Unbound

I was 8 years old and ran into the kitchen where my mother was cooking.  My feet were cramping in exquisite pain.  “Take those off right now!” ordered my mother. 

My feet had been bound for the first time.  My toes were squished together, my feet having lost a third of its length.  My grandmother had wrapped my feet in bandages.  “Your feet are getting so large,” she exclaimed.  “Just like a man’s feet.  So ugly!”  Some of my schoolmates had their feet bound, and they complained bitterly of the pain.  Most had begun with the binding years ago, younger than I was when grandmother first got a hold of me.  My mother knew what going on, but was powerless to say anything as grandmother held the power in the family.

When my mother told me to take the bindings off she told me that from then on when I was near my grandmother, that I was to slow down and move very slowly.  “Her eyes are failing her now and she won’t be able to tell whether or not your feet are bound.”  And so I tried to do so whenever I was close to her.  I can’t imagine now how she didn’t know, but I never had to have my feet bound again.  Maybe my father intervened in some way. 

When Mao Tse Tung and the communists took over, foot binding was made illegal.  I may disagree with many of their practices, but I wholehearted agree with having foot binding banished. 

Listening to my mother tell this story turned my stomach.  Apparently this practice was instituted to increase women’s perceived attractiveness and enhanced their chances of marrying up in class.  As barbaric as foot binding may seem nowadays, I wonder how many other similar cultural practices to painfully enhance one’s sense of physical beauty still exist today in our society. 

Lifelong Learning

My mother came into my room last night wanting to talk…

I received a phone call this afternoon.  It was from Linda, the daughter of one of my oldest friends.  I was so surprised to hear from her, as it had been years since I had spoken with her.  “How have you been doing?” I inquired.  “I’m doing fine, getting older, but my life is good now.”   We chatted awhile when she told me that she was still living with her policewoman friend and they had been together for over 40 years now.  They apparently have owned a house together for many years and they also own a boat together as well!  She told me that I might not understand her relationship with her friend but that Irving would know.

I remember that Linda was married when she was 18 years old but ran away from the marriage after only 3 days.  Her mother was incensed because it was generally felt that her husband was a decent fellow.  She apparently moved in with the policewoman friend shortly thereafter and they have been together ever since.  I remember telling Linda’s mother not to be too hard on Linda, that we really didn’t understand what was going on after Linda left her marriage.  Maybe her husband was abusive!  I realize now that Linda was talking about being in a gay relationship.  I don’t think I fully understand the choice, but I do know that they have been together for a long, long time.  If that is what it takes Linda to be happy, then I am happy for her.  After all, it is her life and it doesn’t interfere with anyone else’s life.

We had just returned from a weeklong family reunion in Virginia Beach last week.  “Do you know that one of the young couples in the reunion are gay?”  I asked my mother.  “Really?  I didn’t know!”  I went to Facebook and showed her pictures of one of my favorite couples in the world and who both happen to be of the female persuasion.  “I remember them from last week.  They look very happy together in these pictures,” she exclaimed.  “I know that I didn’t approve of such things when I was younger.  Maybe I just didn’t understand it.  But they seem so happy!  I’m glad for them.  And I’m happy for Linda.  She was always a good girl.”

My mother is 85 years old and proof that you can teach an old dog new tricks.  We are never too old to learn and to change.

The Buddha and the Rickshaw

The Buddha and the Rickshaw

I spent this past Labor Day weekend with my mother in her condominium in Jackson Heights, NY.  In her living room she has collected a number of knick-knacks and she questioned why she had spent money on such trivial items.  As she spoke, I realized that she had endowed each inanimate object with priceless memories.  Here is one of them:

Do you see that Buddha statue over there?   Over on that left bookshelf?  I have other Buddhas on the shelf, but that one is the most special to me.

Your sister made a trip to Taiwan when she was living in Hong Kong.   She was trying to decide whether she wanted to take a holiday to Canton or Taiwan, and I told her that the Mandarin dialect would be easier for to understand than Cantonese, as it is much closer to our Shanghai dialect.  Also, one of your father’s best friends lived in Taipei and would look forward to having your sister visit. 

