My Yeiyei
by David Yu
My first encounters with death were not unlike those of millions of other children. At the age of seven I owned two hamsters, by the names of Fuzzy and Wuzzy who ran away after I had been careless enough to leave their cage open. Two weeks after their auspicious escape, my mother found Wuzzy in a family mousetrap. Simply disappointed, I moved on to turtles, which were known for their long life span and slow speed if I were to make the same mistake. My second most vivid memory of death was the day my great grandmother died. She was fortunate enough to live to the ripe age of ninety-one. But, my mother was still devastated. She had been raised in her grandmother’s house for most of her childhood. So, after she received the inevitable phone call, she wept for what seemed like the whole night in her bedroom. On the way to school the next day, she asked me how I felt through the whole ordeal. I had met my great grandmother on several occasions. She was a generous woman with plenty of energy for her age: a woman who was to be missed. After a pensive moment, I replied, “Death is just a part of life. It’s how the world works.” My mother looked away from the road and gave me a smile to confirm my innocence. To children, death never comes full circle; they fail to relate death to themselves.
I believe that all children eventually have a defining moment of maturity, when they accept the inevitable end of their lives. My defining moment of maturity arrived when I was fifteen, a proper age to become a man. During the summer of 2003, my paternal grandfather or Yeiyei, as we called him in Mandarin, had been diagnosed with bladder cancer, a fairly common condition for an eighty year-old man. Consequently, the standard treatment of Chemotherapy was performed thoroughly and successfully: round one as they called it. A year later, the doctors discovered that the cancer from his bladder had metastasized into the rest of his body. My parents were on the phone every night with my family in China, discussing my grandfather’s condition and treatment. By the end of October, the doctors numbered my grandfather’s days. My family bought five tickets to Shanghai when we were informed the number was single digit.
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Ever since I was five years old, I have been going back to China every summer. My parents believed my brother and I were losing touch with our Chinese heritage. They were right. I attended Darnestown Elementary in Rockville, Maryland where the racial diversity was non-existent. In my class there were no Blacks, no Hispanics, no Jews, one Indian, and one Asian: me. I was subject to torment that no child could understand. The other boys would ask me, “Why don’t you open my eyes more?” I didn’t answer, not because I felt the question did not deserve an answer, but because I simply didn’t know why I didn’t open my eyes more. When I came home, I stared into the mirror forcing my eyelids up into my eyebrow, thinking that I was somehow handicapped. My brother’s experience at Darnestown was no different. One day at dinner, he refused to eat duck or soy sauce.
“What’s wrong?” my mother asked.
“Only Chinese people eat duck… And soy sauce is too dark; it makes my skin yellow.” Thus, my mother concurred that a plane ticket would be the only remedy.
As an extension of my peer’s distaste for the Chinese, I disliked my trips to China. I spent the majority of my time in Hongzhou, a fairly large, urban city two hours Southeast of Shanghai in my grandfather’s apartment. A child’s perception of a foreign environment can be very shallow. My memories of my early trips to Hongzhou characterized the city as hot and polluted. The high temperatures alone may have been tolerable, but the humidity applied a layer of stick to my skin that made me feel like I was melting. Despite my inability to open my eyes to their maximum potential, dust managed to irritate them. Trucks drove up and down the busy streets spraying water as to solidify some of the dust in the air. The city’s attempts to rid the air of pollution showed little promise; the sky was never blue, but rather one shade of depressing grey. As a result of the humidity and dust, I stayed in my Yeiyei’s apartment and watched American movies all day.
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With the single-digit number on our minds, we made the flight across the Pacific. My family landed in Shanghai where my Gufu[1] picked us up and escorted us the two-hour drive to Hongzhou. The car ride down was awkwardly cheerful. We all knew the gloomy reason for our visit to Hongzhou, yet we discussed what we hoped to do on our ‘vacation’. I requested we go shopping, one of my favorite activities in China due to the abundance of bootleg DVDs and knockoff name brands. The conversation soon died either due to lack of enthusiasm or exhaustion from a fifteen-hour flight. I was asleep before I could realize it was exhaustion.
