A Place to Call Home

A Strait

My grandfather was a devout Chinese Buddhist. As per tradition, on the first and fifteenth date of every month, he held a breakfast ceremony to pay tribute to the Buddha. The most essential part of the ceremony is the I Ching divination, a merge of Taoist philosophy and Chinese Buddhism to predict future. Grandfather would earnestly ask Buddha questions about every family member’s fortune and anxiously wait for answers that the divine rituals provided. He was elated when Buddha confirmed his wishes and in despair when a bad fortune was returned. He called me a few times to convey his worry upon receiving negative fortunes, concerned that my recent cold reaffirmed his pious beliefs. One of his consistent prayers was to reunite with his old brother Liu Young-Gen before he died. My Grandmother told me that he has been praying for this reunion throughout the 50 years they married.

Liu Young-Gen was my grandfather’s long-lost brother. A few years after the Japanese invaded Changsha, the capital city of Hunan province in 1938, his brother, the 15-year-old young man, became one of the fourteen million conscripts to the national army (Republic of China Armed Forces). In 1943 he went to fight for the country. When the Japanese surrendered in 1945 and before people were able to dream for a breath of hope and family reunion, the second civil war broke out between the KMT (the Chinese Nationalist Party) and the CCP (the Chinese Communist Party).

One evening in 1949 when my grandfather returned home from school, he saw his parents had been anxiously waiting for him, a letter clung tightly in his mother’s hand. She told him that the letter was from his brother and asked him to read it because they can barely read. It was a farewell letter. In late 1948, the KMT was gradually defeated by the communist party and started moving the capital from Nanjing to Taipei. Many soldiers were voluntarily or forcefully to transfer with the government because of the KMT’s “Retaking the Chinese Mainland” plan, a policy that wished to defeat the communists and soon retake mainland China. My grandfather’s brother was on one of those ships moving in a direction away from his home. The letter became a family treasure keep in a beautiful red wooden box. That year, some rode rafts on the cross-strait, mourning that the blue sky with white sun banner (the flag of Republic of China) had fallen to the CCP; some set fireworks on the streets, celebrating the birth of a new China; some sat on their threshold, not wanting to accept the possibility that they will never see their families again.

Decades later in 1979, my grandfather’s family saw lighting of hope to reunite with his brother. The communist party published the “Message to Compatriots in Taiwan” in the state-run media People’s Daily, a letter to call for unification through political negotiations and allow people in Taiwan visit families. However, both sides did not reach an agreement permitting family visits until 1987. My grandfather’s family consulted with the local county hall and asked for help from some volunteer groups as he yearned for his brother’s return. Year after year, both of his parents now deceased, he still did not hear any information about his brother. Time left its marks and became wrinkles on his face, silver hair climbed up his head. In 1995, my grandfather was admitted to hospital for coronary heart disease and my family went visit him at the hospital. My parents tried to cheer him and reminding him that Buddha will bless him. He replied, “who says there is Buddha?” I saw the red wooden box in his watering eyes.

When hope of a reunion expired, avoiding talking about grandfather’s brother became the unspoken rule. One sweltering summer afternoon in 1996, the local police station contacted my grandfather and informed him that someone called Liu Yong-Gen from Taiwan has been calling about a family in the city. After confirming some information, they concluded that the person was my grandfather’s long-lost brother. We had dinner with grandfather that evening. He ignored the medical advice for his heart disease. He opened a bottle of baijiu (the Chinese national alcoholic drink) and toasted for the moment he has been waiting for half century. The alcohol turned his face red; I saw the smile on his glowing tipsy face outshining the blood red sunset.

With some help from the local government, my grandfather arranged to meet with his brother at the old family house where they grew up together. He kept tucking his chin and biting his lips; he did not look at any of us the whole time while he was waiting for his brother. When his brother came to the house, they were unable to recognize each other even after prior exchanges of photos. They introduced each other with shaking voice, being simultaneously the closest of family members and strangers. Soon they had burst into tears. After he greeted each family member, grandfather and his brother visited their parents’ grave. Since then, my grandfather’s prayer to reunite with his brother became beautiful wishes for his health, happiness and luck. The other night, some neighbors came over to congratulate the reunion, one of grandfather’s friends was joking “I heard people from Taiwan have a flat head .” “no no, I am a local,” grandfather’s brother replied.

The concept of “Luo Ye Gui Gen ”, an ancient Chinese phrase, was deeply rooted in my grandparents’ generation. It means that the fallen leaves will eventually become part of the soil and return to the roots. It is a metaphoric tale of Confucius ideology about reverting to one’s origin. In that generation, a narrow strait divided millions of families; however, the roaring waves never corroded the humble but sincere love of their homeland. No matter how far they lived from home, that generation believed they will eventually return to their roots.

A Mountain Range

None of my grandparents attended my parents wedding because it was highly unusual for people not to accept the arranged marriage. My parents were both send-down youth and had met each other while practicing agricultural labor in the rural areas. My father wanted to join the communist army; however, he was disqualified because of the landlord status of my grandfather. He dreamed to be a doctor; unfortunately, higher education was completely halted during Cultural Revolution. After the Cultural Revolution ended in 1976, the country re-established the national college entrance exam and in 1977 and my father was accepted by a medical school. My mother finished her life as sent-down youth and she was employed by a state-owned food company, working in another city. They were apart for a few years and finally married in 1981. My father graduated and became a dermatologist at a state-owned hospital. In the same year, they had their first child, my older brother.

