Long Time No See

“Family” felt like a loaded term growing up.

It seemed like I knew more about the strangers around me than the blood relatives I had never seen overseas. The number of family members I was familiar with could be counted on my two hands. The number of relatives I could actually name was far less.

My parents immigrated to America in the mid-90’s, isolating us within the “amber waves of grain,” while their parents, and the majority of their families, stayed in China. From physical barriers to language barriers to cultural barriers, it was a complicated effort to maintain a close relationship with the family we had overseas. Besides sweaty summer holiday visits and awkwardly scripted Lunar New Year phone calls, there were few opportunities to create strong ties to the people who made up our family tree.

As time passes, we all become busier with our own lives, growing branches of our family tree in new directions. We visit China less and less and memories of our childhood trips become more and more static. It seems as though this may be one of my last chances to look back and try to discover my family has created before there’s only time to look towards the future.

This story begins and ends with my sister and me.

Despite feeling quite estranged from the majority of my family, I dedicate myself very closely to the ones I do know. There are no words to accurately describe the gratitude I have for having a sister that I consider as much a friend as I do family.

My sister and I were born two and half years apart. Despite being in different grades and classes, we were able to do most activities together and shared many friends. Even today, Jackie casually hangs out with my group of friends, and vice versa.

Like in many immigrant families, my sister took on many of the parental responsibilities that immigrant parents can’t at a young age. She worked as a translator when my parents didn’t understand what teachers were saying and figured out how to apply to college all alone, only to help me with the same application two years later. Despite only being two years older, Jackie was forced into responsibilities I was able to dodge with my younger, more simple-minded nature.

There were always these cultural expectations of becoming successful that were placed on us. It wasn’t like our parents had really started out with nothing, but nonetheless, we were expected, like all immigrant children, to do better than our parents before us. Maybe it’s because of those expectations that my sister went to Carnegie Mellon to study computer science, toiling over her difficult exams with concepts I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around, while I went to the California Institute of the Arts to study graphic design, and spent every moment of it working as hard as I could to justify being there.

I can’t help but feel that I had taken for granted just how much easier it was to navigate the many uncertainties and expectations that growing up brings with my sister by my side. I spent much of my younger years feeling incredibly alone, but it was building our relationship that helped me realize the importance of family.

My sister’s graduation was a big event for my entire family and an ending to a long chapter of our lives.

It was a demanding number of years for my sister, as well as my parents, as Carnegie Mellon’s curriculum challenged Jackie mentally and emotionally, and they struggled to support her in their different ways.

We all flew out to Pittsburgh separately. My mom and her boyfriend, Moses, flew in first, followed by my dad, and lastly, me, the day after school ended for me. It was a stressful trek with the anxiety of a “family reunion” lingering on my mind.

After their divorce, my parents rarely interacted, apart from the occasional text about taxes or the quick greeting at high school graduations. But this momentous occasion, one that involved large investments from both sides, could not be divided into two, the way Christmases and birthdays could.

The memory of their arguing reverberated across the Carnegie Music Hall walls, but they acted civil, seated on opposite sides of me, taking turns photographing the other posed with Jackie.

When the ceremony was over, we traveled to New York with our mom and then met up with our dad in Boston, celebrating with them each individually.

In the summer of 2017, we went back to China.

It’s said often enough that we take what we have for granted. Growing up, one of my sister’s and my biggest fears was calling relatives over the phone. And, I’ll be honest, the fear hasn’t completely gone away.

In January of 2017, in the middle of my freshman year at CalArts, I received word that my grandpa on my mom’s side was not doing too well. I can’t remember when exactly he discovered he had liver cancer, but by the time I had heard, he was already hospitalized.The news of my grandpa’s health troubled me more that I thought it would. Because of my distance from the majority of my relatives, I had no other experience of a family member in such critical condition.

My mom flew back to China to go see her dad one last time. Jackie and I stayed at school to not fall behind. I have little idea of what it really was like there. My mom sent a few photos of her trip, mostly spending sleepless nights talking to relatives or keeping her father company.

