Tag Archives: chinese culture

Grandma 

Grandma

By Jessica Chen, age 16, Shenzhen, People’s Republic of China.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I go back to our old house to take vocal lessons because the piano is still there. 

Before my class, I always spend some time with Grandma on the eighth floor. She is a lovely old lady, short and chubby, with big eyes and rosy cheeks that look like steamed buns. 

Our whole family was raised under her care. She is like Buddha to us. My brother and I often kneel before her and bow, making her both annoyed and amused. Yes, she is fun. When I badmouth Confucius, she makes me spit on the ground and slap myself three times before letting me off. My cheeks turned red instead.

Today, I went to keep her company again. As I entered, the slippers were neatly arranged at the door, and the TV was on the children’s channel. Grandma was wearing her usual floral shorts. I changed my shoes and adjusted the TV channels while she bent down to place my sneakers in a convenient position for later. 

I collapsed on the sofa and asked Grandma what she had been up to today. Her response was the same as always: got up early, made her bed, cooked, went out to buy groceries, haggled, came home, cleaned, washed clothes, watched TV, cooked again, watched videos (and forwarded some to me), and cleaned the already tidy house once more. But then she raised her voice, saying that a girl sitting so sloppily would be an embarrassment outside. I laughed, saying I looked like a free person. Nonetheless, I put my legs down, leaned over, and hugged her. She couldn’t stand my affectionate gestures and made playful noises in protest. My attention soon drifted back to the TV, lying quietly beside Grandma.

Suddenly, she asked casually, “Kaka, shall I make you some noodles?”

Noodles. I hadn’t had noodles in a long time.

“Sure,” I said.

She got up and went into the kitchen, and I watched her. She bent down to retrieve a pot and bowl from the cupboard, placed them on the stove, filled the pot with water, and turned on the heat. Then she tiptoed to reach into the cupboard above her head, pulling out noodles, salt, soy sauce, and vegetables. 

She kept rummaging, her hands feeling around. I got up and went into the kitchen to ask if she needed help. She told me to stay out of her way, so I stood nearby, watching her. She finally found a small green canister, its surface worn, with some red oil stains on the lid. Curious, I tried to open it to smell, but Grandma smacked my hand away. Apparently, badmouthing Confucius was out of the question, and even smelling condiments was off-limits. I went back to my spot, continuing my time-out.

Grandma put the noodles into the pot and started adding soy sauce and salt to the bowl.

“Add more salt,” I suggested.

She replied, “Eat, eat, eat. You’ll get diabetes when you’re older and won’t be able to eat at all.”

“If I get diabetes, will you take care of me?” I joked.

“Spit, spit, spit! Quick, spit, spit, spit,” she insisted.

“Okay, okay,” I said. The noodles were ready.

She used long, thick chopsticks to pull the noodles from the boiling pot into the bowl, then ladled in some broth. The aroma was incredible, like the intense scent that wafts into your house from a neighbor’s kitchen. I leaned over to smell it, but she stopped me and brought out the green canister. Opening it, I saw it was chili seasoning. My eyes lit up.

“Add more,” I urged.

“That’s enough,” she said.

“I like it spicy. Add more,” I insisted.

“Look at the pimples on your face. Grandma used to have such clear skin,” she sighed.

“Fine, fine,” I relented.

But she still added a heaping spoonful of chili sauce. I grinned at her, but she turned away to avoid my smile. I carried the steaming bowl of noodles to the dining table.

“Let Grandma carry. It’s hot,” she said. Hot or not, I wasn’t going to let her carry it.

I placed the noodles on the table. Grandma came out with chopsticks and a spoon, setting the spoon in the noodles and the chopsticks across the bowl. She pulled out a chair and sat beside me.

I stared at the noodles. They smelled so good, made by Grandma. I looked up to find her watching me.

The noodles lay quietly in the bowl. I gently lifted a few strands with my chopsticks, placing them in the spoon filled with the rich, red broth. I blew on it, and the aroma filled my nostrils. In the steam, I brought the spoon to my mouth.

