Member-only story
in loving memory of yéyé (爷爷)
for my dad and all the children of immigrants who wish they knew their grandparents better.
Everything seemed to be leaking. From where, I had no idea. But even now I can hear the steady drip of water, a constant reminder of the town’s name: Linhai (临海). We’re tied closer than you’d think — my Chinese name (Chen Lin) pays homage to the first character in the city’s name; we share the same love for the sea that makes up the second character.
As we walk through the uneven streets, I look up at the unfamiliar buildings my father called home for the first twenty-something years of his life, the buildings my grandfather and grandmother raised their four children in. Three boys, one girl. How fortuitous.
Unfamiliar dialect floats through the air at lunch; I turn to my Big Aunt for translation. She, who’s been in China her whole life but from a different province (my mom’s home), simply looks at me and shrugs. Frustration rises in me. I want to participate, want to say something beyond “xie xie, yé yé” (thank you, grandpa), but I feel like a stranger in my father’s hometown. An imposter in my parents’ homeland.
I bite my lip and look up, and my grandpa is beaming at me. Bright eyes in a frail frame, but you can’t miss the love that emanates from his entire being.
