By Gavin Huang
HUANG: A JOURNEY OF EIGHT THOUSAND MILES 黄家：八千里之行
By Gavin Huang Photographs by Members of the Huang Family
Previous: (Clockwise, from top left) My uncle, sister, me, grandmother from mother’s side, father, mother, aunt, second uncle, second aunt, and grandmother from father’s side at my cousin’s wedding (Manhattan, June 2006) Opposite: The last photograph of my grandfather, during Chinese New Year (Brooklyn, February 1987) Copyright © 2010 by Gavin Huang No rights reserved. Printed at a Staples Print and Copy Center in New York City. All parts of this book may be reproduced and transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic and mechanical, including photocopying, recording, and by any information storage and retrieval system, without any permission from the publisher. For more information, email ghuang92@gmail.com. For more works by Gavin Huang, visit www.stuyspectator.com and www.youtube.com/huangavin.
To the grandfather I never knew
CONTENTS 目录 INTRODUCTION
3
PART ONE: IN CHINA (1917‐1985)
MY GRANDFATHER, WHO LIVES IN SPIRIT
6
MY GRANDMOTHER, WHO TRANSCENDS TIME
8
MY UNCLE, WHO SWAM THE SOUTH CHINA SEA
10
PART TWO: IN AMERICA (1985‐PRESENT)
MY FATHER, AND HIS BOOKS
16
MY MOTHER, AND HER FAMILY
20
MY SISTER, AND THE NEXT GENERATION
22
BACK TO CHINA
27
(Clockwise, from top left) My uncle, father, grandmother, grandfather, and m three youngest cousins at my grandfather’s birthday last birthday (Chinatown, October 1986)
2 | INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION Eight is an important number in Chinese culture. Eight represents luck and prosperity. The word in Chinese sounds like “fa,” which means wealth. Eight is also the number of thousands of miles that separates Guangzhou, where my family is from, and New York City. There is an old saying by Chinese philosopher Laozi that is often wrongly attributed to Confucius. It goes something like “A journey of a thou‐ sand miles starts with a single step.” When I decided to center my book around my family, I was taking on an unexpectedly monumental task, because this book is not just a family album. The photographs represent more than just snapshots. They are our history. They are my family’s history. Each photograph is a point on a long timeline that stretches decades. They are points on a journey that stretches thousands of miles. For this book is not merely a portrayal of one generation or one mood, but the connection between several and the effect the past has on the present. In Chinese culture, the elderly are respected for their wisdom and the years of experience they carry with them. I carry with me the weight of my ancestors and the aspirations of past generations. The Chinese believe in cycles. They believe that, like the seasons, life works in a circle. Here, each member of my family affects another. There are themes that resonate with each. Eventually, the stories will seem to reflect the same themes, but beware, they do not. One cannot catego‐ rize perfectly each member of my family. Even though I have split the book into two parts, China and America, the categories are merely guides. Each person represents a different aspect of the Chinese‐American experience, and they all have their own individual stories. They are all char‐ acters as well as people. They have their own identities and their own unanswered questions. Noticeably missing, though, is my own story, be‐ cause I have yet to know what mine is. My experience observing my family, both through the lens of my camera and my own eyes, has added to my identity. It has helped build who I am as a person and where I belong. In the end, though, I feel I am still stuck in the middle, between my family’s roots and an uncertain future. The book begins with China and ends with China. It also begins with the past and ends in the present, though even the present has elements of the past. The book is essentially a timeline, both metrically and thematically. As one moves away from the middle of the book, the stories will become more Chinese or more American. But in the mix, there will also be hints of different eras, because old relatives don’t die; they merely live on in a spiritual form. As the next generation matures, the past will move with them. The memories and the stories are never lost. The cul‐ tural heritage is always relevant. The Earth will continue to spin, the seasons will change, the winds will continue to blow, but the past will al‐ ways remain. —Gavin Huang INTRODUCTION | 3