They went sightseeing and your sister had a wonderful time.  As she was shopping she spotted a pearl white statue of a Buddha that caught her eye.  She thought it was quite exquisite: about 18 inches tall, finely carved and depicted a slim feminine Buddha variant.   Your father’s friend saw that she was quite taken by the statue.  “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” he commented.   ”It really is.  And I think it is the Buddha whose name ends every mantra that my mother recites during her daily prayers.”  “Let me buy it for you,” my father‘s friend offered.  “No, I really want to get it for my mother.  If you purchased it, the gift would be more from you.  I really appreciate your offer, but I truly think this is special and I want it to come from me.”

My father’s friend looked at your sister with a new appreciation.  “I thought she was so young,” he later recounted to me.  “But she was very wise in her views.  Very unlike the children here in Taiwan, who seem to be only out for themselves!”

When your father’s friend told me this story, I was so proud of your sister!  But this reminds me of when you and I visited China (in 2002).  We were in that small town outside of Suchow.  We spotted a rickshaw and you asked me whether I wanted to ride as we were tired and it was unusually warm for September.  I remember that as we were riding we came to a small bridge with a steep incline.  You got out of the rickshaw and helped the driver pull it over the bridge.  “Ah!” the elderly driver exclaimed to me.  “Your son is so very considerate!  No other child here would even think to help!  You must not be from here.”  My mother admitted that I born and raised in America.  “Ah, that explains it!”

These memories seemed to make my mother extremely happy and proud.  “Children here are different, much more thoughtful and kind” she commented.  As for myself, I don’t believe this is due to geography, but due to upbringing.  After all, the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.

The Pig

The Pig

My mother’s overall cognition has declined over the past few months.  Repeats questions asked 2 minutes prior.   Inability to make decisions that were easy for her to make a year ago.  But tonight at dinner she was especially lucid in her past remembrances.

He was your father’s younger brother’s nephew.  He always had an extremely bloated opinion of himself.   When your father was younger, he worked at the Neville Hotel in upstate New York with Uncle Danny, to whom we had been close with for years.  Also working there was George, the nephew with high esteem.  Uncle Danny was considered an outstanding chef and often times received compliments from the hotel manager.   These compliments seemed to outrage George, who exclaimed, “What an idiot he (the manager) is!  I could run this place ten times better than he could.”   Your father would sarcastically respond, “Yes, you are a true genius!”

Which may have been why George never liked your father.  When your father was dying of cancer, Uncle Danny and his wife would come and visit often, but George would never do so.  “I’ll catch his sickness!” would be his excuse.

Six months after your father passed, I was still grieving on a daily basis.  Out of the blue, George called me.   “You shouldn’t live by yourself.  You should come live with me and we should get married.   I’ll take care of you.  After all, I have a lot of money.”  I hung up on him and burst into tears.  The absolute gall of that man!

Two days later, Uncle Danny arrived for a visit, something he did regularly after your father’s death.  He confessed still being very sad about our loss, but that I needed to begin to move on from my grief.  I immediately burst into tears.  “What’s wrong?  What did I say?”  I responded that it wasn’t about what he had just said.  “I’m just angry at George.”  I told Uncle Danny about our previous conversation.  “What a pig!  Nothing but a pig!”

Uncle Danny later told me that he had met up with George playing mahjong at the Benevolent Association in Chinatown.  He told George to stop playing and come with him to discuss an issue.  He asked about the call and George confessed that he did make the offer of living together and marriage.  Danny knocked him back with two swift backhands to the face.  “What did you do that for?” George shrieked fearfully.  “It’s because you are such an idiotic pig!” was Danny’s response.  “How can you do that to a grieving widow who only lost her husband 6 months ago.  And what is this with you having all this money?  You still owe me $200 from 2 weeks ago for your gambling debt.  I want that money right now!”

“But I don’t have $200!” cried George.  This resulted in 2 quick punches from Danny that knocked him to the floor.  “I want that money now and for you to never approach her again!”

I never did see George again.  I heard that he died on the streets, homeless and penniless.  I know now that he was never rich and was just trying to swindle me.  He apparently got caught stealing in Chinatown and was beaten for his crime by the storeowner.  I know I should feel bad, but I really don’t.