I’m not interested in having kids right now, as you’ll know if you read this blog regularly. But a couple of weekends ago I had an experience that made me understand one aspect of parenting that I’d never thought about before.
I was in San Jose for a rare family gathering with Erik’s parents and siblings. One of Erik’s mom’s sisters had passed away the week before, so we had all gotten together to share a lunch and be with Mom. We had noodles and drumsticks and okra and soup, followed by juicy-ripe pluots. After we finished eating, my nephew Alexander went off to play, while the rest of us sat at the table and talked. Erik’s oldest brother Brian was the first to bring up their aunt.
Rather slowly, Mom explained what had happened, revisiting a subject I’d gotten bits and pieces of in previous encounters. This time, most of the conversation was conducted in Taiwanese. The only thing I recognize in that language is “come eat,” but because there were random Mandarin and English words sprinkled throughout the discussion, and because I knew what they were talking about, to my surprise I grasped the gist of nearly everything said. But since I couldn’t know the details, I couldn’t understand the way I normally do; that is to say, I couldn’t know facts or exact words, or form opinions. What I could do was listen to the variations in everyone’s tone of voice, watch their faces and gestures, and try to hear with my heart and my instincts. And I’m thinking that in conversations like this, where the emotions are the important part, this might not be a bad way to go about it.
I remember when I was reading Lisa Genova’s Still Alice, and Tim Farrington’s The Monk Upstairs, I was struck by the experiences of characters who had suffered neurological damage (one had early-onset Alzheimer’s, the other had had a stroke). They weren’t able to follow conversations in the normal way, but they were acutely aware of their family members’ emotional states. I think it’s the same way with my grandpa, who has frequently startled his kids by picking up on their amusement, perturbation, or anger — even when he has no idea what they’ve been talking about. And after all, kids do the same thing. I tried to channel that intuitive understanding while I was listening to the conversation at Erik’s parents’ house. I saw the deep sadness in Mom’s eyes, answered by a similar sadness in Dad’s, which was not quite mirrored in the faces of their children. I felt Erik and his middle brother Elbert’s silent compassion, and their oldest brother Brian’s doctor-brisk but caring assurances that the family had done the right thing by Mom’s sister. Brian is a neurologist, and he’s also been in touch with his aunt’s daughter, so that his remarks carried the multiple consolation of his medical expertise, his contact with that side of the family, and his closeness to his parents as their oldest child.
While I observed this conversation, I thought about Brian’s son Alexander playing in the other room, and realized afresh the intimate connections between family, heredity, and mortality. Mom’s sister was gone, but in a way she was still there, flowing through Alexander. That’s a thing about family: in the end your blood family ties you to life and death in a way no one else can. You come from them and after you’re gone you continue to move through them, perhaps spiritually and emotionally, but definitely physically, genetically. I felt connected to this aunt even though I knew nothing about her, other than that she was Mom’s sister. I felt that it was her blood that sat across from me looking so sad, her genes which made the home we sat in and the life we watched growing older before us. Even if none of us in the room had known her, she would still have been there. I felt very aware then of what it would mean for Erik and me to have a child, in terms of continuing the heredity of our parents and their parents before them, and their siblings and our own siblings, and even the family members we’ve never known. I don’t know why I’ve never thought of it in quite this way before, but the knowledge felt new.
satsumabug.com | Lisa Hsia 
Thank you, I enjoyed the sensitivity of this post, and can relate to that emphasised emotional connection which sometimes manifests; so clearly in this way when the language is unfamiliar, and other times when for some reason, one is attuned to that feeling level of communication more. I think a sad situation brings it out more acutely perhaps, when we have some remove especially. As for the family line, I guess I get that too from time to time, I mean the strong understanding of it’s significance. I think it is time with parents that does it for me sometimes, but having the different generations present is a sure trigger given the right circumstances.
I think you’re right, Esther; it is often easier to access feeling-communication when we’re at some kind of remove. I know I want connection and when words aren’t enough, feelings can be the only way to get there.
This drew me in with you as you came to this new angle of awareness.
Though my ex’s family spoke english, I was often so far behind in understanding the family history behind a conversation, that I, too, found myself understanding them on a more emotional level. It’s amazing how much that feels like, is a deeper connection.
I do look at my daughter and sometimes see/feel the best of her deceased father, or her baka (his mother.) I look at her and sense the unexpected warmth of his father’s hard heart, and the tears at the corners of his eyes when he held her those few times when she was small, before he was lost to lung cancer. I can go on, but what I mean to say is a variation on what you said a day or two ago, about the wonders of this life we’re living. Wow.
Maybe we sense that the emotional connection is deeper than the verbal/intellectual one because we’re so tightly bound into our families in ways that are, for the most part, not conscious/articulated. I could write books describing my feelings about my family members, but when all those words are written and printed, there’s still a truth there that words can only begin to explain.
Seeing both parents in a child — that’s something else I haven’t thought about much. What would it be to look at my child and see Erik there, expressed in so many ways both familiar and fresh? Whew. Big thought!
I’ve thought about this a lot. I have family members obsessed with tracing blood lineage, I have sisters who are no relation by blood, and I have a huge, huge family of blood-related people with a long history. And I have a son who is a 4th, as in the 4th generation son with the same name. I have lost parents, close relatives, and distant ones I never knew. I have brothers and sisters that share a bond much deeper than friendship. And yet, what I struggle with is that I think it doesn’t matter if my blood flows through future generations because no one will know that I am part of them. Just like I don’t know anything about those Scottish ancestors five hundred years ago. I know their names, but not who they were. To me, if there is no one left to remember you, you cease to exist. I tell my son stories about my great-grandparents and other family, and think, he’ll remember those stories, they will exist another generation. As long as someone remains who remembers. Not sure I’m making sense here but hope you understand.
Lisa, your family sounds so rich and interesting. And how cool to know the names of your ancestors centuries ago… I don’t think I have that. There is a family tree a relative unearthed somewhere, but it’s in an older form of Chinese so we haven’t had it translated yet. For the time being, I only know as far back as my grandparents’ parents.
It’s very important to me to think that I’ll be remembered, and to try to remember those who came before me. I know that’s a big reason why I write and make art — to try to leave something behind that will continue to tell my story.