The hot broth slid down my throat, soaking into each noodle. I lowered my head, using my hair to hide my face as I continued eating. Why did these noodles taste just like they did when I was a kid? The chili sauce was perfect, just like before.

Grandma asked gently, “Is it good?”

My mouth full of noodles, I nodded slightly, “Delicious.”

Perhaps because my mouth was stuffed, she didn’t notice the tears in my voice. That’s good. She’s an emotional person. If I cry, she will, too. I can’t bear to see her cry, especially not because of me.

I tried to keep my sniffles from falling into the noodles while gobbling them down. Grandma watched me quietly.

“Eat slowly. No one is going to take it from you,” she said.

That’s the line I hate most in movies. Why does my hand feel so painfully hot? Grandma, I miss you so much. What will I do when there’s no one to make me these noodles in the future?

—Jessica Chen, 16, is a rising senior at an international school in Shenzhen, China. A passionate playwright and performer, she has written and brought to life several compelling scripts, both in English and Chinese. Jessica also writes film reviews and makes global film recommendations for her school’s news media. In her spare time, she enjoys following soccer and often gets a kick out of the games, whether winning or losing.

Jessica also sent the story in Chinese. Here it is:

《姥姥》

每周的周⼆和周四我都会回搬家前的家去上声乐课,因为钢琴还在那。上课前我都会去下⼋楼去陪姥姥⼀会⼉。她是个可爱的⽼⼈。矮矮胖胖的,⼤⼤的双眼⽪,⼤⼤的眼睛,脸颊像两颗馒头,会变红的馒头。我们全家⼈都是在她的照顾下长⼤的。她像佛祖⼀样。我经常和我哥突然跪在她⾯前拜两下,搞得她又烦又觉得好笑。对,她很好玩。我平时说孔子坏话她还会让我“呸呸呸”,还要让我打⾃⼰三下逼⽃才肯放过我。脸颊红的⼈成我了。

这天,我又去陪她。进门后,拖鞋已经规整的摆放在门⼜,电视上放着少⼉频道。姥姥穿着平时的花裤衩。我换了鞋,去调电视频道,⽽她又弯下⾝⼦把我的运动鞋规整的摆成⽅便⾛时穿的⽅向。我瘫在沙发上问姥姥今天⼲了些什么。又跟每次⼀样的回复:清晨起床叠被⼦,做饭,出门买菜,讨价,回家,打扫,洗⾐服,看电视,做饭,刷短视频,给我转发短视频,又打扫⼀遍已经⼲净了的屋⼦。嗯。但这时她又提着嗓⼦说我⼥孩⼦家家坐的七扭⼋歪要是在外⾯会像什么样。哈哈,像⾃由⼈。但我只是把腿放下了,跨过去“么么哒”了⼀下她。她受不了我这么⾁⿇就“诶诶诶”,哈哈哈。我的注意又很快的被电视夺⾛,安静躺在姥姥⾝边。

这时,她突然很平常的问,“卡卡,我给你做⾯吃好不好”。

⾯。我好久没吃过⾯了。

“好”。

她起⾝⾛进厨房开始捣⿎,我躺在沙发上看她。看她弯腰在柜⼦⾥翻出锅和碗,放到灶台上又往锅⾥加⽔,开⽕烧。接着又踮起脚尖翻开头顶的柜⼦,拿出⾯条、盐、酱油和蔬菜后还在往⾥翻,⼿到处摸。我起⾝⾛进厨房问她需不需要我帮忙,她让我⼀边呆着看别添乱,我就乖巧地在旁边罚站,看她左摸摸右摸摸,摸出了个⼩绿罐。绿⾊的表⾯有些掉⾊,盖⼦外有些红红的油渍。我好奇地想打开闻,被姥姥扇了个⼤逼⽃⼦。不是,我到底做错了啥,骂孔子不⾏,闻个调味的也不⾏。我只好回到刚站在位置继续罚站。

姥姥把⾯下进锅后就开始往碗⾥加酱油和盐。

我说,“盐多放点”。

她说,”吃吃吃⽼了以后得糖尿病看你还吃不吃“。

“我得糖尿病了你来照顾我呗”