中 国
Chinese propaganda posters from the Cultural Revolution
MY GRANDFATHER, WHO LIVES IN SPIRIT Every year on April 5, my family celebrates Qingming. In Chinese, it is referred to as a “festival,” but the mood is far from festive. It is less of a celebration and more of a sacred ritual to honor the deceased and send offerings to rela‐ tives who have passed into the next world. The Chinese believe that when people die, their spirits ascend into the heavens, regardless of sin or virtue. Every year, I visit my grandmother, who keeps a traditional Buddhist shrine with a picture of my grandfather. She hands my sister and me lit reeds, and we bow, thanking him for watching over us, as my grandmother burns golden paper. The smoke rises towards the sky, as alms for my grandfather. I never knew my grandfather. He passed away before I was born. I only know him through the stories my father tells and the pictures my grandmother hangs on her wall. I know that he was the principal of a private school. I know that he believed strongly in education and the power of books, whether they were the works of Li Bai, one of China’s most revered poets in the traditional form, or the Sherlock Holmes stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He even found value in the works of Mao Zedong, whose poli‐ tics he distrusted but whose words he appreciated. My grandfather represents to me a long gone past that I never knew. His memory holds the key to my family’s his‐ tory and pulls me closer to my Chinese roots. His life still fascinates me and staggers the imagination. Who was this man? What made him devote so much of his life to educa‐ tion? What did he feel when he had to abandon every‐ thing he had during World War II and the Cultural Revolu‐ tion? That I will never know.
黄 国 宏
6 | HUANG GUOHONG (1917‐1987)
My grandfather (bottom row, second from the left) with his col‐ leagues at the Guangzhou primary school he was principal of in 1957 (my grandmother, who taught math at the school, is on the bottom row, far right)
The shrine my grandmother puts out every April on Qingming A photo of my grandfather holds a special place on my grandmother’s shelf, next to some of her most precious gifts and her alarm clock HUANG GUOHONG (1917‐1987) | 7
MY GRANDMOTHER, WHO TRANSCENDS TIME The wrinkles on her face say a lot. My grandmother has been through the Great Depression, World War II, the Chinese Civil War, the Great Leap Forward, the Cultural Revolution, and the post‐Mao years. She has seen the passing of several generations, the passing of her be‐ loved, the passing of her nephew, the marriages of both her sons, and the birth of her grandchildren. She has experienced moments of grief and joy, strife and prosperity. And she is still ready to see more. Come fall, she is eager to accompany me as I matriculate college. Like my grandfather, my grandmother was an educator. She taught math at my grandfather’s private school. It was where they initially met. During World War II, both were forced out of their homes by Japanese troops and spent much of the war years traversing the country and setting up makeshift schools in private homes. They taught groups of children in exchange for rice, food, and other com‐ modities from the families they served, since money wasn’t available during the Chinese Civil War years. Well after the end of her teaching career, in America, it was my grandmother was the who raised me and taught me both math and Chinese. Even at the age of 86, she continues to exude a character that says she is ready to take on the world. She spends most of her time out‐ side with the friends she has made throughout her years in America, and she has many more in China. My grandmother goes back often to visit relatives and reconnect with old friends. When she takes out her photo albums, she points to people that I don’t know—a distant friend, a relative once removed, a 50‐year‐old cousin, a 70‐year‐old aunt. She is the family’s keeper of records. “Family is the most impor‐ tant thing in life,” my grandma always tells me. “You can never re‐ place it.” As time passes, many of her grandchildren have moved to various parts of the country while she remains in New York City, close to my father and uncle.
李 玉 玲
8 | LI YULING (1924‐PRESENT)
As the last of her generation, my grandmother has become the archivist of an age. Her apartment walls are filled with relics of the past and snapshots of the present.
