The Truth Behind These Chinky Eyes

The Truth behind these Chinky Eyes

I really don’t get why we Chinese are looked upon differently by many. There’s nothing special about being yellow, or having eyes the size of toothpicks, plus wealth is but a stereotypical view of what Chinese have. But yes, although not all of us can afford living in Forbes Park or Corinthian Gardens, we are rich. Rich in the legacy our ancestors have showered upon us years ago.

I was born pure Chinese, parents on both sides born of parents from the mainland. My childhood was spent in utter confusion on which language to learn and speak. On one corner I had my “yayas”(maids in filipino) talk to me in their native tongue while I hear my parents conversing in theirs, but the fact still stands that both languages sounded absolutely different, and I had no other choice but to learn them simultaneously. So I am now what one would call a Chinese-Filipino, Chinese by blood but influenced by the Filipino language and culture.

My origins are like every other Chinese-Filipino’s origins, except for the tiny little trivia that I was one born with three sets of grandparents. How’d that happen? Simple, my mom was given away to her aunt at the age of five. She had two separate homes then, but mom chose to stick with her aunt since her aunt, although married, was childless, while mom’s biological parents had a total of 8 children, including her. Besides this, my family is as common as the hair on my head. Back at the age of nine, I thought I knew them perfectly. My dad was the most successful among eleven siblings, so we get by smoothly through the ups and downs of life. While my mom, despite her seemingly uncommon family background, was one sweet and loving daughter from a peaceful middle class family. But things aren’t always what they are initially perceived to be. My family had origins that went beyond what I have at first discerned, and it was only upon seeing those very origins with my own two eyes that I felt all the more proud of my heritage.

In the Summer of 1998, I visited my roots, Xiamen, China. It was my first time to go there since normally we’d visit Hong Kong instead. Hong Kong is what my dad would often call a “mainland extension” people loved to visit for the sake of shopping and business trips. But for me and my family, it was more for a personal purpose. My “ama”(Chinese for grandma) happened to be buried there, and from age three to fifteen we’d visit her every year.

Going back to my trip to Xiamen, I woke up that day excited to take my first tour of Mainland China. I was expecting those breathtaking scenes of misty mountains one would usually glimpse from expensive Chinese paintings, or those beautiful temples with the huge golden Buddha waiting to be worshipped and admired. I arrived at Xiamen International Airport late in the afternoon and to my surprise I saw some Chinese elders holding a placard with my dad’s name on it. I initially thought they were guys from the travel agency sent to pick us up, but why were they so old? It was only after a few introductions here and there that I came to realize I actually had relatives a hundred thousand kilometers away. I shook their hand and kissed the aunts that were with them, but to my shock and utter disbelief an old plump Chinese woman who initially shook my hand, hugged me, and kissed me straight on the lips! Yes, my first kiss was from a woman old enough to be my own grandma, with a set of teeth that looked like it’s been chewing on sugar cane for centuries now.

I decided to let the little incident pass, while we strolled down the airport parking lot to fetch our ride. The van, if I could call it that, looked as if it’s been from the Chinese Communist era. Its corners were filled with rust turning it into a van once stranded in the wild forests of Africa. Hell, I wouldn’t even believe its engines still worked! But as my trip was already initiated with surprises, I wouldn’t mind a few more. Thus the engines did work and we set for our lodgings.

The view was spectacular, the mountains from the paintings were real after all, they rose and fell as the van conquered the long, winding road while the mist grazed my face as I peered through the opened van window. The wind smelt of the fresh earthy aroma of green grass and it was from there that I couldn’t help but revel about how great the land of my forefathers was.

However this sense of awe was halted simultaneously with the van. As I looked at the view opposite the mountains, I couldn’t help asking mom where we were. Apparently, we arrived at our lodgings and boy was I shocked. The house matched the van perfectly, I couldn’t even get myself to believe that this was really where we were staying. Instead of rust, the house had cracks all over as if it would crumble on the spot. Scattered along its white walls were small grey blotches revealed by the white paint peeled away through time, while the edges that met with the ground had the faded color of white and yellow mixed together. But that didn’t stop us from entering and finding out for ourselves if indeed the car, the house, and what was inside the house were a threesome.

Well inside the house was a small simple living room with an antiquated television set, a round table, and some stools. The floor was plain cement and the cupboards were gray and dusty with age. Three bedrooms were adjacent to the living room and as I entered one of them, I couldn’t help but notice the strong scent of Jasmine mixed with ginseng. The bed was all but a mattress and a metal bed supporter where certain squeaks could be heard at every movement above it.