“呸呸呸,快,呸呸呸”。“好好好”

我把⾃⼰呸掉了。⾯,也好了。

她⽤粗长的筷⼦把⾯从沸腾的锅⾥捞出来夹到碗⾥,再⽤勺⼉把⾯汤陈进去。⾹。太他妈⾹了。这种⾹就像是隔壁⼩孩⼉家吃饭时从你家窗⾓缝飘进来的浓郁感。我跨到姥姥⾝边想低头闻,她把我打住并拿出了那瓶绿⾊罐⼦。打开,⾥⾯是辣椒调味料。我⼀看就两眼放光

“多加点”

“啧,够了”

“我吃辣啊,多来点”

“你吃,你看看你脸上长的疙瘩,啊,姥姥以前脸⼲净的很”

“哎呀我好好好”

但她还是听我的加了很厚的⼀勺辣椒酱。我开⼼的向她呲⽛,可她却转过头回避了我的笑脸。我⽤⼿端起热腾的⾯条往餐桌⾛。“姥姥端,烫“。

烫,才不让你端呢。

我当没听见,把⾯放在桌⼦上。姥姥这时拿着筷⼦和勺⼦⾛了出来,把勺⼉放进⾯⾥,筷⼦架在碗上。她拉开凳⼦坐在了我旁边的旁边。

我盯着⾯条。好⾹啊,是姥姥做的。我抬起头,姥姥盯着我看。

⾯条在碗中静静地躺着。我⽤筷⼦轻轻挑起⼏楼⾯条放在舀着鲜红粽⾊的汤汁的勺中。我凑近吹了吹,汤汁的⾹⽓扑⿐⽽来。热⽓氤氲中,我将勺⼦送⼊⼜中。

热汤划过我的喉咙,⽽汤汁早已渗⼊每⼀根⾯条。

我低下了头,⽤头发挡住了我的脸颊继续吃⾯。为什么,味道跟⼩时候吃的⾯⼀模⼀样呢。

好好吃的辣椒酱。味道和⼩时候的⼀样。好好吃啊姥姥。

她见我不抬头,关切地问:“好吃吗”?

我的嘴巴被⾯条塞满了,低着点了点头,”很好吃。“

可能是嘴巴被⾯条塞满,并没有让姥姥听出被压抑着的哽咽。也好。她是个⾮常感性的⼈。

我⼀哭,她就会哭。我看不得她哭,更看不得她因为我哭。

我努⼒吸着⿐涕不让它掉进⾯⾥,同时又狼吞虎咽。

姥姥静静地看着我。

她说,”慢点吃,又没⼈跟你抢.“

这是我在影视中最讨厌的台词。为什么突然感觉⼿⼼被烫得好疼啊。姥姥我好想你啊。要是以后没⼈给我做这样的⾯条我该怎么办?

—Jessica Chen, 16, is a rising senior at an international school in Shenzhen, China. A passionate playwright and performer, she has written and brought to life several compelling scripts, both in English and Chinese. Jessica also writes film reviews and makes global film recommendations for her school’s news media. In her spare time, she enjoys following soccer and often gets a kick out of the games, whether winning or losing.

I Have Two Names

I Have Two Names

By Joy (Peixin) Yin, grade 7, Mexico.

I have two names; a Chinese name and an American one. My Chinese name is Peixin (沛心) . It means “pure heart.” My American name is Joy. My parents named me that because they want me to be happy.

My Chinese name is the one that is official. It’s written all over my legal documents. On first days of school, when the teacher calls roll, I’m always last, because my last name is Yin (尹). But I always need to correct them, “I go by Joy, though.” Sometimes, the teacher forgets and keeps calling me Peixin. And sometimes, I hear laughs and giggles from my classmates. I feel guilty to say, that sometimes, I feel a bit ashamed for having a Chinese name. So, when someone asks me, “What’s your name?” I always tell them to call me Joy. When the substitute pauses while taking attendance, it’s always me. When I write my name on my computer or phone, it always gets autocorrected. It’s almost as if the universe hates my name.