As the first generation who completed post-secondary education after Cultural Revolution, my father soon became the president of that hospital. The comfortable life was far different from the childhood nightmare, having grown up during the Cultural Revelation, a time filled with famine, insecurity and political persecution. They cultivated a happy family and “iron rice bowls ”, a term in their generation that refers to professions with guaranteed job security, income and benefits. “Life is the sunrise at seven o’clock in the morning, hope only begins,” my father used to say. One day, my grandfather glanced toward my father with tight and worried eyes. “The I Ching divination shows that your life will go in a completely opposite direction where you will lose everything you have” my grandfather informed my parents with pins and needles underneath his feet. My atheist parents questioned, “we both firmly hold the ‘iron rice bowls’, you tell me how is that possible?”

To slow the fast-growing population, in 1980 the central government passed a controversial bill, the one child policy. My parents were eager to have a second child and were confident that they would be exempt from the policy, holding the privilege as a president of the hospital. Unfortunately, both of them lost their jobs after I was born in 1989. The sudden change was like a tsunami that smashed their “iron rice bowls” and crashed every breath of hope. After few months being at the rock bottom, my parents reached a decision: my father would go to Shenzhen, a city 500 miles away, separated by the mountain range from home, to take a chance; my mother stayed at home to take care of me my older brother.

Shenzhen was the first special economic zone of China when the country reopened to the west in late 1978. Then, it was 13 hours away by train from my parents’ home city whereas now only takes four hours by high-speed train. In early 1990, he bought a one-way train ticket and began his journey following the Chinese version of “gold rush ”. It was the first time my parents lived apart since their marriage. Both of my parents were drowning by the flood of loneliness, doubt and fear of the unknown future. They buried those emotions and only expressed the good sides when they wrote to each other or spoke on the phone. Luckily, my father found a job as dermatologist at an unlicensed private practice and a couple of years later, he opened his own private practice in Shenzhen. My parents kept in contact by mail and occasionally by telephone at public phone booths. They lived apart for nearly a decade.

The next year, my family installed a landline and became the first unit in the building to have a telephone at home. My family became the contact base for some neighbors to contact their families. They would come to my mother and pay one half yuan (less than one cent) to make a call. Periodically, their families would call my mother and my mother would find the neighbor and pass them the phone. In a chilly late fall afternoon, my mother’s best friend and neighbor, Aunt Tan I called her, had a bike accident and broke her arm when she was picking up her daughter from school. A few days later, her husband innocently called and my mother overheard Aunt Tan relay “everything at home is going well. Take care yourself, eat well…” She never mentioned her injuries. Mentioning nothing of the unpleasant events of life was an unwritten rule and a way to show love for their families.

The story of Aunt Tan or the story of my parents was only a miniature of the social climate where millions of Chinese families were forced being apart to fight for a better life. That generation grew up during China’s Cultural Revolution, a time of massive social upheaval and turbulence; they contributed and witnessed the exponential economic growth. They sacrificed themselves in order to carry the burden of responsibilities. They knew the feeling of hunger and understood the anxiety of insecurity. In that generation, the “mountain range” separated a great number of families; however, the responsibilities and hope for a better future linked the divided family members as a whole.

An Ocean

The year of 1989 was both a turning point for the country and my family. My parents lost their jobs due to the stringent One-Child policy, and in the same year, a massive pro-democracy student movement erupted across China and caused an immense sit-in at Tiananmen Square, a symbol of power for the nation. After the government brutally dispersed the protesters on June 4th, 1989, censorship greatly tightened in the country. “The 80s were the best times in China,” my father used to say. It was a time of freedom with fewer restrictions. Debates about the social system and criticism appeared on the state-control news outlets; Hollywood fever once again swept through China. Exposed to different ideas and information, many people started to question the government propaganda that “western people are struggling under the suppression of evil and corrupt capitalism.” Going to the U.S. became the “Chinese dream” for many people during that time.

One evening at a splendid sunset, my parents explained the meaning and motive of my name. They told me the character “Li” in my name is a homonym, it means victory and is also a character from the Chinese translation of the name of the United States of America. They wished to go to the U.S. someday. “Look at the sunset outside of the window,” my father said, “it is an invitation to a bright morning. There are unlimited possibilities in life.” I asked my parents “what is America?” “It is the greatest country in the world,” my father replied. Despite my parents’ cult-like belief in the U.S., they became increasingly proud of their country because of the economic developments. When my parents first visited San Francisco in 2004, we saw the blue sky with white sun banner, the flag of Republic of China, now more commonly refers to Taiwan, fluttering in the San Francisco Chinatown. They said, “the dynasty has long been changed.”

Not only has the “dynasty” changed, but so too has the perception of home in the Chinese mindset. In 2016, I relocated to New York, my parents remain in China. Three generations ago, a strait formed the boundary between my grandparents’ family because of the social turmoil; later, it became a “mountain range” because of the aspiration for a better future; now, it is the Pacific Ocean. The physical distance between me and my parents may be far; still emotionally I feel close. Last year, I traveled to Bali with my mother. It was another magnificent sunset on the beach, my mother asked me “do you feel New York as home now?” “Yes’, I replied. “You have only been there three years!” “But I live there.”