5 - 公公婆婆 (Grandpa and Grandma)

"I should've asked you questions, I should've asked you how to be, Asked you to write it down for me." - Taylor Swift (marjorie)

A few days before Christmas last year, my maternal grandmother passed away. She was my last remaining grandparent - my maternal grandfather passed in 2020, and my dad’s parents died before I was born. Her death rattled me in a way that my grandpa’s didn’t, and I’ve wanted to unwrap exactly why for a while now.

I called my grandpa 公公 (gong gong) and my grandma 婆婆 (po po). After my oldest sister was born in the 1980s, they emigrated to the States from Taiwan. Amazingly, that was their second international move - they had fled from China to Taiwan after the Chinese Civil War ended in the late 1940s. I was blessed to grow up close to them from both a relationship and geographical standpoint. They lived a short five minute walk away, and until I left for college, I spent most Friday nights at a family dinner and playing Mahjong with them. When I was younger, they provided free daycare while my parents worked. Those were the best days. One of my core memories is watching my grandpa knead and cook sticky rice balls for me while my grandma helped. He’d let me dip them in a massive bowl of sugar.

We remained close as I got older. In the summers after high school, I’d take my grandpa to LA Fitness where he’d swim 21 laps, 3 times a week, at age 90! When I’d visit, he’d often tell me stories of fighting against the Japanese during WWII. I’d teach him how to use his iPhone camera, and he’d write down the steps in his notebook (without fail, he’d forget my instructions). He’d ask me when I was going to have kids. My grandma, like most Asian grandmas you might meet, would always have a table full of food ready for me if I went over for a meal. After I’d stuff myself, she’d pull out crackers, cookies, fruits, and/or desserts - sometimes all of the above - and ask if I’d like to eat more. I’d politely decline multiple times. To her, I was and would forever be “too skinny”. Food was how she’d express her love for us.

公公 and 婆婆 were the pillars of my Chinese/Taiwanese heritage and helped me fall in love with that part of my identity. To give a few examples, they taught us Mahjong, showed us family customs (e.g., paying respects to our ancestors by burning incense on Chinese New Year’s Eve and bowing three times; eating dumplings in the morning if we were traveling that day), and cooked so so many traditional dishes.

When my grandpa passed in June 2020, I felt a mix of sadness and relief. He was 100 (!) years old and had been bedridden for several months, so in a way, it felt like he was finally getting a chance to rest. But when my grandma left us, it hit different. It was like the solid ground I had stood on for all my life had suddenly become unstable without her - she was the last remaining pillar. Is this a common feeling when a grandparent or parent passes away?

You see, Reader, 公公 and 婆婆 directly linked me to the culture I’m so proud to be a part of. Sure, my parents were born in Taiwan and often are my go-to for these things, but they’ve spent most of their lives at this point in the USA, so it’s not exactly the same. It’s tricky to put in words, but 公公 and 婆婆 offered this older, distinct perspective, something I couldn’t get elsewhere.

As I wrestled with these thoughts and emotions, I noticed this sense of duty take hold in me, which I’ll attempt to break down. Growing up in a bicultural, immigrant family is a unique experience, and each generation faces its own set of challenges.

• My parents endured concrete, tangible difficulties - learning a new language, living in a foreign land, eating strange food, and grinding day after day, year after year to establish a stable financial footing. My sisters and I are truly lucky and blessed.

• For my generation (the first ABCs - American Born Chinese), the trials become a bit more abstract. I’ve often felt I had a foot in two worlds and frequently sensed that I wasn’t fully American or fully Chinese/Taiwanese. For example, I didn’t understand many English idioms as a kid (I didn’t speak English until I was ~4 or 5). Why would I ever want to bite a bullet? That sounds dangerous. To pile on, my Mandarin has never been good enough to understand most Chinese idioms without a thorough explanation from my parents.

• Today, I’m seeing my nieces and nephew navigate their own hurdles. Communication comes to the forefront once again - speaking with my parents can be difficult for them since they’re growing up around much more English than my sisters and I did, at a much earlier age. Whereas I identify more with being Taiwanese than American, I’m not so sure this next generation would say the same.

As I think about how each subsequent generation retains less and less cultural authenticity, that sense of duty kicks in - the drive to grasp, preserve, and pass down as much of my heritage as possible. I’m fully aware that what I can offer now is a watered down, secondhand version of what my grandparents and parents’ generations have shown us. That’s why, while I don’t often dwell on past regrets, I hold the same sentiments as Taylor Swift in her song “marjorie”, which is about her late grandmother. When 婆婆 passed away, I kept this on repeat.

I should’ve asked you questions

I should’ve asked you how to be

Asked you to write it down for me

Should’ve kept every grocery store receipt

‘Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me

What died didn’t stay dead

You’re alive, you’re alive in my head

公公 and 婆婆, I should have asked you more questions while we still had time together. I should have asked how you remained so uniquely you and comfortable in your own skin, true to your values and principles, all while facing unfathomable hardships. I should have asked you to write down the lessons you taught me, the recipes to the dishes you cooked for me, and all of our family’s house rules for Mahjong. In my head, heart, and soul, you are loved and alive.