My American name is what they call me. When my family moved to the U.S., my parents gave me my American name so it would be easier for people to remember me, and for it to not be awkward and embarrassing for me every time someone pronounced my Chinese name wrong. My American friends all know me as Joy. I feel connected to the name; I feel like it’s me. Yet, I always get reminded of my real name.

But after three years of living in my hometown in China again, my feelings towards my name have changed. In China, my classmates and teachers all called me Peixin (pronouncing it perfectly!), and I was normal for once. In school, I was able to improve my Mandarin as well (a hard process, but worth it!). During that time, I also felt more connected to my culture, and learned more about it, although I sort of missed my American name and identity.

By now, I’ve accepted the fact that both of my names are part of my identity. Different parts of it. And I’ve embraced my Chinese name more. Especially after I saw many Asians at my new international school use only their Asian names.

My two names are two parts of my identity—living together in harmony, forever and always.

Joy (Peixin) Yin, grade 7, Mexico. She adds: “Born in Wuhan, China, I have also lived in California for five years. I speak and write Mandarin Chinese and English but I am also trying my best to learn Mexican Spanish. I have never been a sports person. Instead, I’ve always loved reading and writing. I’m currently 13 years old, and attending an international school in Mexico City.”

Festival of Mid-Autumn Moon

 By Chiu-yi Rachel Ngai, 16, Arkansas.
 Lanterns bloom like flowers, the light and colour of crowded city streets. 
 Folded paper, a slinky of patterns,
 Dancing as the candle flame flickers a pattern silhouette. 
 There are plastic lanterns these days, thick and rubbery with a strange smell,
 Lit up with a mini LED bulb. 
 They come in all shapes and sizes, pop culture and cartoon designs.
 Mickey Mouse, Power Rangers, Doraemon. 
 I remember my cousin had an Elsa once, a matching pair with her Anna-toting sister. 
 We met with mooncakes under a full moon,
 Lotus paste sticky sweet, salted egg yolk seawater respite. 
 Our ancestors looked up at the same moon, and now we stand in their light— 
 A product of their mistakes and triumphs.  
 We stand tall, a proud new generation, 
 Eager to take on the world outside our Hong Kong,
 Not knowing how much our bubble would change in the years that watched us grow. 
  
 I was fourteen when I left on a fifteen hour flight to the United States, 
 Creating a half-globe’s distance within my heart. 
 I write this at sixteen, a full lifetime for so many before me, a full lifetime for still too many. 
 Arkansas is American Southern, dry and green and different and not a bad place to be— 
 And yet I remain a daughter of the Asian East— 
 My bones do not feel like they belong. 
  
 I sat under the ever-present moon last Mid-Autumn, my second in the States,
 Eating mooncakes gifted by my art teacher, the only other Chinese person I know in the area. 
 I look up to the sky, to the stars my cousins do not see, the stars drowned by neon light—
 I look up to the sky, to the moon my family looked at thirteen hours ago, the moon my ancestors saw a woman’s story in.
 The moon keeps me close to home.  

By Chiu-yi Rachel Ngai, 16, Arkansas. She adds: "I grew up in the bustling streets of Hong Kong. I moved to the U.S.
when I was fourteen in order to get a better education. I am fluent in English and Cantonese. I can understand Mandarin/ 
Putonghua better than I can speak it. I am working on overcoming my internalized racism towards myself for being Chinese, 
and I decided to submit to Skipping Stones as part of my journey towards accepting myself and finding pride and 
joy in my cultural identity."

Xiāng Xiāng

By Jessica Wang, 16, New York.

I have two names. One I use everyday while the other I keep stowed inside me, locked behind the bars of my lips and the breath of my tongue.

My caged name is actually quite pretty. It means aroma. Not a smelly one, but a homey, warm odor, like the scent of fresh laundry or the steam that bubbles off chicken soup. 