LI YULING (1924‐PRESENT) | 9
MY UNCLE, WHO SWAM THE SOUTH CHINA SEA It’s the stuff of fiction. A man, in search of a better future, leaps into a river, braves the natural elements, and swims towards freedom and a brighter future. When the Cultural Revolution was coming to a close in the late 1970s, jobs were scarce, even in a large city like Guangzhou. My uncle, desperate for a job, swam to Shenzhen and boarded a train to Hong Kong. This is what my father tells me. It’s what my grandmother tells me. He just swam. In Hong Kong, he took up work in a gar‐ ment factory, and then worked as a photographer, the type who does wed‐ ding portraits. To this day, he still has his old camera, and if it was still func‐ tioning, I would be the one using it. In 1975, my uncle applied for a visa to the United States with refugee status. Over the years, he’s worked various odd jobs in New York City’s hidden sweatshops, supporting his family of five—he has a wife and three children, all of whom are now well out of college. He also developed a gambling addiction, and now spends much of his time bidding on horse races on television and scratching lottery tickets. He works as a school cafeteria aide at Stuyvesant High School—that is, the old building. To me, at least, my uncle represents the tragic figure in the family, a man who was once great and ambitious, but faced a harsh reality and was forced to live with it. The stories my father and grandmother tell me of his ventures as a young man put things into perspective. I know him more in his past than the present; I never even knew his English name until my work started on this book. In spite of his flaws, I respect him for the young man he once was, the wizened man he is now, and the hope he holds for his children and their futures.
潘 埔 逸
10 | POON PUYI / DAVID POON (1946‐PRESENT)
POON PUYI / DAVID POON (1946‐PRESENT) | 11
Lowering my head, I dream of home. —Li Bai
Lifting my head, I watch the bright moon.
举 头 望 明 月 低
In 1966, Mao Zedong, leader of the Chinese Communist Party, began a movement to rid the country of those he believed were not loyal enough to the government. Many scholars believe that by then, Mao’s power and sanity was beginning to fade. He called the movement the “Cultural Revolution,” a movement that lasted until his death in 1976. He called on his supporters to weed out members of society who were opposed to the party, were apathetic, or represented the society of old China. For a decade, the country’s institutions were effectively shut down, as the Cult of Mao burned precious artifacts from the past and forced China’s intellectuals and scholars out of their homes. They were put to work on communal farms or sent out of the country. In 1970, my family received notice that they were to leave the city of Guangzhou and move to the rural outskirts of the prov‐ ince. As an educator, my grandfather, along with my grand‐ mother, represented the old regime, the traditional social structures that dictated how old China worked, which included an emphasis on elitism and education as the path to success. Even the traditional festival of Qingming was banned.
Back then, my father was only eight. For nine years, he and my grandparents tended rice crops in the mountains of Guangdong province. My father’s primary education was basic: reading, writing, and arithmetic. When my family was allowed to return to the city in 1979, my father was 17, and China was still recovering from the Cultural Revolution. As a result, my father never went to college, and my grandfather devel‐ oped health problems that would follow him to America.
The last photo of my grandmother, father, and grandfather in Guangzhou before they were forced into the countryside in June 1970
My grandmother, father, and grandfather upon their return to Guangzhou in February 1979
头 思 故 乡
12 | CHINA TO AMERICA
In 1983, my father was working as a manger in one of Guang‐ zhou’s most acclaimed five‐star hotels, the White Swan Hotel. By then, China was on its way to success, owing to the eco‐ nomic reforms of Deng Xiaoping. Still, living conditions were harsh. Even then, America was the land of dreams. Ten years after my uncle arrived, my father, grandfather, and grandmother were allowed to apply for visas to the United States. When they arrived, my father found that he needed to start over. His dream was to go to college here and study hotel administration, but pragmatic issues took hold and instead, he found work in the city’s garment factories and restaurants. My family started off in a small apartment in East New York. When my parents earned enough to buy a house, they moved to Bensonhurst, about a year before I was born. If my father had stayed in China, he probably would have continued work‐ ing at the hotel. (It is still one of Guangzhou’s high‐end hotels.) But he says the things gained in the long run are worth it.
