by You Jin
So I said, “Then stay in school to study.” But she said the school was too confined.
I said, “But fast food restaurants are so noisy, with people streaming in and out. With all that noise, how can you study, and how can you retain anything?”
She said young people liked that kind of atmosphere. I just resigned myself to the fact that we would never see eye to eye on this.
On the weekends, she went out very early, and she came home when the stars were shining overhead.
I held my temper in check, but finally reached my limits. Like a balloon bursting, I exploded, scolding her, but she did not reply. Instead, huge tears welled up in her eyes. She suddenly burst out after some time, saying, “Mama, you always want me to stay by you like I did when I was little. You don’t realise that I’ve grown up. I have my friends, and my world. It’s like the eagles. If the baby eagle always stays in the nest, how will it learn to fly? The mother eagle has to let the baby eagle leave the nest so it can fly further and higher. When the baby eagle’s wings are strong and stable, it will come back. And it will bring plenty of worms back to feed the mother and take care of her.”
As I sit here recalling that event and writing about it, I remember how moved and touched I was when I heard those words. Ke Jun was like bamboo growing upwards, and I still saw her as a tender, weak shoot. Once I came to understand what she was thinking, I loosened my control and gave her the freedom she was longing for.
I know that my little eagle, now flying high in the sky, will one day come back. I am sure she will. And when she does, she will bring with her a glorious rainbow, brightening the old nest, which she has never given up.
Throughout their adolescence, we have to constantly adapt to our children’s development, to allow for changes in their feelings and way of thinking. Sometimes, we keep both eyes on them, exerting strict control over what they do. But sometimes, we should just close one eye and let go; strict and lax must alternate to good effect.
CHAPTER 11
Seeing the World
Lost and Found
FLIPPING THROUGH MY photo albums at home, I come across one special photo. I think that, even when I lose all my faculties, I will still remember how I felt when that picture was taken.
We were in Bangkok. Ke Jun, three years old, is sound asleep with her head among messy dishes and cups on the table. Her face is tear-streaked. At five, Fung Teck is clutching an oily drumstick with apparent enjoyment. Fung Yee, at ten, leans his head in close to his father’s as the two of them inspect a map together.
When each of the children reached three years old, we started bringing them along on our travels. A three-year-old can eat and walk on her own, so we no longer had to worry about bottles and diapers. It is the best age to expose them to rudimentary knowledge and stoke their curiosity.
But on Ke Jun’s first trip overseas, we met with a horrifying incident in Bangkok. We had planned to eat at a restaurant recommended by the Tour Guidebook. As we were making our way to the restaurant from our hotel, James took out his video camera and was absorbed in filming the street scenery. The three children were skipping and following behind, and I followed at the back of the pack.
There were vendors selling water guns by the roadside. My two sons stopped and squatted in front of the stall, captivated by the sight. They begged us to buy the toys. I laughed as I dug in my wallet for money. We had such a variety of high-tech battery-operated toys at home, but here they were, completely entranced by these simple items. I bought one water gun for each boy, and they clasped their treasures, shouting, “Pow! Bang!” James caught all their running, shouting and playing on camera.
I smiled as I looked on, thinking, Childhood passes so quickly. Fortunately we’ll have the video for the memories. Then I suddenly sensed something wrong and shouted to James, “Ke Jun? Where’s Ke Jun?”
He stopped and turned to me, his face blank. “Wasn’t she beside you?”
A feeling of cold terror crept up my skin like a worm. I screamed, “Ke Jun! Ke Jun! Ke Jun!” If the sky had been made of glass, my voice would have shattered it. A helpless horror settled in my mind; although I was walking on level ground, I felt like I was descending a steep staircase, and stepping into nothingness. James ran around everywhere. I followed behind, helplessly yelling and shouting for Ke Jun. I screamed as if I were a beast trapped in a wall of fire.
Just then, the sound of a familiar voice crying came to me. It was not too far away, and was getting closer and closer. In a narrow alley, a Thai woman walked toward us. Was that my precious daughter she was carrying?
As soon as my weeping little girl saw me, she struggled, leapt down and ran to me. It was like sun exploding in my heart. I loosened my clenched fists and clasped her to me, tears of relief falling to the ground.
The Thai woman stammered an explanation in English. “She wandered down the alley, and was crying. I saw her, so I picked her up and waited for you to come find her. If not, she would have kept going further and further away. Then I heard you yelling, and I guessed you must be looking for her, so…”
The only thing I could say was, “Thank-you-thank-you-thankyouthank-you…” It rolled off my tongue over and over. I will never forget that woman’s kindness as long as I live.
How had my little Ke Jun got swept up in another crowd and washed along the path to another alley? I have never been able to explain how it happened. But after this event, I had a heightened sense of alertness. Though travelling has always been a huge source of joy for me, bringing the children with us meant I could not let my guard down for an instant. Sometimes the smallest mistake could result in a huge disaster.