I can’t describe the feeling of losing a loved one you knew so little about. My love for my grandpa ran deep because of memories of happy summers spent with him and a naive unknowing of all the inevitable faults he had. I couldn’t help but wonder if the mourning I felt was invalidated by how little I actually knew of my grandpa.

That summer, I sat with my grandma a lot. One day, she pulled out a little red notebook, warped and curled forward from trapped moisture. Inside was a collection of photographs my grandfather had taken during the time my mom was born to the later years of her childhood. In China, like many non-Western countries, photography was an uncommon hobby for common citizens until after the Cultural Revolution in the mid-70s. Cameras were expensive and facilities to develop photos were rare. This is the first family heirloom I ever received.

Because of stereotypes, it was difficult for me to believe that there were artists in my family.

During my freshman year, my dad showed me a collection of block prints from his hometown while visiting me at school. I had shown him a screen printed book cover I made in school a month earlier.

He had told me his family came from a line of paper makers years before, but in my 10 year old brain, I imagined fresh 8.5x11 sheets of paper flying out of a printer. Holding these prints of delicate hand-made paper felt reassuring, like I wasn’t alone in my artistic ventures.

My dad’s family had owned a prominent print shop in the early 1900’s. A simple stamp was enough to convey it’s quality of product. My great-grandfather was a kindhearted business owner, supporting many of the townspeople. During the Cultural Revolution, as rumors of the bourgeoisie being dragged into the streets and humiliated spread, my great-uncle urged my great-grandfather to escape to Hong Kong. Feeling responsible for the livelihoods of his workers, he refused.

Fortunately, my great-grandfather’s kindness paid off. Instead of being humiliated, the townspeople let him go. Communism, however, was not as kind, and forced him and his family to move onto the communal farms where my dad was eventually born.

It’s incredible what is important to a child and what is not.

In middle school, my mom took my sister and I on a Root-Seeking Camp. Inviting Chinese diaspora from around the world, the camp took us to some of China’s most prominent landmarks. We went to the Great Wall, 2008 Olympic Bird’s Nest, Summer Palace, and more.

The camp even invited us inside the Great Hall of the People, a building the majority of Chinese citizens have not entered. The government shut down Tiananmen Square to allow buses full of slimy pre-pubescent teens enter into the government building and pretend to listen to their expensive performance.

I always think of it like when parents take their babies to Disneyland. The baby doesn’t remember anything and cries the entire time.

There are several years of my life that I have erased from my memory.

The years surrounding my parents’ divorce are incredibly hazy to me. On top of that, there’s significantly less photos taken from this time. My dad had moved out of our family home and it was a long time before we really spent time with him again.

I remember coming home from school one day and my bed was gone. My dad had taken it to the place he was living temporarily. I remember crying because I had made an entire Christmas lounge out of q-tips and popsicle sticks for my stuffed animals on the shelf on the bed frame.

Often I wonder if the lack of memories I have from this era is because of the lack of documentation. The images we see bring back context to things that no longer relate to us. It could also be because I didn’t want to remember those moments.

When my parents got divorced, it was still rather uncommon for Chinese people. I remember many friends asking about it—or being too afraid to ask. Today, it seems like more and more parents we knew growing up are getting divorced, but at ten years old, it was just nice to know that the white kid sitting next to me also had divorced parents and that he seemed like he was doing okay.

The photos of my childhood make it all seem so picturesque.

There’s a Chinese-American way of raising your kids, where you ensure they have won before the race has even begun. Consequently, my sister and I were enrolled in copious amounts of extracurricular activities. On Mondays we had dance lessons where we learned jazz and ballet. On Tuesdays we had art classes, my favorite of the week. On Wednesdays we had swimming. On Thursdays we had piano lessons, my least favorite. On Fridays, swim again. And on Saturdays we rushed to finish our homework for the week. On Sundays we had Chinese school.

I remember being exhausted, even as an eight year old. I didn’t enjoy any of my classes other than drawing, and never wanted to go to any of them. At that age, I just enjoyed playing with my My Little Ponies and Bratz dolls. Whenever I complained, my mom would say the exhausted, “You’ll thank me when you’re older” line. Whenever I cried, my dad would give the overworked, “If I had these opportunities when I was younger…” line.