In 2005, my grandmother suffered a fall, causing bleeding in one of the lobes of her brain. She spent weeks in the hospital, while doctors per‐ formed surgery on the affected area. My parents spent most of their time at the hospital. When my grandmother recovered and was allowed to move back to her apartment, our family visited her. Seeing her lying in bed, half of her scalp covered with scars, we greeted her. “Hi, Grandma.” “Grandma isn’t grandma anymore,” she said to us. She thought she was close to death. Five years later, time has healed her wounds. She’s smiling and going on trips, as if nothing ever happened, but her close encounter with death was a realization that time had caught up with her. As much as we want to re‐ live the past, we have to accept that at some point, we all grow old.
My grandmother, father, and grandfather in their last photo in Guangzhou in November 1983 before leaving for America FROM CHINA TO AMERICA | 13
美 国
PART TWO: IN AMERICA 1985‐PRESENT
Chinatown from the Manhattan Bridge
MY FATHER, AND HIS BOOKS
My grandmother calls my father “the smart one.” He was always the brother who studied hard and appreciated an education. Unfortunately, circumstances never allowed academics to translate into monetary success. My father was born into the Cultural Revolution. He was born into tumultuous times in a country that knows all too much about chaos. The Chinese believe in it. They believe in cycles of ups and downs, and my father happened to grow up during one of the downs. Still, he tried to make the most of what he had and eventually worked his way to the United States During the 2008 Olympics, I asked my father whether he was rooting for China. When he said no, I asked him why. “I’ve been in America for 23 years and China for 23 years,” my father said. “And America has given me more.” In spite the hard work he had to put in to get to where he is now (and in terms of the socioeconomic ladder, we are still not that far up), he still appreciates the freedom we have here. It’s even more difficult in China to make it to the top and have a successful life. His experiences in both countries have shaped his opin‐ ions on society. He thinks people should be allowed to do what they want, to make their own money, to voice their own opinions. My father works as a package deliveryman, but he doesn’t mind because of the hope he has for my fu‐ ture, as well as my sister’s. He believes we can succeed where he didn’t. He believes that my sister and I would never have had the same opportunities if my family had stayed in China. It’s the classic American dream.
黄 史 良
16 | HUANG SHILIANG / SIMON HUANG (1962‐PRESENT)
My father enjoys blending Chinese and American cui‐ sine, using the traditional Chinese wok to create new dishes that are Chinese in taste but also feel American. In a typical dinner, you will find red Italian wine with a classic soy sauce lobster dish. He’ll have a New York strip steak seasoned with a type of Chinese oyster sauce. My father doesn’t have a preference for one cui‐ sine. On one day, he’ll be talking it up with waiters at a restaurant in Chinatown. The next, he’ll be in a suit and tie at a French restaurant in SoHo.
My father (right) with my uncle from my mother’s side (left) at a late‐ night dinner at a Chinese restaurant HUANG SHILIANG / SIMON HUANG (1962‐PRESENT) | 17
My father’s bookshelf (opposite, lower right) is filled with mementos of the past. Each book represents a different point in his life thus far. There’s a collection of old par‐ ables from his childhood and an autobiography of the last emperor of China from his father, my grandfather. There’s Gerry Frank’s “Guide to New York,” from when he first came to the United States, and there are books on hospi‐ tality management and a book by Donald Trump (his hero) on climbing up the business world, from when pos‐ sibilities for him seemed endless. The books stopped when he got his first job in the United States—working in a sweatshop. A lot can be said from the books one owns. My grandfather (below) loved reading. His love for books seems to have passed on to my father (right), who now spends much of
18 | BOOKSHELVES
his free time reading newspapers. My sister’s shelf (lower left) holds her Harry Potter collection. She is on her way to completing her Twilight collection as well. Her shelf is filled with gifts from her friends— figurines of Japanese anime characters, fragrant from Bath and Body Works, jars of paper stars. Teenage girls love this stuff. My grandmother’s shelf, likewise, is filled mostly with things that are not her own. She has pictures of her family and gifts we made for her when my sister and I were kids. There’s an old mouse I sewed for her, a bead figurine from my grandmother on my mother’s side, a paper tree my sister made when she was in elementary school, and other little trinkets she’s collected over the years. These are the things my family appreciates. What they have on their shelves are the things they hold dear, whether it’s family items or Harry Potter. They make us who we are and tell us where we’ve been.