We arrived at the hotel and checked in. I had stayed in the Lucky Star Hotel before and enjoyed it. The rooms included a clean bathroom and carpet, and a Pizza Hut was located just around the corner from the hotel. Such luxuries were rare in Hongzhou. However, fate arranged Lucky Star’s greatest convenience; my grandfather’s hospital was located just two blocks away. We dropped off our bags in the room and took the elevator down to the lobby. I stepped outside into the dusty streets and threw on my sunglasses to protect my eyes. This was my first trip to China during the school year. It was nice. The air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the city’s summer humidity. I hope Yeiyei has a window in his room, I thought to myself.
All hospitals in China smell the same; they smell of sickness. I was informed Yeiyei’s bed had been recently moved to a more private room on the fourth floor, so as we stepped out of the elevator, a crowd of relatives greeted my family and me. Out of politeness, I responded with a smile and continued to follow my parents into my grandfather’s room, which was surprisingly clean and white with the exception of a few skid marks on the floor. My grandpa was laid out across an incline bed as my GuMa[2] fed him some chilled tea through a straw. Once she acknowledged our arrival, she put the tea on the coffee table adjacent to the bed and announced our presence, “Look who’s here to see you,” My Yeiyei looked up at us blankly as if to be staring at something twenty feet behind us. I took off my sunglasses and realized how thin he had become. I could see the drops of tea journey down his throat into his frail body. My father took my GuMa’s seat and attempted a conversation with his father. When my father was done, my mother took a seat and gave a few words of comfort. After her, it was my turn, so I sat down and looked into my grandfather’s eyes, searching for some sign of life. When he failed to return the gesture, I reached for his hand. It was surprisingly soft, almost in a frightening way. The lack of texture suggested a lack of history; to a workingman such as my Yeiyei, his hands summarize his life. Every brick carried, every bullet loaded is marked in a man’s hands. My grandfather had no marks that I could detect; perhaps, he simply did not wish to share them with me. When I got out of the chair, I felt sick, not from the smell of the hospital, but because even I knew the number was single digit.
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When I was younger, I couldn’t stand the smell of tobacco smoke. At home, my family maintained a nonsmoking household. But in China, eating out consisted of three courses, a beer, and two cigarettes. I was never scared to express my opinion over the horrible habit of smoking. One summer day, I was left alone with my cousin, Tiantian, at my Gufu’s apartment. We went on a crusade to find every last pack of cigarettes in the house; looking high and low, we pillaged the place until it was rid of tobacco. When my Gufu returned, he found the house a mess and forty packs of Marbolo in the garbage. Since the incident, I have not been left alone at my Gufu’s house without supervision.
My Yeiyei was a chain smoker. He chose to spend his afternoons sitting in the living room smoking until my Grandma had finished preparing dinner. He was one of the few people that would not hear my complaints over the subject of tobacco. My Yeiyei loved his cigarettes and my objections meant nothing to him. So he chose to smoke, and I chose to watch TV in the other room.
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One summer, a family friend tagged along with my brother and me on our trip to Hongzhou. Chinese and a bit older than me, Jenny was probably fully aware of the poverty in China, but I was still embarrassed when I heard she was going to stay at my Yeiyei’s apartment. As we made our way from the train station, we passed the buses’ last stop and moved into the intercity. Crossing a bridge, we saw women washing their clothes in the opaque river as their children splashed around to escape the summer heat. Paved roads became dirt roads. And the footsteps of the street venders rolled the dust into the air, blocking the view of the concrete shacks decayed by time.
“Why is there graffiti on the walls?” Jenny asked.
“That’s not graffiti. That red character marks which buildings are going to be torn down,” replied the driver.
My Yeiyei’s building did not have the same red mark, but it was just as tatty. We arrived in front of my Yeiyei’s building, but the stairwell to his apartment was on the backside of the building. We rolled our luggage down the narrow alley around the building, where my family friend saw flies buzzing over rotting refuse from the numerous garbage chutes extended from the building. After circling around the building, we marched up the concrete stairs with our suitcases thudding against each step. Upon arriving at my Yeiyei’s door, I turned to Jenny and warned, “Sorry my grandpa’s a little weird.”