But now that I am older, I often think back on whether or not it was worth it. Some classes, like drawing, I have always liked and been grateful for. Others I’m still not sure were worth the emotional drainage. Maybe we’ll look back in another 10 years.

I think I had a lot of inner demons as a child. Like my mom, I am highly emotional and have a flair for the dramatic. In many of our home videos, it seems like I’m one push away from crying at all times. I remember feeling incredibly sad and alone at that time. Never as good as my sister, always a loser a step behind. I wanted love from my parents, but they were too occupied with their own troubles to pay attention to me the way I wanted.

It has taken over a decade of growth for me to come to terms with the sadness I felt as a child and look back at it and laugh. Those years were trying, but the photos prove there was a lot to smile about as well.

Our family trip to China was the first and last time we would visit both my mom and dad’s families.

This was also my parents’ first time back in China since they immigrated. They returned to the Institute they both attended, showing my sister and I off to their old co-workers. My dad pointed out that they were all envious.

There are only a few things I remember from this trip. The first is the flooding. I remember wading through water up to my knees as we walked from my grandma’s house to the subway station. The second is the smell of the subway station. Even now, it’s a scent that I am nostalgic for. The third, and final, memory is crying because my Hunanese grandparents’ toilet was in the ground. My dad had to carry my sister and I when we used the bathroom.

In these photos, there’s a great representation of city life (Shanghai) in comparison to a more rural area (Hunan). From the architecture and city streets to the fashion and food, it’s clear that my parents came from two very different backgrounds—backgrounds that are both very different from the ones my sister and I came from.

I didn’t understand the economic gap between Shanghai and Hunan at that age, but I knew I liked Shanghai better because I was spoiled more there. Shanghai was also much more westernized, due to it being a prominent port city, which made it closer to home.

When I was born, my grandma helped my mom take care of me. When she went back to China, I went with her.

I wish I had more memories of my first trip to China because I must have been so happy. My grandparents and Uncle spoiled me to filth, giving me soda and candy and letting me run around like a little demon.

My mom always tells the story of when I first returned home. She says after only eating all the fun sweet stuff in China, I hated most of the things my mom cooked. I started crying while eating something so she told me to spit it into her hand. I looked at her, then spat it on the floor. She had to work hard to train me back into a decent child.

I think these early memories of China created an early longing to go back. Unlike my sister, I always wanted to spend summer vacations at my grandma’s house. My grandma reminds me of how much she regrets not going back to America with me every time we visit her in China.

My sister’s birth ends the story of just my parents.

From just a couple to a family, my sister becomes the most important thing in my parents’ lives.

I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been in the early years. From dealing with the language and cultural barriers, to managing money, my parents must have struggled a lot to make it all work.

The early photos of my parents with Jackie in Florida and Madison are my favorites in the entire collection. I think it’s the combination of the beauty of the film mixed with the raw youthfulness of my parents struggling to figure it all out.

I am deeply grateful for my dad’s curiosity towards documentation that has archived all of these memories. Similar to my maternal grandfather, photography was a luxury at the time. Perhaps it’s its lack of availability that makes these photos far more significant than the hundreds we take for granted now.

The 90’s are incredible years for my parents.

My parents get married, immigrate to America, and have two children within the span of 6 years. They were living the immigrant dream.

My dad was researching at Florida State University, being paid a small salary that seemed enormous at the time. My mom waits tables in a local Chinese restaurant. Unlike the majority of Chinese immigrants, my mom immigrated with the equivalent of an Associate’s degree instead of a PhD. My sister attributes this to the strong relationship we have with our mom and our ability to understand many social responsibilities at a younger age.

In the first year in Florida, my parents become close friends with Shuangxi Xu, who also lived in their apartment complex. There was a small community of Chinese immigrants that stuck close together.

While my mom was pregnant with Jackie, my grandma flew over to help her. Shuangxi would sneak over at mealtimes since there was always something good cooking. My parents developed a close relationship with him, and when he left for Arizona, they thought they would never see him again.

A few years later, after my parents moved to Madison, my dad received an email from Shuangxi inviting them to his wedding. Shuangxi and Jami are my godparents now, and the people I would consider my closest family.