BOOKSHELVES | 19
MY MOTHER, AND HER FAMILY
Face is important in Chinese culture. It’s difficult to de‐ fine, but it can be summed up as dignity and prestige. It is the way others in society see you. Saving face is regaining lost respect. It can be synonymous with fighting for face, also known as “keeping up with the Joneses.” My mother is concerned with outside perception. In fact, she insisted that my photograph of her be one in which she is dressed in something nice and respectable. In a sense, she is the defender of our face. She is the one who will try and hide embarrassments, downplay them, and stress our family’s achievements. It is not to say that face is a bad thing. It is a concept in‐ grained in Chinese culture and it seems to be prevalent in many other cultures in some form or another. It stress modesty, deference, and politeness. At the same time, face can seem restricting. It’s annoying when my mother asks where a friend of mine is going to college or what awards other people receive. Sometimes, face merely adds to so‐ cial fire. It encourages competition. I’m not sure, though, if her concern with face has to do with customs or the natu‐ ral instinct of a mother. It’s nice when my mother lifts her façade and reveals a side of her that isn’t concerned with how others see us. When I got my first music player, she asked me what type of music I listened to. When I told her “Rolling Stones,” she surprised me by talking about their music and how she used to listen to them when she was younger. In America, there seems to be more emphasis on the individual. Not so much in Chinese culture.
林 玉 萍
20 | LIN YUPING / BRENDA HUANG (1965‐PRESENT)
My grandfather (top left), that is my mother’s father, spends most of his days at home. Occasionally, he will go outside for a short walk, on the advice of his doctors, or on errands for groceries and newspapers. My grandmother, my mother’s mother, complains that he is useless while she does most of the chores in the household. In 1997, my grandfather was diagnosed with depression. There is a photo of him smiling with our family at the beach in 1997. It is perhaps the last photo I know of which he was smiling. In China, he was a jeweler and has a vast knowledge of everything old. When I began collecting stamps and coins, he took an interest and guided me through my collection. I barely know him because he rarely talks, but in the mo‐ ments that he does, it shows that he is not too far off, that there is still some life in him. In old pictures, he is young and active. I can only imagine what he was like before, but it’s difficult. My uncle (top right), my mother’s younger brother, tries to convince him to go outside and take walks. In China, in a long gone past, he had many friends, most of whom still remember him. Here, all he has is family.
林 嘉 康
LIN YUPING / BRENDA HUANG (1965‐PRESENT) | 21
MY SISTER, AND THE NEXT GENERATION
My parents have tried for years to put my sister and me in Chinese school but have always failed. We always protest. “We don’t have time” was one excuse. “We don’t need to learn” was another. Six years ago, my parents succeeded and enrolled both of us in a Chinese school. We were put in Level II because of our knowledge of Cantonese. We hated the lessons. I was 12, and my sister was 10. We complained that they were a waste of time, that we would never need to use Chinese, but my parents didn’t let up. Six years later, I am glad my parents put us through the torture, though the same cannot be said of my sister. My sister and I stayed in the Chinese school for five years. My Chinese is still a little shaky, but I can hold up a short conversation if need be. I’ve come to appreciate the cul‐ ture and its intricate history. My sister has yet to develop such an interest in the past. She’s more interested in Span‐ ish and Japanese. She reads manga, watches anime, and posters of Asian boy bands dot her bedroom wall. She reads Harry Potter, Twilight, everything a teenager would be reading these days, and she’s become very adept at writing (and the computer). (It seems like most of my fam‐ ily is adept at writing, whether it’s in Chinese or English.) My sister represents the first generation of my family to grow up in America. We’re reluctant to call ourselves Chi‐ nese because we’re not as close to our roots as other members of our family. We call ourselves Chinese‐ American, or ABC—American‐born Chinese.
