Written by Jasmine Kwok and edited by Zijing Lian
With a massive, yet tightly knit family, one of my favorite things in the entire world is our large gatherings. Whether it’s for Christmas, a birthday, or simply because we missed each other’s company, we all look forward to our visits. My cousins are my older siblings, my aunts and uncles are second parents to me, and we all have a special connection with one another which forms a collection of distinct personalities with different life stories. Even though we come from the same roots, the story of our family’s journey throughout America is one I wish I knew more about.
Though we’re close, we have this undeniable divide, a common struggle for Asian- American families, that lingers overhead. There is this transgression from those who purely speak Chinese, those who understand Chinese but choose to speak English, and those that don’t know Chinese at all. My grandparents, at the top of this chain, moved to America for a better life and more opportunities. You can see the fleeting knowledge of their native language through their children. My father and youngest aunt speak English primarily, with little knowledge of Chinese. However, my grandparents’ older children speak Chinese, fluently with limited knowledge of English, due to their age when they immigrated.
I fear the disintegration of our culture as we stray away from paths our grandparents paved for us. As people are aging, we begin to lose our strong ties to our Chinese ancestry and cultural traditions. After my grandparents’ passing, it’s become increasingly crucial to keep their story and legacy alive. We have to preserve what they have left behind, whether it’s through my grandma’s incomparable cooking or simply continuing to use their native tongue. Most of all, we cannot lose our sense of family and connection. Despite language barriers and large age gaps, I shared a connection with my grandparents that was both special and loving. We communicated through our hearts, hugs, laughter, and most of all: food.
Every Thanksgiving morning, my grandma would make turkey rice porridge. Nothing could compare to her special recipe. Her rice porridge was fluffy and soft, providing comfort that our traditions aren’t going anywhere. It’s a recipe that will be passed down from generation to generation, along with the stories and tales of our grandparents’ and parents’ childhood in China. Oftentimes, my parents recall memories from their childhood and how they worked in the family restaurants at an early age as a way to teach me lessons and reveal discrepancies between my upbringing and theirs. Before the pandemic struck, I traveled to Virginia with my parents and my aunt to see my father’s childhood home. This is where my grandparents first began their new life in America, facing challenges of interacting with other people and adjusting to the brand new environments. It awed me to see the physical embodiment of the beginning of a legacy. In a small, old home in Virginia, my grandparents managed to engrave our names into American soil.
Fast forward a few decades, we’re all crowded together in the warmth of our living room, the TV playing the latest football game. While we’re having fun, my grandma gazes at us fondly from the couch after cooking her lavish dishes. She can’t understand exactly what we’re saying, but she gets the idea. She hears the sounds of joy and content, everything she wanted to achieve for her precious children and grandchildren. Even though I could never verbally express my gratitude to my grandparents, I know they’re looking down from above, and they know that we honor and cherish them every single day. After all, their story is a legacy worth preserving.
Sources:
Cover Photo by Shao Z. on Pinterest
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