I are here.

This has already made the entire trip worth it.

I’m on a plane somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, in the middle of this 16000km journey. 18 hours of flight time, one layover in Chicago, and two meals.

My grandmother in Hong Kong is dying. She’s been diagnosed with colon cancer, and started chemotherapy last week, slipping in and out of awareness due to the cancer, the treatment, the medications, or all three. So when my dad told me a few days ago that he was booking a ticket to fly out to see her, I had to take the opportunity to go with him.

This is the woman to whom I mailed the first paycheque from my first job. The woman who gave me the jade necklace I never take off. The woman who came to Canada by herself to find an education for my dad, when the only English word she knew was “delay”. The woman who taught me how to hold chopsticks properly. The woman I’ve looked up to my entire life.

I don’t know how I’ll react when I see her, because I don’t know what condition she’s in. The details have been vague.

The circumstances aren’t great, but I’m thankful to have this opportunity to go. I’ll be able to bond with my dad. I’ll get a chance to see my uncles and aunts and cousins. I was going to go last year, but the trip was canceled due to unforeseen circumstances.

In a way, the timing is right. I already have my passport. I was able to get more than three weeks off work. My colitis has been diagnosed, and I’m taking medication that will allow me to eat very well and not worry¹. I have all the camera gear I need². And I’ve been feeling so jaded with life lately, it’ll be good to get away, a little bit of much needed exile.

Before driving to Toronto, I dropped Dolly off at Joel’s house³ The fish has a delayed feeding tablet. Extra prescriptions have been filled. The plants have been watered. Projects have been put on hold, both paid and unpaid, and plans have been canceled. Even Naveed called me during the drive, and invited me to Rosella’s first birthday party, but I’ll have to miss it. I don’t like to do things so last minute, but I have no choice.

This will be the first time I’ve ever gone when it wasn’t Christmas. It’ll be warmer, that’s for sure, and I’m going from a brutal Canadian winter to relatively tropical climes.

As a woman in her 80s⁴ with such a diagnosis on a different continent, it’ll probably be the last chance for me to see her.

It feels like soon isn’t soon enough.

1. I have yet to calculate the adjustment for the timing of my medications, since Hong Kong is 13 hours ahead, and the dosage for one of them is carefully tapered over several weeks. [↑]
2. The last time I went to Hong Kong, I wasn’t into photography yet, so I borrowed my dad’s camera and didn’t know how to use it. [↑]
3. He owes me a favour for taking care of Sprocket for six weeks while he was in Australia last year. It’ll be interesting to see how she handles living in someone else’s home, along with Sprocket and another dog. [↑]
4. No one really knows how old she is, because they didn’t keep birth records in Hong Kong for girls when she was born. I’m guessing somewhere around late 80s. She just tells everyone that her birthday is on Christmas to make it easier. [↑]

I called my dad on his birthday this week. After the divorce I would never call him, special occasion or not, simply because I needed to distance myself from the situation. He did call me on mine last year though, which reestablishes a sort of precedence and ritual, and he actually thanked me for the call.

We made the usual small talk, about work and home.

He told me he bought a car: a 2006 Mercedes Benz SLK 55 AMG hard-top convertible with 18″ rims and 7-speed-automatic transmission. He’s going to keep the Beemer for winter driving. It filled my heart with quiet joy when he said I could drive it the next time I visited him. Not so much because he was letting me (for I was always allowed to drive the Sportline 300CE while living at home), but because I could tell in his voice that he wanted me to try it.

I asked him if there’s any history of colorectal cancer in the family, which the doctor wanted to know at my last appointment, to which my dad answered, thankfully, no. He shared with me his own health concerns, the medical terms of which he only knows in Chinese. These are things I avoid asking about when I visit him, as he pops some pills from a bottle kept with the dishes in the kitchen, and I realize that I’m learning more about my dad than ever. It’s not so much out of a need for privacy or avoidance of embarrassment, but simply out of convenience, as these topics would never get brought up.

I remember him trying to teach me photography when I was younger, but he soon lost interest, in both photography and me¹. Maybe it’s the distance that makes us appreciate each other more, and it wouldn’t be the same if we lived in the same city.

In a way, I’m glad to have the relationship now, and I’m able to forget that I’ve never had it for most of my life.

1. As such, all my photography is self-taught, aside from one trick used to zoom a lens towards the subject so that the edges are blurred that he showed me at the Statue of Liberty. [↑]

We’re standing in his garage in our pajamas, with winter coats on. After a short drive around the block to bring the oil up to temperature, he pulls out the bright orange dipstick to teach me how to check the level.

Even though he’s never seen what’s under this hood before, he knows where everything is. Every nozzle for every fluid, every connector to every part. A sixth sense that all dads seem to have, like when a steak is cooked medium rare, and when the TV is just big enough.

Inside, I’m showing him how to use Photoshop, to take the wrinkles out of his friend’s faces. Anything helps at this age, I suppose.

In my heart, I wish my dad had shown more interest in my photography. I wish he wanted one of the prints I brought, maybe to show other people and say that he was proud of me. But he didn’t. And I say nothing because it’s one of those things that shouldn’t have to be said.

He keeps bringing up his dance partner. The person who called him to make sure I arrived safely from the drive. He wears two new earrings in piercings that weren’t there the last time I saw him, a gift from her, and I wonder if “dance partner” is his euphemism for “mommy”.

I’m too scared to ask.

There’s no reason for me to stay more than a night, because there’s nothing more to be said.

If you beat a dog, don’t be surprised if he runs away.

—letter to my uncle, March 2008

When I was a child my mom would always ask me if I’d let her live in a nursing home. She would do this as a form of reassurance, a way of addressing her insecurity about dying alone. To Chinese people, this is a fate worse than death. I understand that there may be medical conditions or other circumstances that make it impractical for a family member to live in your house, but that doesn’t change the fact that being put in a nursing home is like waiting to die.

At the time, I was too young to understand the gravity of such a question, so I would always reassure her, no. Maybe I even loved her at that point, and meant it. But I’ve since cut off all ties with her, and after the divorce, she has no one left. Her relatives lead their own lives, and she’s never had enough of a personality to make any friends. I’ve lived with her long enough to understand what a hollow, empty existence she has.

Now I’m old enough to know that she’ll die alone.

And that it’ll be exactly what she deserves.