Nephew

The following post was written close to ten months ago after the death of the unnamed. Although it was initially taken off my website for sensitivity reasons, it is back due to special request.

I never knew him...her...my love. I have no memories of throwing the first football to him as he goes long on a deep slant. I haven't had my first uncomfortable silence when we finally ran out of things to say. I would never see her reactions of my first Christmas gift. There only exists an empty slate of which to silently remember and shed tears. And theoretically, that could be easier. I wouldn't find myself in a situation where I'm walking through the lonely streets of Chinatown, see a wok on sale, and suddenly remember the famous dishes she made, instantly bawling in a puddle of recollections. There will be no triggers nor sparks to unleash the beast of ache and grief. None. The paint is still wet and the canvas is still vacant, but my pallette is full.

All I had were dreams, hopes, and visions. It was like me in 12th grade, eagerly thinking about the escape to a college environment of girls and alcohol and girls and concerts and girls and late night pizza and girls. It's like a bride fantasizing about her wedding day in 4 months, with the first dance, the rice throwing, and the awkward uncle that everyone hates but has to be there because he's family. These are dreams and visions that are an inch away from your outstretched arms, but you smile anyway, because you know that within moments, you will be able to embrace what was only moments ago, only a mental image.

I had dreams of holding you in my arms waiting for you to break the first smile. I wanted to see your poops stains in your Huggies. I wanted to take you out to see rated R movies even when your parents didn't let you. I wanted to be the cool relative who played sports with you. I wanted to warn you about boys who only tried to get into your pants. I wanted to lock your head with my arm and each year, feel the head growing bigger and bigger till one day, you counter my move and begin to put me in a headlock, proceeding to give me noogies. I wanted to take you places. I wanted to disappoint you. I wanted to ask for your forgiveness. I wanted to be proud of you. I wanted you to come to me for advice. I wanted you to be afraid of me. I wanted you to ask about me. I wanted you to miss me. I never saw your face and I never heard your voice, but the words in your heart were already ingrained in mine before you even sucked in your first breath.

But now, I am forced to dream different dreams. I dream of seeing you tall or short, big or small, in a suit or in Pampers, eating steak or Gerber, I don't know. But I simply dream that you exist, giving a hope of life to me even after my own has left and even though yours never came. This one day, I want to see you and know that you are who I have been dreaming about and tell you that I have been dreaming about you. I want to tell you that you've been on my heart from the first few moments you were in your mother's womb, and my heart skipped a beat in those first few moments. And I want to tell you that my heart stopped with yours a few months later. I want to tell you that the world stopped for me in that moment. And that I have been waiting for you my entire life till this one day, this one moment when I can look at you, and tell you, "I love you" though I never knew you.

Language in Time Part III of III: Home

For Part I, Winter Mornings, click here.
For Part II, In Transit, click here.

October 2006

I stare at a blank screen for hours, without thought or impulse. Sportscenter's jingles mingle with Weezer's "Say It Ain't So" on repeat as cold pizza lies on top of my research. My room is jumbled from end to end with dirty laundry, old papers, and resume tapes. But I see nothing but a blank screen for hours, without thought or impulse -- only patience that writer's block will fade, exposing metaphors so great they make similes jealous.

My fingers play these tricks on words acrobatically, double dutching through red marker lines and Spell Check's pop up signs. With every word I type, every sentence I edit, and every essay I send to the printer, I feel power in a language that has once left me tongue-tied. But I also feel something else -- the vibration of small object in my right pocket. Cell phone. Mama, I thought.

Hello?
"Hey, Di? It's me, mom. How are you?"
Okay.
"I'm okay too. Have you eaten? Are they feeding you well at all?"
Yes.
"That's good, that's good. You must miss our cooking. Have you finished your homework?"
Doing that now.
"Good. Well tell me again what's been going on in your life. How are you, really?"
Alright.
...
I'm gonna do my homework, I continued after the silence.
"Okay, well give me a call when you're bored. Good night. "
Bye.

I had once lived in denial that my native language was slipping from my frail grasp, that my unique past is fading into a future I do not own. But now, my teenage angst has subsided, giving way to a powerless acceptance. I am who I am -- a bastard child of China and America, trying to find an identity that has never been created. Tired frustration no long exists, as it no longer flails its arms in the oceans while others drown. I have stopped trying to dream Chinese dreams, and I have stopped trying to live Chinese lives.

I have become a guai-lo, a term we coin for white Americans even though it directly translates into "ghost people." The paleness of my skin, though, pails in comparison to the ghost of a language that I have forgotten. But the voice of Mama still calls out to me -- no longer a call for me to come home because both she and I do not know where that is. Another vibration.

Hello?
Didi, it's me. I forgot to say something to you.
What?

There is silence, but I remain quiet because I could hear her breathing heavy as if she wants to say something too difficult to tell me in person.

I love you.

My mother rarely speaks to me in English -- only twisting and slurring her tongue when she felt it imperative that I do not miss her meaning. Though broken, her words are perfect. Though perfect, she was vulnerable. Mama never used to say those words in any dialect. I never had to hear them beceause I have already felt them in the hokkien mien she has cooked, in the bed sheets she has changed, and in the dishes she refuses to let me wash for her. But now, words have become her last ditch effort, her hail mary, her final love letter to a fleeting son that may not return.

She wonders if I love her back and I do. She wonders if I miss her too and I do. She wonders if I will call our house in Queens home once again and I cannot answer.

But my response is a moot point. To me, I am already home when she calls. To me, her voice is my home. So now, I no longer talk or translate. I only listen and I am home.