Posts tagged with "family"

Family Tied

Over ten years ago, I lived at my aunt’s house for about four months in the summer. Much of my maternal family was visiting from Hong Kong, so everyone stayed there as a central location.

One day my parents had a blow-out. It was trivial, as always. As a result, from my mom’s side of the story, he went out with another woman that night. From his side, my mom tried to kill him with a steak knife. It cut his finger to the bone when he was defending himself. The next day, with swollen eyes and a weak voice, my mom showed me the yellow bruises down her arm. They had to be photographed by the police as evidence before they healed. Two subpoena’s later and they were better than new, for the next few months at least until the next fight.

This is the last memory I have of my aunt’s house. I haven’t been back since. Not until this weekend.

Now everyone from my maternal side is here, all my mom’s siblings and their respective families. It started out as an act of commiseration, to help her out during the divorce. Aunt, uncle, and son, aunt, uncle, and son, aunt and uncle. And then there’s me, with my mom. Without father. The only broken family.

At first I think it’s just a coincidence. My aunt and uncle have the same vacuum cleaner that we had, the same piano, the same brown cowhide corner sofa. And then it clicks. Since the divorce, my mom sold the house after buying out my father of the contents. Everything is stored here until she moves into her new house, from the basement to the family room, from the kitchen to the bathroom.

My childhood is strewn across every floor. The family photos. My old finger-painted, artwork from elementary school. My dad didn’t want any of it.

I need to get out of here.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

Growing Pains

I caught my father after a shower. How formal the word, father. Like addressing a character in some Elizabethan play. His hair was mussed, wild, even thinner than before. He’s been going gray since he was 15, and every couple of months he colours it black again. It works for him, taking at least ten years off his age. People don’t really know how old he is until he tells them that I’m in my twenties.

How scary it was to see him like this, like some crazy old fool with all his hair pointing outward and uncomposed, but still knowing that he was still my stable, strong, cold father. The thought that he may one day go senile, lose the virility that he seems so desperate to cling to, filled me with pity.

The bacon they serve me for breakfast is dry, dull, devoid of soft fat, or grease that pools in the waves of each strip. A result of his heart condition. No more cheese, red meat only once a week.

Even my mothers’ delicate hands have deeply withered, though they remain soft from her attentive care, which include varying sorts of designer hand creams and specialized lotions that follow her everywhere. My parents have long stopped wearing their weddings bands, but she wears one of my grandmothers rings, a beautiful old-fashioned cut on a clamp mount, left to her in the will. I remember my grandmother pinching my cheeks, holding my hand, her skin loose but, like mom, supple as a softened chamois.

I see this ring on my mother, and realize that she’s getting older too.

Speaking Price

Bargaining (translated literally as “speak price”) is common at the smaller shops in Hong Kong. Prices are marked up actually, because the proprietors know that people will try to bargain. I’m not very good at it myself, since I’m not confident enough in my Cantonese. Lots of my family members are known to be extremely good bargainers, each with their own unique style.

My dad is the “friendly” bargainer, where he’ll try to get on the good side of the person trying to sell him things. He’ll say that he’s been giving the store good business for years, and that he’ll get his friends to shop there as well if he can get a discount. One time he even got the price lowered on a computer he was about to purchase.

My mother is the “bluff” bargainer. She’ll make a good guess as to how much an item cost the retailer to purchase (with her lifetime of shopping expertise), and ask for a little more than that price. The retailer, barely making any money from such a price, will no doubt ask for something much higher. My mom might budge a little, but not enough to make the retailer happy, so she’ll start to walk away with an air of indifference on her face (after all, this is Hong Kong, and if one can’t get something for a low price at one store, one can walk two steps and have another shot at it). The retailer will often chase her out to the street, and agree to her price.

My grandmother was known as the “old person with no job” bargainer. She could stay inside a store for more than half an hour, just trying to get someone to agree to her price. She would analyze all the variables in an item, such as the make, quality, durability, colour, necessity, etc. Then she would try to convince the retailer that it’s only worth so much based on each variable, and stand rock solid on this price. Eventually, the store owner would be so fed up with the everything that he or she would usually agree just to get her out of the store.

One day I’m going to be the “dairy” bargainer, and known as the person who tries to get discounts by offering ice-cream and a cow.

The Crematorium

I had the chance to visit the crematorium where the ashes of my maternal grandparents are stored. On looking out to one of the hills in the cemetery, one can see that it’s literally covered with graves. Burial is being replaced by cremation nowadays, due to the lengthy procedure and high cost of maintaining a grave. People have begun to accept cremation more and more as a dignified way to be preserved. My grandparents share the same tablet, which has golden lettering and is very respectable.

When I was young, I looked up to my grandfather the most. He was the smartest person I knew, and taught me lots of little odds and ends. He was born and raised in China, and entered one of the few universities there after high school. Being able to attend university was quite an accomplishment back then, and he only had one year left before the civil war broke out. He joined the ill-fated Nationalist side, where he would have had a chance at being a commissioned officer had there not been a need for English speaking Chinese people. He spoke English fluently, so he was used as a translator for the British troops. He was shot in the arm once, which he recovered from, and fled to Hong Kong to avoid prosecution when the war was over. There he met and married my grandmother, who was born and raised in Hong Kong, fled to Viet Nam during the Japanese invasion, but came back to Hong Kong once it was over. My grandfather assumed a career as a meteorologist, and my grandmother became a housewife to three daughters and one son. They both lived long in Hong Kong until they passed away.

How My Dad Came To This Country

My grandmother told me two stories I hadn’t heard until yesterday. I’m not sure how much truth there is in them, although it’s difficult to imagine my grandmother embellishing anything.

My father was supposed to meet my grandmother for lunch one school day when he was about 15. He never showed up, but called her instead, half an hour past the meeting time. It turns out that three guys had approached him on his way to see her, demanding that he give them his ring, his watch, and his necklace. When he refused, they dragged him to a garage to beat him. Having practiced Shaolin Kung Fu with a private master for years, he fought all three and won.

Around the age of 17, my father and his friends were out having a late night snack at a restaurant where people cook their own food on skewers. In the middle of the meal, a few triad members came to the table, and knowing that they were too young to smoke, asked for cigarettes as an excuse to cause trouble. When they couldn’t provide any, the triad members told everyone to give them their money and jewellery. Everyone complied, and put their belongings on the table. At the right opportunity, my father grabbed one of the gang members arms and held him in a prone position, with a skewer to his chest. My father told his friends to get their stuff from the table, and demanded that the gang members give his friends taxi fare home. When my grandmother found out, she sent my dad to study in Canada, worried that the gang members would take revenge.