#roots2015

#roots2015 #roots2016 #hollyoodsouth #gripswin #kuntaisarealpro (at New Orleans, Louisiana)

 Happy birthday, grandpa.

Written by: Connie Ong I kept my expectations really low and during my briefing I said I hoped to maybe meet my aunt if she wasn't too busy, as well as see a photo of my grandfather whom I've been told all my life that I have his nose. As we enter the village I hear Al exclaim "wow look a sign for you!" Then approaching the entrance to the village a string of firecrackers is set off. Following our arrival was being ushered by an entourage of villagers and security to my ancestral home where 3 generations have lived, a live orchestra at the ancestral temple and so much more. That day I hear a lot of "low expectations huh Connie?"XP

Written by: Celi-Tamayo Lee I am a third and fourth generation Asian American. My mom is of Toishanese ancestry, my dad is Illocano (Filipino). Having two parents who were part of the Asian American activist movements of the 70’s and 80’s in the Bay Area, I grew up with a strong sense of Asian American Identity. But being several generations removed from the immigration experience has always left me feeling in between proud and detached. I came to Roots to better understand myself and to reconnect to the pieces of myself that are eternal and indisputable. This past year I’ve arrived to several realizations about my life and my need for healing. Something in my gut told me that traveling to the land I’m from would provide me with a deeper connection to ancestors, a sense of place and ultimately myself. My roots journey was to my mother’s mother’s father’s village. My mother’s mother, my Popo, played a key role in my life, and only recently died in August 2014 at the age of 92. Over the past 24 years, I asked her many questions about her life, her childhood, her philosophies and beliefs. Attending the Evergreen State College in Olympia, WA, allowed me to better understand her upbringing in Seattle, WA, where she was born and raised until the age of 22. My great grandfather was born in the village of SeiGau, and first moved to Seattle on his own in the late 1890’s. He promptly became a houseboy in Port Angeles, WA, cooking and housecleaning, and later returned to China to bring his wife, son, and third eldest daughter, leaving his two eldest daughters in China. My Popo who was the youngest of six children across a twenty-year span was very fond of and close to her father. She shared stories of being picked up by her father from Bailey Gatzert Elementary School and walking back to Chinatown where they lived. They would grab a snack at the coffee shop where my great grandfather would eat a slice of apple pie and a cream puff. Although he ran a restaurant and a grocery store, he paid a lot of attention to her; I’ve always imagine her being his favorite. When my Popo was 11 years old, my great grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. They two of them, along with my great great grandmother, and my Popo’s next oldest sister, went back to the village in China to seek Eastern medicinal treatment. He ended up dying in China and my Popo happened to be the only one in the room with my great grandfather when he gave his last breath. Fast forward. Leading up to this trip, I had been telling friends that I was visiting my ancestral village and was hoping to find the two gravestones of my great grandfather and my great great grandfather. My mom and my Auntie Susu visited these two graves in the 80’s. They remember being led to the ancestral home by my relatives, my Popo’s eldest sister’s grandchildren who were living in SuiBo at the time. During that visit, my relatives walked them around the side of the house to see the gravestones buried in the rice fields. This was the most specific information and connection I had to the village. I had no expectations of seeing the ancestral home, mostly because we have no more relatives living in China. But I believed I could look for their gravestones. The night before my “rooting”, I delivered clear instructions to my fellow “rooters”, to go out into the rice fields and passionately search for these important relics. I remember Al saying “we’ve never done this before”, speaking about a search process not actually focused on finding an actual home or relative. The night before I was filled with anxiety: “What will happen if I don't find these gravestones? Will I leave feeling complete? Will I find anything meaningful at the village? ”. Simultaneously I knew that in the end I would feel some sense of peace by just merely being in the village surrounded by the land, the agriculture, the soil, the air, the descendants of the birds and insects that lived in those parts when my great grandfather lived there. Nature has always been a method for me to reboot my wisdom. The time spent in Toishan revealed vivid connections between the two climates I come from, Toishan and Laoag: hot and humid weather, gray skies, heavy rains, rice fields, lush hills, mysterious fog, vibrant biodiversity. The sticky and sweaty encourage healthy skin, consumption of salty foods, and sipping of many fluids. The warmer climate means a more patient approach to life. The drive to my village was very low-key, the landscape was similar to the lot of the rootings I had seen the past few days, rice fields, green hills, scattered villages branching off major roads. When we arrived through the gate of my village, the watch tower was the first visible building on the left, to the right, eggplant was growing in neat rows coiled around supporting stocks, flat piles of peanuts being dried in front of us. The first few minutes leading into my village felt common, synchronistic with the patterns and layouts of the many other Toishanese villages we visited: a modest gate, a watch tower at the entrance, rice fields on either side of the road, peanuts drying on the concrete. When we stepped out we were greeted by a thin older man with beetle nut-stained bottom teeth, thick glasses and a big smile. He immediately told us that he knew exactly where my ancestral home was. Surprising and easing. We walked down the path to the beginning of the homes. A solo