My Mother’s Stories

My mother grew up on the island of Gulangyu, just off the coast of Xiamen. She often refers to it as the most beautiful place in China. And it is beautiful: in the times I’ve visited her hometown, I’ve been taken aback by its lush gardens, by the brightly colored flowers that hang off stone walls and metal trellises. I’ve climbed the stairs to the tops of towers that overlook red-roofed houses and vendor-lined streets. The kiosks sell everything from lobsters to clothing to homemade rice desserts. In contrast to Xiamen’s city lights, which glisten across the water at night, Gulangyu feels almost like a tranquil haven, untouched by cars or skyscrapers or the bustling atmosphere of the nearby metropolis.

The oldest of three siblings, my mother’s many stories begin on this island. Her mother (my grandmother) was educated at a Catholic missionary school, and she was always very active in the district. My mother’s father, who had majored in Chinese literature, was the principal of a large middle- and high school.

My mom grew up during the Cultural Revolution that took place between 1966 and 1976, and her early life was filled with joy as well as hardship. She talks about the upper room of the townhouse she lived in as a child—it was my mother, her parents, her two siblings, her grandmother, her uncle, and her youngest auntie, all crammed into one space. She would spend hours listening to the neighbor girl practicing piano, wishing she could play music herself. I think this is why my sister and I were coerced into playing two instruments each. She tells me about playing badminton in the small court in front of the house, about the fragrance that wafted from the windows when her father made mantou. She would watch as he visited the neighbors, giving out the hot steamed buns. To this day, my grandfather likes to make this type of Chinese steamed bread. He doesn’t believe in kneading machines and does everything with his hands. She speaks fondly of the community in her hometown.

My mother used to tell me these stories in bits and pieces—over long car rides, or on lazy Sabbath afternoons when we didn’t have much to do. As time went on, she told me more about the Cultural Revolution. She spoke of how the Red Guards (a mass movement of supporters of the Cultural Revolution) ransacked her family’s house; how they took all of her father’s books (anything that was written vertically) and burned them. He was a scholar, and she said that burning those books was like burning her dad’s life. She told me about the ration coupons they were given that detailed how much peanut oil and how many eggs they were allowed to buy every month. She detailed the incidents she saw during this time, sharing one vivid story in particular:

One day, I went to the market. I saw this elderly woman sitting in the market square. She had a cotton winter jacket and her features were Northern. I recognized her. The old woman’s daughter-in-law had delivered me as a baby. There were several children surrounding her. The children were chewing sugar cane (it was sugar cane season). She was wearing a cone-shaped hat and there was a cardboard sign around her neck: counterrevolution. Kids were chewing their sugar cane, and they were throwing their leftovers through the hole in the top of the cone. She was sitting down. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was moving. The children yelled, “You’re crazy!” I went home. Watching the scene had hurt me so much. I went home and told my mother about the story. My mother told me it was supposed to be the old woman’s son sitting there. But her son had been too sick, and the old woman had taken her son’s place. I didn’t understand any of it until much later.

When she was eighteen, my mother traveled to Canada for university. She was the only member of her family in North America. In typical immigrant-experience fashion, my mother held multiple demanding jobs in addition to keeping up with her studies. She experienced numerous poor living situations, missed home, and was often overworked.

But she learned English quickly. She found a good group of friends. And she met my father at a university vending machine. Eventually, my mother made it through four years of university (aka four years of Canadian winters) and was even able to sponsor her family to come to Canada.

Now, my mom is a successful manager at a large bank in downtown Toronto. (Honestly, I still don’t really know what her job entails.) She organizes our church string group and really enjoys making copious amounts of food to share with others for literally any occasion possible—whether it’s a Sabbath potluck, a family gathering, or a group of hungry high school students, my mother will conjure up a feast. She likes to constantly be doing things. She likes to give.

I don’t really have a big point to this story. I just wanted to talk about my mother, who ventured across the ocean to a completely new land; who experienced Red Guards rifling through her house and language barriers in a foreign country; who possesses a great many more stories that will take a lifetime to share with her children.

And I don’t think I’ll ever know all of my mother’s stories. She’s gone through experiences that I wouldn’t even be able to fathom.  It’s odd that way—the feeling that you will never fully know your parents, the people who literally raised you, who spent years by your side. And we don’t always understand each other, and I don’t think we ever will—not fully, at least. We don’t agree with each other on everything. But I know that she loves me fiercely, and I hope to reciprocate even a small portion of that love.

Honestly, I just want to take time to appreciate the parents who have paved the way for us to be where we are today. To pay tribute to the things they have seen, experienced, and endured. Whether they are enigmas or open books, traditional or unconventional, largely stoic or openly affectionate, I’d like to appreciate the immigrant parents who have been on these unfathomable adventures. They’re the reason we’re here, able to have adventures of our own.