Nationality-Blank American
W
By Kathryn Lee
hen my grandfather died last summer, we burned his clothes at sunset. In the rice paddy facing the family house where green blades no longer peeked through the water since harvesting season ended, my cousins set down a burn barrel. A k 4f ]C ]T 4CA T^fCC; [^CTk k fC 3TTCAl I4fC; C 3C^ kT T;A‘ 4k3k^fk^fCT;fk^fCTk]C[ CCT^C;Al Cotton button-down shirts and dark mid-length pants—clothes that once draped over a man who had been fk [ fCAkC; ]T T f; ; f^A‘ 3TkC]A‘ k fC kTA‘ kC ^C kf 3;A‘ 3C]TC 3Ck^ consumed by the blaze. My cousins continuously walked in and out of the house, carrying out large bundles of clothing each time. TfCTC CCC; 3C k[kC ] fk^ 3TA‘ 3 fCTC TfA‘ 4k ^TCCC f fC [TC was at our behest. Not vice versa.
“We stood outside until every last article of clothing that had belonged to my grandfather—a reserved, kind, gentle farmer and father of five—was brought out and incinerated.”
I ;k;A ^T;]fCT T fC TC ] ]k CAl I 3T k ACTk4AFk ^ k M;TkAq kCTA‘ A„3Ck] 4TA” k E^kfAl A; f^f IRkkC; Tk CRCT CTA‘ 4 ] ]C4 k both the local Taiwanese Hokkien dialect and the more universal Mandarin, coupled with my grandfather’s taciturn nature, resulted in a lack of basic communication. My grandfather represented everything that ostracized me from my family. He spoke Hokkien while I spoke E^kfAq fC ;CT fkC I ^CTAq fC kCCk TkCC fkC I CkRC ACTk4Al A; as the patriarch, it was he who had to act as a microcosm for our entire family’s values and attitude. HC k; fC 44f ; 4fk^ fC ^CT C A; CkC TCT ] TkCC operas at my grandmother’s pestering) while I squirmed on the faux red leather couch nearby, the humidity painting patchy sweat stains on my tank top. Vacations in Dounan, my grandparents’ ancestral home, were the typical A„fk^A⁄A⁄;A” CT f CRCT k; ;TC;Al OT fC ]C; 3 Tk4C;;kC ; Ck^f3TAl The nearest building was a car dealership across the street and the walk to town took eons under the burning sun, which prided itself on consistently heating the landscape to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. But I was secretly grateful that neither of my grandparents spoke much to me. There was less to be ashamed of—neither my broken Mandarin nor my complete ignorance of local customs could be exposed if I didn’t have to say anything. I hid behind my sister when my cousins took us to night markets, endured pointed comments about the way I held my chopsticks (crossed inappropriately at the top, the most obvious sign that I wasn’t purely Asian), and startled at the sputtering sound of the postman’s motorcycle outside our door. IC fCC R4k ;Tk^ C] k CCA‘ k4 TTk^ 3 3Ck^ C^ C CRCT kC sister turned to converse with our cousins. With my sister occupied for hours on end, the guise that I was busy with something fell apart. This opened the door for my uncles or grandparents to turn their well-meaning but uncomfortable attention toward me. So despite the trademark square-cut face and ruddy cheeks that k;Ck[C;CC3CT] fCLCC]kA‘I]CkC )k^TDA‘]TCk^ETCAl My grandmother and I would walk through the local supermarket, a huge building akin to Target, my eyes wandering over the items yet struggling to fully read the labels. I recognized some words here and there: “the,” “best,” “cake,” but it was always the one elusive word like “chocolate,” that would steal from me half the item’s identity. Rinse and repeat for hundreds of other items in the store.
White Chrysanthemums are symbols of mourning in parts of Asia including Taiwan
10 ASIAN OUTLOOK
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