黄 蔼 祁
22 | HUANG AIREN / JACQUELINE HUANG (1994‐PRESENT)
In 2008, my cousin’s wife gave birth to triplets, which makes me an uncle of sorts. My cousin is a devout Christian. He and his wife met in church and are now raising their sons to be Christians as well. In fact, they named them af‐ ter historical religious figures—Gabriel, Geof‐ frey, and Gregory. They’re in Chinatown every Sunday for church, and I see them at family functions during Chinese New Year and other traditional holidays. The dualities make me wonder what future generations will make of their roots. They can’t speak full sentences yet, but they’ve said a few words in both English and Chinese. Even as generations move further away from old traditions, new ones arise and the old ones still linger in memory. It’s impor‐ tant that the past is never lost or forgotten.
JACQUELINE HUANG / HUANG AIREN (1994‐PRESENT) | 23
For the next generation, Chinatown is home. It is a bastion of culture that ties us to our roots. We live in it, we get involved in it. During Chinese New Year, the streets are alive with the sound of drums and gongs. The loud rhythms keep bad spirits away and en‐ sure that the new year will come with fortune and luck. It is the mo‐ ment that makes us all Chinese. My sister and I love the parades. We grew up with the dances, the confetti, the sights, the smells, and the sounds of Chinatown. In southern China, colorful lions weave their way through streets, as crowds follow them in celebration. As a microcosm of the celebra‐ tions in China, the parades in Chinatown are the closest we can get to the real thing. One year, my cousin volunteered to be one of the dancers. For a day, my sister and I followed him through the streets of Chinatown, weav‐ ing through excited children, curious tourists, and eager spectators. It is tradition for different dance groups to perform in front of stores, where owners come out and pay them in red envelopes as part of the celebrations. Sometimes, the shows become extravagant, incorporat‐ ing daring stunts and carefully choreographed performances.
24 | CHINESE NEW YEAR
CHINESE NEW YEAR | 25
26 | BACK TO CHINA
BACK TO CHINA A journey, no matter how long, always ends at home. In July 1988, my father and mother went back to China to return my grandfather’s ashes to his place of birth. By then, they had begun dating. Before my grandfather passed, he requested that his ashes be spread along the Pearl River, a river that cuts through the city of Guangzhou, much like the Hudson River cuts through New York City. After performing the last rites, my parents visited the mystical city of Guilin in the Guangxi province. The city is famous for its scenery, known in China as “the best among all under heaven.” Its green mountains watch over a city that has built itself on a great pasture. Rivers run through rolling hills, providing life for the city’s fragrant sweet osmanthus trees. Few can believe what they see from pictures; one must see the city with their own eyes. In July 2006, I took a trip to China with my grandmother to visit old relatives and a country that up till then was only a setting for my father’s and grandmother’s stories. Someday, I hope to go back, for more humanitarian purposes. For a few days, my grandmother took me out of the city and traveled with me to the countryside, where the mountains were lush, the valleys were filled with rice paddies, and the standard of living was low. “This is how we lived,” my grandmother said. The contrast was stark. It was a world that I knew existed but had never actually seen. There were beggars missing limbs, construction workers covered in limestone dust, and farmers lugging pails of water to and from crops. “We’re lucky to have gotten out,” my grandmother said. I’ve lived in New York City all my life. I was born here, raised here, and when I pass, I want my spirit to flow with the Hudson. But growing up in New York City, one also develops a sense of responsibility as a citizen of the world. It comes with being surrounded by diverse people and di‐ verse stories, and I want to hear all of them. I see images everyday of news halfway across the world, and I want to report on them. My father continues to tell me stories of the past, and every day, I make new connections between the past and the present. —黄蔼禧
BACK TO CHINA | 27