Sometimes I say my name to myself, just to see if it’s still there. It’s strangely pronounced and forces my tongue to touch the roof of my mouth and oftentimes I stumble over the loopy syllables. I only say it in the dark; face mushed between two pillows and huddled under layers of blankets, just in case it tries to make a run for it.

I’m afraid of my name.

It’s odd because you’re not supposed to fear a name. Can you imagine if every Tim, Tom, and Harry were afraid of his name? That would be a strange world indeed.

I’m afraid of my name because it’s cursed. It doesn’t belong here, on this soil or in this strange body that I try to call “American”. If I were to let my name go from its cage, past my lips, people would stare and know that I too don’t belong here. They would ask me what my name means and I would explain that directly translated it means “nice smell”. And then they would laugh at the absurdness and wonder what the silly Chinese were thinking. Naming a child after a smell? What would be next? A girl named after the taste of a lemon?

If I said my name, it would betray me, reveal me as an outsider. It had done it before and would do it again. So I betray my name first. I betray it by wearing colored contact lenses and trying to look Caucasian. I betray it by buying creams to hide the yellowness of my skin. I betray it by waking up every day and wishing my name wasn’t there, that instead of two names I only had one, one free name.

I dye my hair blonde one day, just to see what it would be like to have yellow curls and pretty hair. The dye stung my scalp and smelled like bleach and acid and nothing homey or warm at all. I am not an outsider. I tell myself as I brush my new beautiful hair.  I am not an outsider. I am not an outsider. I am not an outsider. The words taste funny on my tongue. 

My mother no longer calls me by my caged name. She used to, back when I didn’t understand what the word “foreigner” meant and my worst fear was getting an apple instead of cookies during snack time. I remember she used to say it in a certain way, curling her pink tongue and rolling the syllables off neatly. But she stopped after I asked her what the word “slit-eyes” meant. Now she calls me “Je-ssi-ca,” the name neatly printed on my birth certificate, my official name, the free name. She named me after the actor Jessica Simpson because she’s pretty and Caucasian and has blonde hair. The name is easy to pronounce and flows off the tongue smoothly, the American tongue that is.

My second name “Je-ssi-ca” does wonders. It helps me chain up my foreign name and even add a couple more locks, determined to snuff it out. And it works. I can no longer hold chopsticks properly or handle the spices of traditional dishes. When I try to speak the language my ancestors once spoke, my thick American accent pokes through and slurs together the vowels and syllables. It’s American-Chinese my grandma would murmur and shake her head at how far her heritage has fallen. I am no longer the little girl who listened to her stories about the immortal monkey king and his magical staff. She does not know who I am. I am foreign to her.

I have successfully locked up my name.

But even without saying my name, it still betrays me. People still look at me like I’m an outsider even though I was born here, even though I speak English perfectly, even though I betray a part of myself everyday just to please them.

And no matter how much cream I scrub into my skin, no matter how much I try to hide the dark brown in my eyes, they keep staring. 

But I like my caged name. I think it’s pretty, even prettier than light hair and blue contact lenses. It reminds me of steamed dumplings and curved mandarin letters and red paper lanterns with gold embroidered on the edges. And when I say my chicken soup-fresh laundry-oddly pronounced-laughable name. I feel good. The syllables punctuate the air daringly and challenge the world around. When I whisper the letters, my name is free and so am I.

It’s true that my caged name doesn’t quite fit me. I can’t write or read mandarin and my pronunciation is terrible. But it’s still a piece of me, just like my skin and my eyes. I can’t just scrub it off, mask it, or even lock it up. At  the end of the day my caged name is mine. All its dents, curves, and ridges are mine. It’s oddly pronounced, and it’s mine. It is me, and I am mine. My culture. My ethnicity. Me.

 I don’t want to lock myself up anymore.

By Jessica Wang,16, New York, United States.

“My piece is about the period in my life when I went through a lot of self-hatred because of the way I looked. I hated being Chinese because it meant that I looked very different from my peers. I remember sometimes I would even buy whitening creams and dye my hair in order to try and fit in. I should have realized that instead of trying to please others I should have learned to accept myself for who I am.”