That day, as our family sat in the restaurant, every grain of rice was especially sweet. After we had finished eating, Ke Jun fell into a deep sleep with her head resting on the table full of dirty dishes and cups, her face still streaked with tears. Fung Teck relished his tasty chicken drumstick. Fung Yee leaned his head close to his father’s, studying the map with him.
I stood up and quietly snapped a picture of that scene, filled with a deep joy. Sometimes there is a very fine line between good luck and bad.
Following the Clues
Once when we were going on a family holiday to New Zealand, the children and I sat at the boarding gate familiarising ourselves with New Zealand’s history. I asked, “Which tribe was the first to go to New Zealand?”
The children responded without hesitation: “The Maoris.”
I asked, “How did they get to New Zealand?”
They replied in unison: “In canoes.”
I continued, “When did they arrive?”
This stumped them. They scratched their heads and looked to each other for answers.
I started from the beginning, “In the fourteenth century, a group of Maori people set out in seven canoes. They battled ferocious waves on the open sea for weeks, using the birds and stars to guide them, and finally arrived in beautiful New Zealand, where they settled. They brought with them their own unique language, music and tribal culture. After the sixteenth century, Western explorers did not pay New Zealand much heed, but two centuries later, after an increasing number of English people arrived and saw how beautiful the islands were, it was added as a colony of the British Empire. In 1947, New Zealand finally gained its independence from England.”
I spoke rapidly, and the children listened, absorbed. If you recite the Three Hundred Tang Poems often enough, you can remember them even if you cannot write them down. In the same way, if you recite facts often enough, they will eventually stick in the mind.
I focused on New Zealand’s history, geography and politics in order to let the children know that the real purpose of travel was not just about eating and playing, but about dialoguing with other nations. If you entered another person’s house and knew nothing about him, wouldn’t you be a laughingstock?
With this extra amount of effort, the children knew quite well that the country was divided into North and South Islands befo
re we even boarded the plane. They knew that the scenery of the North Island included numerous volcanoes, hot springs and waterfalls. The South Island, on the other hand, was home to the fascinating Southern Alps, which ran through the island and accumulated snow all year round, glaciers with extraordinary scenery, and plains dotted with sheep. They were also well aware that New Zealand had vast land but a relatively small population, and the majority of New Zealanders lived off agriculture, with sheep and cows being the biggest capital. With this basic knowledge, the children were filled with curiosity and anticipation for our three-week stay.
Because we wanted the children to have a more accurate understanding of the joys and trials of farm life, we made special arrangements to spend several days on a farm in the centre of the North Island. As James drove the rented car along the highway, fifteen-year-old Fung Yee sat in the front seat beside him, pointing the way on the map and occasionally calling out directions.
When the car had driven for some distance, Fung Yee said, “Turn right ahead.”
James wrinkled his eyebrows and said, “I don’t think that’s correct. Look carefully.”
Fung Yee turned the map, inspected it for a moment, then said, “It’s correct. We should turn right.”
James followed his instructions and turned right. Before long, we arrived at a junction. He looked at Fung Yee and said, “Which way now?”
Fung Yee replied confidently, “Turn left.”
James turned left. After a short while, he pulled the car over to the side of the road, took the map, and checked it against the name of the road we were on. He took out a red pen and marked our location on the map and handed it back to Fung Yee, who blushed and stammered.
James asked him, “Do you know where you made the mistake?”
He nodded and said, “I missed a junction and made a wrong turn.”
We took a very long detour as a result of his mistake. But in fact, James realised the mistake early on. He had carried on following the wrong route mostly because he wanted Fung Yee to learn from the mistake, thinking that this would make a stronger impression on the boy. All three children received this sort of lesson in following the clues when we travelled, and as a result, they all have a very good sense of direction and can find their way around very well.
When we reached the farm, it was astonishingly beautiful, lying on green, rolling hills. It was like looking at a vast expanse of verdant waves. Many of the hills were golden, covered in brilliant yellow flowers, like a golden fire sweeping across the green slopes.
Our host, Graham, had over four thousand head of sheep and five hundred head of cattle on eight hundred acres of pasture land. Having graduated with a degree in Agriculture Studies from the University of New Zealand, Graham ran a very well-managed farm. He spent the whole year training his six herding dogs to take orders and help him manage his livestock kingdom.
He said brightly, “Training dogs is like teaching children. It’s all a system of punishment and reward, using both hard and soft methods.” He puckered his lips and whistled. Six dogs followed each whistled command: up, stay, walk, down, sit. They did not miss a single one. The children stood, watching open-mouthed. I was also astounded.
The most amazing thing was still to come. That evening, we sat in Graham’s truck, watching him herd the sheep back home. As he drove, he issued a series of whistled commands, like a general pointing the way to his troops. The six dogs followed each order, running, jumping, herding, guiding and corralling. They barked and ran hard, full of energy. The sheep responded to the barks of the dogs, running in a frenzy, the sound of their trampling hoofs quite deafening. As the sheep ran further and further into the distance, they transformed into myriad dazzling dots.