The three of us stayed there for the next six days, taking refuge in the air-conditioned rooms. On the sixth day, I was watching a DVD with my brother in the bedroom while my Yeiyei was smoking a cigarette in the living room. As the credits began to roll, Jenny walked into the room and asked, “How’s he weird?” After some consideration, I did not answer. Although the subject of her question was my grandfather, the question was really about me; why did I call him weird?
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My GuNainai[3] had arrived in Hongzhou a few days before my family, so she could witness her older brother’s last moments. I was unaware that my Yeiyei had any siblings and, therefore, had never met my GuNainai. Although younger than my grandfather, she seemed so old. Her posture was crooked and she walked with a slight limp. Her clothes matched her hair, both grey and craggy. Her skin was dark and the wrinkles on her face marked the countless hours of work under the Chinese sun. When addressed, she usually responded with a nod of approval as if to accept any given fate. As most could tell, time had not been gentle to her; her life lacked any sort of luxury and now her brother was dying.
While my GuNainai was in Hongzhou, my mother thought it would be nice to show her a good time. So on the third day of our trip, my family planned a trip to Hongzhou’s West Lake with my GuNainai, GuMa, Gugu[4], and Nainai[5]. I had been to West Lake countless times and had no desire to sit on a boat for two hours rocking with the monotonous waves. But the weather was nice, and I realized that deserting my family would be disrespectful in such circumstances. After stopping by the hospital, the eight of us strolled down to the West Lake shore and chartered a boat. The boat was extremely primitive, with a slender wooden hull and a single oar in the back for the captain. My father helped my GuNainai and grandmother into the rocking boat, and we took our seats on the wooden benches along the sides. I sat across from my GuNainai with our knees bumping as each wave slapped the boat. I had not yet spoken to her directly, but had been introduced by my GuMa as “the eldest grandson.” We had been out for half an hour, slowly making our way to the lake’s center. Everyone was silent, enjoying the view and reflecting on the moment. In an attempt to break the awkward silence, I asked, “Where are you from?”
“Shaoxin,” my GuNainai replied in hoarse voice, which made sense because that was my Yeiyei’s hometown and where my GuMa’s family resided. I nodded and let off a smile to express my understanding. She smiled back, showing off all five of her teeth and turned to my GuMa.
“He is very tall and handsome, like your father.” As I began to feel warm, I looked up and saw the sun in the midst of a blue sky. The weather can be a very ironic thing.
With our wooden vessel in the middle of West Lake under the bright blue sky, my Gugu received a call on her cell phone. After hanging up, she demanded that we turn around and head straight back for the shore. The captain, puzzled, obeyed without any question and the boat fell silent once again, everyone in their pensive state of reflection. All I thought about was why the sun decided to come out on this particular day.
We reached the shore and made the five-block journey to the hospital. Both my GuNainai and my Nainai had to be escorted in my aunts’ arms as we entered the hospital and made our way up to the fourth floor. My family surged into my Yeiyei’s room to find my Gufu, Tiantian, and, most importantly, my Yeiyei waiting for us. In the next twenty minutes, doctors and nurses moved in and out, checking his pulse and his breaths. My Yeiyei stared at the ceiling and remained motionless except for a few blinks. Because there were no physical signs of life, my eyes were glued to the heart monitor. As his breathes became longer and longer, so did the beeps from the machine. I watched the line skip up and down. Beep…Beep…Beep…everyone began to cry as the beeps faded and silence engulfed the room. The nurse came in to record the time of death: 4:56 PM, October 30.
The next moments went by in a blur. Emotions rose as tears fell. I looked around; everyone was there. My GuMa repeated the words rest in peace in between gasps for air. My grandmother sat in the corner in shock. Tiantian and my brother stood next to the doorway silent and solemn. Everyone else just cried except for me who had failed to fully grasp the situation. Although we were in pain, this was when my Yeiyei needed us most. My father took charge. He knelt beside my grandfather’s bed and put one hand over his father’s eyes and the other over his lips. My mother walked over to me and explained, “The Chinese believe a man must depart this world with closed eyes and lips. This means he doesn’t have anything more to see or say before he leaves us.”
After his lips and eyes were securely sealed, my father began to undress him, picking up his frail body and removing the hospital’s paper clothing. My GuMa handed my father some neatly folded clothes.
