Jian Ping's column
Connection
Connection
I love swimming outdoors in the summer, especially in the pool on the deck of our residential building.
The pool is not big, but I like the setting and location—next to our rooftop garden on the fifth floor and takes
me one minute to get there. If I go at 6 A.M. when the door to the deck opens, I usually have the entire pool
to myself.
I’m not a fast swimmer, but like a turtle, I can keep going in the water without stopping for an hour.
Aside from the fresh air and open space that I enjoy, this is also a time of connection that I learned to
treasure with two of my loved ones: my father and Nainai, my grandmother.
The ritual that connects us began in September, 2008. Ten days after I had attended the Beijing Olympic
Games and visited my parents, I heard the dreaded news of my father’s passing. He had been fighting lung
cancer for three years and was very weak when I saw him in August. I frantically searched online and
called three airlines. In the end, I booked the first flight I could get on, via a transfer in Toronto to Beijing,
and Beijing to Changchun, in the northeast of China. “You’ve just returned to the U.S.,” my mother said
over the phone. “You don’t need to come back. There is nothing you can do now.” I knew my sisters would
take care of the arrangements for the funeral, and I wouldn’t be of much assistance. But I wanted to go. I
must see him for the last time and bid farewell.
ather’s passing was not unexpected, but it hit me unexpectedly hard. It sent me into a dark hole of
pain, loss, and sadness for eight months. I felt like I was drowning each day. I lost my appetite, I couldn’t
The pool is not big, but I like the setting and location—next to our rooftop garden on the fifth floor and takes
me one minute to get there. If I go at 6 A.M. when the door to the deck opens, I usually have the entire pool
to myself.
I’m not a fast swimmer, but like a turtle, I can keep going in the water without stopping for an hour.
Aside from the fresh air and open space that I enjoy, this is also a time of connection that I learned to
treasure with two of my loved ones: my father and Nainai, my grandmother.
The ritual that connects us began in September, 2008. Ten days after I had attended the Beijing Olympic
Games and visited my parents, I heard the dreaded news of my father’s passing. He had been fighting lung
cancer for three years and was very weak when I saw him in August. I frantically searched online and
called three airlines. In the end, I booked the first flight I could get on, via a transfer in Toronto to Beijing,
and Beijing to Changchun, in the northeast of China. “You’ve just returned to the U.S.,” my mother said
over the phone. “You don’t need to come back. There is nothing you can do now.” I knew my sisters would
take care of the arrangements for the funeral, and I wouldn’t be of much assistance. But I wanted to go. I
must see him for the last time and bid farewell.
ather’s passing was not unexpected, but it hit me unexpectedly hard. It sent me into a dark hole of
pain, loss, and sadness for eight months. I felt like I was drowning each day. I lost my appetite, I couldn’t
| Jian Ping |
sleep through the night, and I shed tears without provocation. I spent hours
talking to my sister Wen in Changchun, reminiscing about our father, clinging to
our memories of him.
The heated pool on the deck was still open when I returned from China in
mid September. Each morning, I dragged myself to the water. I kicked with all my
might and pulled with my arms as if I was fighting with a powerful enemy. I
moaned under the water and was baffled by the sound that water magnified, long
and deep and loud. The distorted noise intensified my pain, reducing me to tears
that got trapped in my goggles and stung my eyes. I let my body sink to the
bottom and stay there, like a catfish. I pushed and pulled and kicked until I felt
exhausted. I held my breath and felt the pressure and pain in my chest. I
welcomed the pain. I stayed submerged until I was ready to burst. The physical
suffering seemed to help numb the acute awareness that I would never see my
father or hear his voice again.
Over the last few years when I was writing my memoir Mulberry Child, I
talked with my father numerous times—interviewing him, with notepad and pen
in my hands. I had so many questions for him: His capture by the Japanese, his
meeting with Mother, his experience during the Cultural Revolution when he was
persecuted by his own government and his own people, and his feelings and
thoughts about such experiences. He smoked his Red Pagoda or Da Zhong Hua,
often lighting one cigarette with the butt of another. He blew blue smoke into the
air, which enveloped him, separating us. He answered the questions he wanted
to and ignored those he didn’t. I wanted to know him, to understand him, to hear
his opinions and feelings. I pressed him, cautiously, not wanting to inflict too
much pain. At times, he simply shook his head and closed his eyes—he was
bringing back loads of memories, but only for his own keeping. I wanted to
continue our conversation, to penetrate into the smoke and reach him. His ability
to forgive, his strength to carry on, and his unwavering dedication made me look
up to him in awe and also in bewilderment. No complaints? How could anyone
going through what he had gone through express no anger and voice no
complaints?!