My dad had once told me that if he had been in Beijing at the time of the Tiananmen Square protests, he would’ve been there protesting.

My parents were both in Shanghai in 1989. My dad was getting his Master’s Degree and my mom was working in the labs.

My dad tells a story of when news of the Beijing protests reached Shanghai, students gathered together, but he and his friends were unable to agree with how direct their protest signs should be, so they never finished making them. He also talks about how quickly the spirit of protest died in the big city, as the city folk shared a New York City mindset of moving along quickly.

Looking at the photos of my parents from the 80’s, you wouldn’t be able to tell all there were so many atrocities occurring at the time. (Then again, would you be able to tell from the selfies I take now?) Their photos show a relationship I never saw—full of youthful ignorance and hope.

This series of photos reminds me that even though the protests can’t be seen in the photos, my parents’ left for America shortly after and never turned back.

It’s easy to think your parents have never been anything other than adults.

I never understood why my dad was so strict growing up and never saw the moments of comedy and youthfulness he had until looking into old photos and videos.

These photos showed me more than anything how similar we really are. I grew up priding myself with how much I look like my mom over my dad, but now, I’m realizing more and more the little details that I’ve received from my dad. My temper, my thick eyebrows, my addiction to work—they all came from him.

I spent the majority of my childhood and young adulthood hurting and healing from many of the choices my dad made. I hated him, I fought him, I never wanted to speak to him again. But then, I also realized that some of the choices he made were mistakes. Remembering how young my parents were when they moved to America and started a new life reminds me to put things in perspective. My mom was 26 when she immigrated to a new country. I’m 21 now, only 5 years younger, and can’t even imagine making a decision that big.

I think of all the stupid mistakes I have made in the last few years and how much I have learned to grow from them. I wouldn’t want them to define me.

The world my parents were born into is one I know little of.

In the midst of the Cold War grew complicated antagonism between Communist and Democratic ideologies, leading to growing tensions that have not been resolved. It took me two decades to gather any sense of what growing up must have been like for them. I pieced together little bits that would come up, which come up more often as they become more nostalgic for the past.

The Great Leap Forward of the late 50’s and early 60’s led to great economic failures, ultimately resulting in tens of millions of deaths from the Great Chinese Famine. In need of re-establishing himself as the leader of China, Chairman Mao led the Communist Party of China in launching what later became known as the Cultural Revolution. Mao called on the youth to revive the Communist fervor that had won the civil war and formed the People’s Republic of China twenty years prior by purging the nation’s “impure” elements, which included the bourgeois, old Chinese traditions, and anti-revolutionary spirit. As a result, the members of the upper class are forced to public humiliation, many educators are discredited, and a cult formed around Mao.

My dad was born on May 2nd in Shaoyang in Hunan. He’s the oldest child and only son, and easily becomes the pride of the family. My dad’s sister Yingchun was born in 1970, and his younger sister, Huichun, in 1979. My dad has a complicated view of his own childhood, arguing his father made a foolish mistake to move to their government farm, resulting in the worst living conditions out of his 6 siblings. He recalls his father’s late nights writing letters to the government with no avail.

My mom, unlike my dad, is born on July 12th in Shanghai, the big city in China. My mom was exposed to a very different childhood. Most of her troubles lied within her relationships with her family. Her brother, Jun, was born in 1970. Naturally mischievous, he tormented my mom and always got the longer straw. My mom tells me of how she would sneak into her parents’ cabinets to eat the chocolate they would save for her brother.

The Cultural Revolution affects my parents in very different ways. My dad’s family is ruined from it and my mom’s family is supported. These effects continue to shape their ideologies and personalities to today.

It’s amazing how much happens in so little time.

To think about all the stories within each lifetime begins an neverending challenge. The story I have written about my family spans almost 60 years, but the story is much longer. Even now, I look towards the uncertain future and this highly politically charged world we are living in, and wonder how much the story will change for all of us.

When I started this project, it seemed as though the tumultuous years were far behind us, but now it seems as though they are yet to come. History has an undeniable effect on all of us. 40 years ago, Nixon’s visit invited my dad to learn english. Today, I write this in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic. We are all part of a larger story, but it’s how we all fit into it that defines who we are.