After over one thousand sheep had been herded into the fold, Graham and his six dogs immediately regrouped and went to another slope to gather the sheep there. With one pass after another, all four thousand sheep were eventually gathered home safely.
I asked him why he did not hire an assistant. Smiling ruefully, he said, “Can’t afford it.” After a moment, he added, “The work is too hard. Even my wife doesn’t want to help.”
Graham’s results at the University of New Zealand had been very good. The school had hoped to keep him on as a researcher, but he preferred to be a working farmer. His wife, an accountant, had been critical about his decision. To that, he argued eloquently, “All that time, when I was studying so hard in the university, was it because I wanted to drown myself in theory, or did I intend to put it into practice? If I just hid myself away as a researcher after graduation, what would be the point of the qualifications I had gained through study?”
His wife sighed and said, “I gave way to his tenacity. Even though livestock farming is extremely hard, he’s happy and content, and that’s the most important thing.”
That night, the children came to understand the notion of taking joy in hard work.
Travelling to Find One’s Roots
In 1991, we made a trip to Mingmen, the village where my motherinlaw was born and raised. It was situated on the north part of Hainan Island, about seventy kilometres from the city of Haikou. She had been away from her hometown for over 50 years. Fung Yee was fourteen, Fung Teck was nine and Ke Jun was seven, and we had planned the trip to let them see where their ancestors were from. We also hoped that experiencing a different way of life would broaden their perspectives.
We booked a van from Haikou, our luggage forming a hill in the back of the van, containing our clothes, as well as numerous gifts, daily essentials, food, and clothes to give to our relatives in Mingmen. The van wound through countless little villages, and at one point we turned onto a twisting, narrow dirt road crowded by jungle overgrowth.
My normally composed mother-in-law wore an expression of many conflicting emotions. She had spent sleepless nights tortured by joy and sadness over the impending return to her beloved hometown. The year she had left home, she was a new bride, and now was returning as an elderly woman. As we drew nearer the village, her anxiety visibly increased, the intensity of her emotion reflected clearly in her eyes.
Many people stood at the village entrance waiting for us, a mass of heads. When our car stopped, the sound of firecrackers filled the air, and after the popping and crackling had died down, red paper remnants drifted down to land on the ground. A joyousnous permeated the atmosphere. We were ushered into the house by my mother-in-law’s relatives, and it was like stepping back in time, reliving half a century of kinship. But Ke Jun looked at the pig and chicken droppings all over the ground and smelled the odour, and burst into tears.
After I put away the luggage, I took the children for a look around the village. Mingmen had originally been home to ninety households in the Li clan. However, over the past fifty years many people had moved to the big cities, leaving only about seventy families, all of whom made a living through farming. After the autumn harvest and before the spring planting, stalks of hard rice straws stood stubbornly in the fields. We walked for a very long time before we saw a man walking behind a cow, ploughing the field.
The children loved to eat rice every day, but they had never seen it growing from the ground. After seeing the unhusked rice on the ground, and hearing the farmer explain how he planted and harvested it, then sifted the millet and removed the husks to produce the snow white grains of rice, they gained a new appreciation for the whole process and the great difficulty by which it landed on their plate every day.
There was a famous well not far from the village, called Full Moon Well. It was considered a priceless treasure in the village, having never gone dry in centuries. During seasons of drought, the other wells in the village would dry up, but the water level in the Full Moon Well would remain high. Everyone in the vicinity of the village drew water from the well—for drinking, cooking, cleaning and bathing—but the supply of water always seemed to remain constant. We sought out this special treasure like explorers; the Full Moon Well was actually shaped like a half moon,
sixty feet deep, and with crystal clear water in which numerous thumb-sized minnows swam.
My mother-in-law pointed and told us, “When the fish grow to the size of your palm, the villagers will take them home and eat them. What is strange is that, no matter how many they take home, more fish always appear in the well.”
I reached in and cupped a handful of water from the well. It was fresh and sweet, and felt as smooth and cool as jade going down.
The village girls came continually to draw water. After they had filled two vessels, they slung them onto the ends of their pole and hurried home. It generally took a dozen or so trips to the well each day to provide for a family’s needs, and this well had serviced the village every day for centuries. Although the children loved the natural well water, they missed the convenience of indoor plumbing. The villagers had built a simple open-air bathhouse out of bricks not far from the well. After bathing there with well water, we made our way back to the village.
From some distance, we could see cooking smoke rising over the village, smelling of rice and vegetables. The splash of colours created by the sunset shone through the clouds near the mountain, transforming them into elegant satin. Our relatives busied themselves about the kitchen, preparing a grand meal for us. A shockingly huge wok, at least a metre in diameter and half a metre deep, sat on the brick stove. It could cook enough vegetables for ten people at one go. Beside the stove was a pile of dry kindling, which someone tossed onto the fire from time to time. The glowing fire reflected the warmth in everyone’s hearts. Huge plates of raw meat and vegetables were sliced up, waiting to be tossed into the sizzling wok.