I held on to the pain in the water as if I could sustain him in this manner. When I
emerged and turned my face toward the sky to do backstroke, I saw his face in
my mind’s eye, beyond the deep blue or the fleeting gray. I couldn’t let him go.
The pool closed at the end of the month, but I continued to wallow in my loss. The
last time I had been hit with such unspeakable pain was when Nainai passed
away. I was fourteen. I always believed Nainai and I had a special bond. Twice,
talking to my sister Wen in Changchun, reminiscing about our father, clinging to
our memories of him.
The heated pool on the deck was still open when I returned from China in
mid September. Each morning, I dragged myself to the water. I kicked with all my
might and pulled with my arms as if I was fighting with a powerful enemy. I
moaned under the water and was baffled by the sound that water magnified, long
and deep and loud. The distorted noise intensified my pain, reducing me to tears
that got trapped in my goggles and stung my eyes. I let my body sink to the
bottom and stay there, like a catfish. I pushed and pulled and kicked until I felt
exhausted. I held my breath and felt the pressure and pain in my chest. I
welcomed the pain. I stayed submerged until I was ready to burst. The physical
suffering seemed to help numb the acute awareness that I would never see my
father or hear his voice again.
Over the last few years when I was writing my memoir Mulberry Child, I
talked with my father numerous times—interviewing him, with notepad and pen
in my hands. I had so many questions for him: His capture by the Japanese, his
meeting with Mother, his experience during the Cultural Revolution when he was
persecuted by his own government and his own people, and his feelings and
thoughts about such experiences. He smoked his Red Pagoda or Da Zhong Hua,
often lighting one cigarette with the butt of another. He blew blue smoke into the
air, which enveloped him, separating us. He answered the questions he wanted
to and ignored those he didn’t. I wanted to know him, to understand him, to hear
his opinions and feelings. I pressed him, cautiously, not wanting to inflict too
much pain. At times, he simply shook his head and closed his eyes—he was
bringing back loads of memories, but only for his own keeping. I wanted to
continue our conversation, to penetrate into the smoke and reach him. His ability
to forgive, his strength to carry on, and his unwavering dedication made me look
up to him in awe and also in bewilderment. No complaints? How could anyone
going through what he had gone through express no anger and voice no
complaints?!
I held on to the pain in the water as if I could sustain him in this manner. When I
emerged and turned my face toward the sky to do backstroke, I saw his face in
my mind’s eye, beyond the deep blue or the fleeting gray. I couldn’t let him go.
The pool closed at the end of the month, but I continued to wallow in my loss. The
last time I had been hit with such unspeakable pain was when Nainai passed
away. I was fourteen. I always believed Nainai and I had a special bond. Twice,
when death flirted with my life when I was little, Nainai held me in her arms, calling my name and
refusing to let me go. I came back. I held her hand that day when Mother and Aunt feared the end
had come for Nainai. I squeezed her fingers and she squeezed mine, ever so lightly. I took it as a
promise. She would come back for me. We had the bond, the pact. But she left that day,
abandoning me. I didn’t cry until days later. I stayed by her side for the three-day wake, looking at
her calm, almost smiling face and touching her if no one else was in the room. I still believed she’
d rise from the wooden board and tell me it was a mistake and she would never leave me. I
smashed my fists against a large elm tree the day she was cremated, ending the hope for her
return.
I continued to call “Nainai” when I got home from school, a habit I’d had for years and took
me months to stop. I’d stand still at the open door and hear the echoing of my own voice in the
empty house. It broke me, making my body shake and tears roll down my cheeks. The loss of
Nainai was the first time I dealt with death, the permanent, irrevocable loss. At fourteen, aside
from mourning her, I was also wrapped in rage. A rage that some invisible power dared to take
her from me. A rage that she would let it happen. A rage that her last and only wish in life—not to
be cremated like a bird—was not fulfilled. It was a betrayal from all, including me, who couldn’t
call her back, couldn’t save her.
I carried the pain and rage with me for years. One regret that haunted me was that I never
had a chance to buy Nainai a single gift with the money I earned—how many times I had dreamed
of buying her a gift of her choice with my first month’s salary. As a young girl, I thought that was
the most important way to show her my gratitude. I never got the chance. So many years have
passed, yet I still haven’t reached closure to Nainai’s death. Perhaps, I never will.