standing water buffalo passively greeted us on the left. My ancestral house was one of the first, the front door at the beginning of the corridor. Everything was happening so quickly. The first room I walked into was the bedroom. Light shined through from a hole in the roof on the opposite side of the room and weeds shooting from the ground below. Two broad and sturdy wooden chairs sat in the middle of the room back to back. Two elevated, crossing storage catwalks held big broken pots. A broken wood frame lay still. Everything was dusty and cobwebbed. The ceiling was tall, the walls gray brick, and the air aged. I tried to imagine all the life, the playing, the sleeping, the laughing, the arguing, the love-making that happened in that room. I tried to imagine the sounds and smells. I realize now as I write this that my great grandfather likely died in that room. I went into the next room, where the kitchen, bathroom and family altar were. The sign on the altar asked that gold and jade fill the house with prosperity, a typical message, one also found in Cheryl’s primary home. There were faded pictures hanging on the wall likely unrelated to my family because of how new they looked. I turned around and my artifact helpers presented me with a wooden tool that is used for cutting the rice away from its husk and put one aside for me to take home. I lit incense for my family, for my ancestors. I took a moment to think about the sacrifices, the risks they took, the life and relationships they gave up in order to find a new life, better circumstances, and more prosperous means. Thinking about my lineage and all the generations that persisted amongst decades of plight, reshaped my idea of resilience and hope. Life goes on, life is full of challenges, full of triumphs and I will live through the moments that I think are unbearable, unforgiving or unresolved. And both the existence and disappearance of a cultural village mentality centered on sustainable living played roles in the resilience of my ancestors. Thinking about my ancestors in this way challenged me to ask what “What will matter to me at the end of my life? What sacrifices can I make? How often can I make them?”. I began to play with this idea of even “micro-sacrifices”, daily risks, such as sacrificing a bit of my ego to do the right thing, to speak up on behalf of others, to speak up on behalf of myself. I thanked my ancestors for these thoughts and cried them into liquid form. There was one last room I walked through that my grandfather’s brother and his family likely lived in last. There were many more left over items like clothing, suitcases, cups, furniture. The Gravestones After I finished praying, I had Steve and Rosa ask the village chief about my ancestor’s gravestones. They shared my familial anecdote about my mom’s visit. A different older man who knew exactly what we were talking about and where they were buried. But their graves had actually been moved from the rice fields on the side of the house. They were buried there for about twenty years, and during a governmental land repurposing process in the late 90’s, they were moved to a site about a quarter mile away. The older man agreed to show me the site where they once lay and so I followed him out of the house. On the way to the old gravesite, I passed by a water well. A woman of the village asked if I wanted a cold splash. I lowered myself and cupped my hands under the spout. It was incredibly cool and fresh! We continued walking to the old gravesite, meandering through a small bamboo forest. The stock were bright green and thick. We walked through bushes and brush, and were greeted by a small and growing beehive about the size of my fist. I couldn’t help but pause and study the expanding and evolving home, creeping with yellow insects. We ended in a small meadow like area, protected by taller trees and bamboo. The man who led us there said the area used to be rice patties about twenty years ago before the land-use redesign. My #rootsOHANA then gave me some space to be by myself. I felt most moved in this location, calling on my family’s ghosts resting in that area. I could hear the wind blow, bird singings, cicadas ringing. I watched a dozen black butterflies wisp in and out of the sanctuary, blue beetles crawled below me on mint-colored leaves. I felt safe, protected, and connected. I thanked my ancestors once again and made gratitudes towards the natural world and all the wisdom it holds. I thought about how our bodies have gone back into the earth since the beginning of human life and thus how the grass and the trees that stood around me were direct remnants of their bodies, how the insects and birds around me were descendants of their ancestors who likely lived when mine did. When I came out of the forest-sanctuary, the village chief told me he would take me to the gravesite where my ancestors lived, the next time I visited, that he would need more notice in order to properly prepare it. He also mentioned that the bodies of my ancestors were originally buried somewhere else before they were buried on the side of the house my mom and auntie Susu had seen them. I finally snapped my last photos outside the ancestral home, gathered up some drying peanuts to bring home, and said goodbye to the 200+ year banyan tree at the entrance of the village. I met up with the rest of the cohort at the village courtyard and recreation area. Everyone had gathering in a room stacked with musical instruments, sheet music and old photos from past performances. My village chief led a band that performed nightly Chinese opera in the village square. He motioned me over and instructed me on a basic percussion sequence. “bam, buh bam, buh bam bam bam cling cling buh bam cling bam bam!”. He then showed us the costumes the actors wear and before I knew it Yani was dressing me in bright teal robes and belts. The village chief grabbed Gino and clothed him in a matching yellow gown with a regal head piece. I was all smiles. We took some embarrassing photos outside while trying to imitate the traditional arm movement. How perfect, I thought, to end on a note of music and art. Fun, loud, playful. It felt so me.

