Here or There

To my right was the side where my father’s family lived, old brick houses with shingled rooves from the past century. The cobbled streets were loud but lush with trees and lotus ponds that had petals so big they could almost hold my weight. Almost.

To my left I saw clouds break against the tips of skyscrapers. My mother’s family lived there and I spent many sunny days following my aunt in and out of bright boutiques and video game stores. I remember spraining my neck from looking up so often, trying to figure out if those buildings above me ever had an end.

Between the two shores, the Yangtze river spilled out beneath my feat and stretched towards the horizon below and beyond. Across the current, I saw ships glide over the surface. The top decks were rich with passengers who were travelling from the rural side of Nanjing to the skyscrapers across. I waved and squinted to see if the people were waving back. Luckily, they were.

I am standing in the same spot now, in 2015. I’m taller now; I don’t need to be lifted above the railing. I’m smarter too. But as I lean against the railing, I know I’m missing something. The sky is still the same pink, but I now know the hazy glow I once revered is thanks to pollution. The same pollution is why the river is perpetually russet. My mother’s side is still relatively the same, but my father’s side is different. The houses are gone now, their mysterious mazes and tiled streets were bulldozed to make way for apartment complexes. The ferries don’t see nearly as much business - most people have cars or scooters to cross the bridge with. I don’t bother waving to the people below, there’s not a lot of them left.

It’s not as if this place changed, it’s still as objectively “beautiful” as I once thought it was, the scene is still colorful and alive. But there is no romance in this vista. As I watch the sunset through my fingers, I ask myself where the wonder had gone. Maybe I outgrew it, maybe I forgot it.

Now, imagine growing up halfway across the globe from where the language began, to a place where a different tongue was spoken, a father tongue. Imagine returning back to where you learned Mandarin and failing to spell your own name.

I remember in July, in the middle of the summer miasma, I found myself wanting to try writing in Chinese, just to see if I still had it, that vocabulary that marked me as Chinese. So I sat down at the weathered desk, meant for a much younger me, fished out an old gel pen from a neon pencil case, and began to write.

In a dozen or so strokes, I'd confidently etched the words "你好" onto the page. I felt pretty good about myself, it showed I still had it, that skill that reinforced my Chinese-y-ness. Then, my mom walked passed, looked over my shoulder, and a gently informed me that I just written "hello".

糟糕. That meant “too bad”, if you were being polite.

After we finished laughing, I couldn't help but feel a bit disconnected from who I was. I was still Chinese, my face and my parents proved that, but my literacy had said otherwise. It showed that a part of me had begun to slip.

In the English language, words are modular; they're made up of letters that can be switched up in multiple permutations that can alter meaning and tense. Not so for Mandarin, each character encapsulates a whole word, a whole meaning. The fact that I forgot my name, my identity, greatly stung my ego.

I put down the gel pen and dully watched as my mother picked it up. Holding it delicately with her needle pricked fingers, she deftly etched three characters onto the lined paper.

“孙.” She pointed at the first character, written in faded neon green. “Sūn”, She said, “our family name.”

“瀚 闻. Han Wen.”

My mother looked at me, eyes peering above the rim of her glasses.

“Your name. Broad. Like shoulders, like the ocean we flew across.”

It felt weird growing up with you being halfway across the world. My mom - our mom told me a lot about you after she and Dad moved to Canada and had me. She’d tell me about how smart you are, and how nice you are. Dad showed me a picture of you he kept in his wallet. You looked nice, you looked a lot like me.

Anyways, today’s your birthday, so happy 27th! I brought you flowers, Mom told me you liked peonies. I know you probably don’t have much use for flowers, but I do know you like pink. I’m sorry I didn’t visit last year and the year before that.

But I’m here now. I hope it’s not too late? Mom and dad are back too, they’re coming tomorrow to visit you, I just wanted to get here early and say hi. Yeah, I know it’s quite a drive, but don’t worry, I’m not a kid anymore, I handled it well.

Hmm? Oh my eyes? Yeah, they’re a bit red, it’s been a really weird day for me.

It’s actually why I’m here now. The moment Mom told me I had a sister, I’ve always wanted to know more about you. I didn’t have your phone number, so mom and dad told me stories about you instead.

But since I’m older and back where you grew up, Aunt Lisa told me the real reason you’re here in China instead of with us. I always thought it was because of a car accident, you know? Mom and dad never said so, but that’s what I assumed.

I didn’t realize you were shot. Some guy with a grudge against our grandma had taken a gun and found you and her and my cousin in grandma’s house. I’m so sorry, I’m so angry, I’m so unbelievably heartbroken. I didn’t lose you, you were taken away. I didn’t even get the chance to know you.

Sorry, just give me a sec.

Since I found out, I’ve been thinking about you even more. What was your favorite food? What was your favorite thing to do? What did your voice sound like? Would you have liked me? Mom and dad said you would, you liked everyone.

Do you mind if I put these flowers down? Can I sit with you? Thanks.

It’s nice talking with you. Still kinda hurts though, knowing I’m a bit late. But I’m here now.