“We have to dress him now before he becomes stiff,” my mother explained.
My father and my Gufu lifted my newly dressed Yeiyei onto a metal bed that a nurse had brought in.
“He’s going to stay in the cold room downstairs over night.”
There were so many of us that we had to make three elevator trips.
That night, it was strictly work. My family congregated at my Yeiyei’s apartment where address books were brought out and phone calls were made. Yeyei’s funeral would be the next day, and this is when he needed us the most. I tried to help in any way possible, but there was little I could do, so I eventually collapsed sometime in the early morning on my Yeiyei’s old bed along with Tiantian and my younger brother. I slept poorly, zoning in and out of conscience as shadows moved left and right in the next room. I awoke to the chatter of people. I put on some pants and walked into the living room to find the apartment filled with bodies, most of which did not seem the least bit sad. My GuMa, who was much calmer than last night, told me to pay respect. In the middle of the room was a shrine dedicated to my Yeyei with his picture on the wall, his favorite fruits and food on the table, and incense smoke slowly drifting towards the heavens. I lit some incense, stared at my younger grandfather, and bowed three times.
Like any funeral, a Chinese funeral is a formality with customs unique to its culture. Everyone who attended was to where a piece of black cloth on their shoulder to publicly announce their loss. Females wore it on the left, men on the right. Each generation had its own color cloth in addition to the larger black cloth. I, being the youngest generation, had a red square pinned on top of a black one. Coincidentally, the oldest grandson must escort the soul of the deceased to the funeral and back. On the way there, my Yeiyei’s picture embodied his soul. I was told to hold the frame with both hands, maintain eye contact, and narrate each step of the journey. As we left the apartment I mumbled, “We’re leaving home. Watch your step, Yeyei,”
My father had arranged the funeral at some special center. It was a twenty-minute drive and I was unsure as to what narration my grandfather wanted. Every car? Every stop sign? Every turn? Every tree? Eventually, I stopped speaking to the photo and just stared at my Yeiyei as he stared back at me. When we arrived at the center, I made my way to the reception with my grandfather’s soul in hand. The reception room was very colorful with red curtains lining the walls and flower reefs placed in front of them. In the middle of the room there was a large screen with a table in front of it. As I walked in, I looked away from my Yeyei’s picture for the first time and saw over fifty sets of eyes staring at me. Nervous, I quickly made my way down the aisle and placed the picture on the table. The first part of the funeral, which consisted of a man preaching and several sets of bows, went by rather fast. After completing our last set of bows, everyone filed around the screen to see my grandfather’s open casket. Once again, emotions flared. My Yeiyei lay on a bed of flowers inside his wooden coffin. Dressed with the clothes my father had put on the night before, his body seemed peaceful. But his face was frightening; the thick layer of makeup applied to his skin along with the crimson lipstick was a sad attempt at imitating life. As my family said their goodbyes, I remained silent. If I had cried, it would not be because I missed my Yeiyei; it would be out of disappointment. Sadness struck me as I realized that I had failed. I had failed to learn about my grandfather, my family, and a big part of my own past.
It is traditional that a banquet is held after the cremation called a Tofu Dinner. That night, everyone from the funeral arrived at restaurant to celebrate my grandfather’s life. The dining hall was filled with family and friends, most of whom I had never met before. Throughout the dinner, I walked around with my Nainai as she introduced me to countless people that had affected my grandfather’s life. Earlier that day, my mother made a slide show composed of photos of my Yeiyei. Moments of his life were displayed on the white wall of the dining hall. I watched him grow from a husband to a father to a soldier to a grandfather. When the three course, beer, and cigarettes had been consumed, my uncle gave a speech. Once again, tears fell across the room. As everyone else cried, I looked the room and saw my GuNainai’s dry eyes. I felt warm again. Just like on the boat, the sun had come out and I saw everything in a new light. Yes, death would inevitably come for me one day as well. But more importantly, I realized that I couldn’t forget about my family and my past or I would feel the failure I had felt in losing my Yeiyei. Peaceful deaths with closed eyes and lips are granted to those who accept their past. My Yeiyei realized the importance of family, and I wish that I could only be so lucky as to have so many people by my side as my number reaches single digit.