Our first night was nasty. I couldn’t sleep well from all the squeaks the bed made. I forced myself to lie still but I’d feel even more restless that way. In addition to this, the ghostly translucent curtains formed an eerie atmosphere as it waved against the slight gusts of wind through the window, and that made me feel all the more uneasy. As a whole, the first night sent huge eye-bags all over my face and I felt like crap. As I went over to the bath room for a shower the next morning, I would’ve fainted right on the spot. To add to my sense of “crapiness”, the bathroom actually stunk of it and I had to pinch my nose while bathing. Dad probably experienced it too, and couldn’t help but laugh at me as I entered the bedroom, after my shower, soaking wet, with a huge scowl on my face. As I went out of our room fully dressed, I was quite amazed at what lay before me.

The living room was the same as it was the day before except that now it was more of what one would call a “home”. My granduncle was slouched on a wooden rocking chair watching the television that may have been as old as he is, but he had a wide grin pasted on his face from the program he was currently watching. My grandaunt was in the small little kitchen, lovingly making oatmeal for us. The oatmeal tasted bland: they didn’t have powdered milk or sugar to give it a bit more flavor; still they all enjoyed it. My cousins gathered up the round table to have a bit of oatmeal too, they kissed my granduncle and aunt first before taking their share. I glanced at my brother with that knowing look, he must’ve seen it too because he simply nodded. The way we live in the Philippines is admittedly four times better and more extravagant than how our relatives there get by. Yet sometimes, we aren’t even satisfied with it.

Later that day, my granduncle brought us to where he worked. He worked in his own gallery as a painter. The gallery was a mere stall he bought along town, the paintings hung unevenly on the walls, some were just sprawled on the floor, but still granduncle loved his gallery more than anything. The passionate look in his eyes whenever he told tales of customers purchasing his work says it all. His work would range from scenes of the high mountains, flowers from the wildernesses of China, he even painted the Great Wall. But what I adored best was his interpretation of the word “ai” or love, which he painted in Chinese calligraphy. The brush’s strokes on the masterpiece were as raw on paper as the word itself was raw in my granduncle’s heart. He even painted for us while narrating his entire work routine, how people would comment on his paintings, and how he won awards for it. I’ve never seen anyone talk about his job like life itself.

After a few more tours of his little gallery we visited some of mom’s cousins, one of them my lady-lover who gave me my first kiss. Their house was made of pure wood and there were no doors to distinguish the entrance. The interior of the house was nothing different from its exterior, its floor was mere earth and the only thing that stood out was the furniture that rendered the house a sense of warmth. It was a lovely home, simple yet emanated the beauty of Chinese culture and tradition.

Upon arriving, we were immediately served tea, natural Jasmine tea grown from the very fields of China, placed of course, in genuine china. One of mom’s cousins actually said they saved the china for the best of visitors and apparently they considered us as such. On normal circumstances they simply used clay pots, cups and saucers.

After tea time we were brought to this little room which served as their small temple. They gave us “hiu” which are basically incense sticks, to pray over particular pictures above the altar together with Buddhist gods and goddesses. The pictures portrayed some of my more elderly relatives from even earlier generations, and I actually got goose bumps from the thought of meeting the entire lot of my ancestral clan. As we were about to leave, they gave us little pouches of natural tea leaves to bring home and waved farewell.

On the way back, I felt reborn, reborn in the land of my roots. I saw beauty in things that were initially left wanting. The van suddenly garnered a different aura, I found it less rusty and more worthy since this was the car granduncle used to go to the gallery he absolutely adores.

Granduncle passed away last May 1999, a year after our visit, he is now a renowned painter of China and his works would range from a hundred to five hundred thousand yen a piece. He has made us all proud, not only by his accomplishment, but by his strength of character in pursuing his passion.

There’s nothing greater than the warmth of familial ties. This particular trip to Xiamen taught me that. Even if I must learn two languages simultaneously, or never seem to get that perfect tan, I guess its all worth it. That trip to Xiamen has given me wealth that exceeds all others, I am definitely rich, rich in the greatness of my Chinese heritage. Truly as said by the emperor in the animated movie Mulan, “a flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of them all”. My relatives in China definitely worked their way amidst these adversities; they are definitely one of a kind, and one I should be proud of for eternity!