When the deck pool was open again the following summer, I found myself in a different state of
refusing to let me go. I came back. I held her hand that day when Mother and Aunt feared the end
had come for Nainai. I squeezed her fingers and she squeezed mine, ever so lightly. I took it as a
promise. She would come back for me. We had the bond, the pact. But she left that day,
abandoning me. I didn’t cry until days later. I stayed by her side for the three-day wake, looking at
her calm, almost smiling face and touching her if no one else was in the room. I still believed she’
d rise from the wooden board and tell me it was a mistake and she would never leave me. I
smashed my fists against a large elm tree the day she was cremated, ending the hope for her
return.
I continued to call “Nainai” when I got home from school, a habit I’d had for years and took
me months to stop. I’d stand still at the open door and hear the echoing of my own voice in the
empty house. It broke me, making my body shake and tears roll down my cheeks. The loss of
Nainai was the first time I dealt with death, the permanent, irrevocable loss. At fourteen, aside
from mourning her, I was also wrapped in rage. A rage that some invisible power dared to take
her from me. A rage that she would let it happen. A rage that her last and only wish in life—not to
be cremated like a bird—was not fulfilled. It was a betrayal from all, including me, who couldn’t
call her back, couldn’t save her.
I carried the pain and rage with me for years. One regret that haunted me was that I never
had a chance to buy Nainai a single gift with the money I earned—how many times I had dreamed
of buying her a gift of her choice with my first month’s salary. As a young girl, I thought that was
the most important way to show her my gratitude. I never got the chance. So many years have
passed, yet I still haven’t reached closure to Nainai’s death. Perhaps, I never will.
When the deck pool was open again the following summer, I found myself in a different state of
| If you want to make a difference in the lives of our residents, visit our website to view and apply for our current openings. www.oakwoodvillage.net Oakwood Village is a Lutheran church-sponsored, not-for-profit, locally operated organization consisting of two continuing care retirement communities, Oakwood Village East and Oakwood Village West, in Madison, Wisconsin. EOEd organization consisting of two continuing care retirement communities, Oakwood Village East and Oakwood Village West, in Madison, Wisconsin. EOE |
mind. Time has softened the sharp pain, and what I felt more was
their memories—a sense of warm longing and lingering thoughts,
for Father and Nainai. When I swam backstroke, I saw the image
of a lovely photo, one of Nainai and Father that must have been
taken in the early ‘60s. Father was laughing, while Nainai, always
good-natured, had a Mona Lisa smile on her face. I liked seeing
them together like that and locked the image in my mind.
Throughout the summer, that was the visual I projected in the
pool. I felt my connection to them.
I carried on long conversations with them, telling them the
happenings in my life, asking them for their guidance and
beseeching them for their blessings. Chinese ancestors are
believed to bestow protections on their descendents, and I prayed
for theirs.
Another year has passed. Now it has become a habit that I
designate my morning hour in the pool for my special connection
with Nainai and Father. I feel their presence, sometimes far, and
other times near. I feel their love, encouragement and blessing.
Jian Ping is author of “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. “ For
more information, visit www.moraquest.com or www.
mulberrychild.com. Jian Ping’s blog, which she keeps with a
couple of other authors, is at www.smearedtype.com.
their memories—a sense of warm longing and lingering thoughts,
for Father and Nainai. When I swam backstroke, I saw the image
of a lovely photo, one of Nainai and Father that must have been
taken in the early ‘60s. Father was laughing, while Nainai, always
good-natured, had a Mona Lisa smile on her face. I liked seeing
them together like that and locked the image in my mind.
Throughout the summer, that was the visual I projected in the
pool. I felt my connection to them.
I carried on long conversations with them, telling them the
happenings in my life, asking them for their guidance and
beseeching them for their blessings. Chinese ancestors are
believed to bestow protections on their descendents, and I prayed
for theirs.
Another year has passed. Now it has become a habit that I
designate my morning hour in the pool for my special connection
with Nainai and Father. I feel their presence, sometimes far, and
other times near. I feel their love, encouragement and blessing.
Jian Ping is author of “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. “ For
more information, visit www.moraquest.com or www.
mulberrychild.com. Jian Ping’s blog, which she keeps with a
couple of other authors, is at www.smearedtype.com.
Nainai and my father
Nainai and me
| My father |