Every time I go to China, someone in my family says, “Never tell anyone what I am about to tell you,” and then goes on to tell me something absolutely terrible. Before this January, the last time I was in China was in 2006 when I got a grant to do a creative writing project. I remember the other people who got awarded this grant were doing things like building robotic arms and literally curing cancer. I took this money, went to China, and fully intended to execute my proposal on whatever, but none can oppose the Chinese forces of chaos and eating (I ate so much coagulated blood in such intensely spicy hot pots hat I got a rash). If you are a loyal reader from 2 websites ago (oh yeah, sometimes one finds it necessary to drop off the face of the Internet. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again, so read my blog while you have the chance!), you will recall the story of my uncle the pilot.
My uncle the pilot hasn’t flown a plane in almost 40 years. He and his siblings, his siblings’ spouses, my cousins, my cousins’ children, my cousins’ in-laws, and I all stayed in his properties while in Sanya for Chinese New Year’s, but neither his wife nor daughter came. He oscillates between heartily guffawing at jokes while cooking you your favorite foods and verbally abusing people who disobey his instructions by bringing up their failures in casual conversation so he can mock them, or by shouting extended, vivid insults- he can berate someone for 3 or 4 cigarettes. His wife and daughter oscillate between unabashedly nagging him for money and fearfully/angrily avoiding him.
“Don’t think too badly of him,” I was told in 2006. “When he was sixteen, he lied about his age so that he could apply to be a pilot in the air force. Back then, everybody was poor and we had nothing but one cup of white rice to eat for every meal. When he became a pilot, the only one chosen from our town, suddenly he had lots of money from this honorable job, and he bought us all beautiful things. He was still a teenager so he liked to show off. He wore a flashy watch, and we ate the best food. Then people in the town became jealous. A group of them got together and said that your uncle was making statements against the government. At that time, anyone could be put away for any reason. They sent your uncle to a mental hospital- anyone who opposed the government must be insane. He was sane going in, but he was crazy when he came out. They gave him all kinds of drugs, did all kinds of things. When we saw him again, he was a totally different person. He would fly into rages for no reason, violently throwing chairs, punching walls. We were all terrified of him. He would wander the streets, sleeping in gutters. He’s much better now. He couldn’t be a pilot anymore, but he got a ground job. You can’t imagine how bad it was; he has never been the same, saying horrible things, angry with everything. But he has a good heart, and he is a true genius.”
Is it strange that these terrible family secrets of unbearable loss somehow borne make me feel lucky? Carrying my mom’s ashes in a box to be buried in my grandfather’s graveyard, I thought that if my uncle and everyone else had to go through so many injustices and they’re still kickin’ it, then basically nothing bad has ever happened to me. Bad things happen so easily- my mother’s mother died when she was quite young, so my mother might easily have never been born- I could easily have never been born. And if I’d never been born my poor small cat would be languishing in a shelter instead of rolling on the lap of an MIT graduate (‘MIT graduate’ is how my mom still introduced me to her friends 4 years after I’d graduated and gone on to, like, do other things), and you, my dear reader, would be viewing some stupid lolcat thing instead of this superior blog.
During my time in China, my family went through all kinds of efforts to please me and my American ways, putting a drying rack in my room to act as a space heater, humoring my desire to play badminton, investigating the price of Chinese gold, constantly asking what I wanted to eat and then haggling for hours over a few dollars before buying it. I love durian and coconuts and ate a lot of them. Nevertheless, I don’t think I could ever live in Asia. I’m too American. For example, Chongqing’s January is cold but no one uses indoor heating- everyone wears coats indoors while inexplicably keeping all the windows and doors open so that it’s actually colder inside than outside. My first reaction to the sight of everyone wearing down coats while eating inside a relatively nice restaurant was, “China sucks,” and then, “How efficient,” a response I would experience many times on this trip.
Despite every trip to Asia being an affirmation of my Americanness and the existence of endless, dark family secrets, each time I feel like I want to go back more often. Almost my whole family is there, and it’s easy to forget what that means, having never had it growing up in America. Who else would lecture you on having been way too fat during your last visit while exclaiming over how much thinner you are now? Who else would fret over every little thing you’re eating or not eating and insist on hand washing all your clothes? Who else would use your deodorant and lipstick with impunity without asking? Who else would insist on bizarre medical advice such as the importance of not showering for a full month after giving birth? And the first thing my Aunt wanted to do when she came to America was raise me a chicken to live in my yard and lay an egg for me every day! I feel so blessed to have my gigantic, crazy Chinese family and I look forward to the day I’m advising some young relative on the virtues of wearing jade that can only be removed by a trained assistant with lotioned hands.