I figured I had to sit with the officials but the main dude was literally pushing me to sit at another table.  A lot of the dishes we got were similar to the ones we ate during the trip: pork belly, choi, tofu, and what not (sorry don’t remember the specific names of them).  After that we got on the bus and I wasn’t very talkative during the debriefing on the bus as I was still thinking about my village.  I was rather annoyed at the fact that the official paraded me around the gaudy ancestral clan hall but didn’t show me the actual village.  I was also mad at the fact that the clan hall was so well-kept and maintained yet the village literally next to it was so dilapidated and run down.  You need to pay in order to tour the hall but where is all the money going to?  Why are they not helping out and fixing the actual village and letting it go to shambles?  There was such huge contrast between the ancestral clan hall and the village and it just made me so angry and was distracting me throughout the whole day.  During that night’s debriefing I was asked what I’m going to do now that I have seen my village, and I honestly don’t know.  I’m not sure what to do moving on, but I was told that my rooting has just begun, and that there is a lot more work to be done.  I’m still processing everything and contemplating on what remains to be done, and what I will do remains to be seen.  But for now I’m going to enjoy the rest of my time in Asia.  Peace out!

I was lucky to run into the oldest woman of the village at age 103 years. I learned she was my great aunt and that she knew my po. All the Rooters were charmed by her energy, but our conversations were cut short as local official hosts urged us to keep moving. We wished her good health then scurried over to a small park to see the three 100-year old banyan trees that my mother had climbed on as a child. There, I was given a few minutes to myself while everyone went back to the bus. In that moment, I began to imagine what my mother and my gong must have felt as children growing up here and surrounded by family. My gong left his ancestral home at a young age to seek better opportunities in Guangzhou, followed by my mother immigrating to the United States. Their selflessness in uprooting their homes and identities for the sake of mine and future generations was courageous, heartwarming and touching. For the first time in my life, I felt proud of my identity as a Chinese American and being born to immigrant parents.   Needless to say, that moment of peace and quiet was the highlight of my rooting. The series of events following included a “press conference” hosted by local Bei Sha officials and reuniting with a Rooter whom we thought was forever lost in my gong’s village. I still have a lot to learn about my gong and his family, but Roots was certainly a first step towards reaching out and developing my maternal relations. I am grateful to all my Roots leaders, Professor Long, Yani and Sifu for making this happen. Most importantly, thanks to my Roots `ohana for being there every step of the way!

Overall, Roots has been an absolutely incredible experience and I’m sure I’ll never really be able to articulate all the ways it has touched my life. I’m eternally grateful for getting the opportunity to join this amazing group and gaining a wonderful family (Shout out to the leaders, Steve, Al, Frank, and Rosa, and Michelle Lough who pushed me to apply). I can’t wait to see how I can give back to this family and spread the love! #rootsohana