Jian Ping's column
A Tribute to Nainai
A Tribute to Nainai
By Jian Ping
I feel the tickle of anticipation down my spine as our crowded mini bus passes a village on
the winding country road. I sit on the edge of my seat by a window and look out. Early October is
harvesting time in Shandong, China and piles of corn, still on the cobs, are laid out on the
streets to dry. From time to time, a woman or two comes into view—they sit in the middle of the
corn and peel off the shafts by hand. I wonder if Nainai, my grandmother, did the same,
decades ago when she lived in this area.
Nainai passed away when I was a teenager. Among my five siblings, my sister Wen and I
were brought up by Nainai who moved in with our family from her home village in Shandong
after Grandpa died in 1954. Throughout our growing up years, our parents were either busy at
work or being detained and persecuted during the Cultural Revolution. Nainai was our caretaker
and constant companion. She was a traditional woman—soft-spoken, illiterate, and with bound
feet. But under that fragile appearance was a peasant woman full of strength and resilience. At
a time when political movements swept through China and threw our family into turmoil, Nainai
nurtured us with unconditional love and showed us by example what was kindness, trust, and
I feel the tickle of anticipation down my spine as our crowded mini bus passes a village on
the winding country road. I sit on the edge of my seat by a window and look out. Early October is
harvesting time in Shandong, China and piles of corn, still on the cobs, are laid out on the
streets to dry. From time to time, a woman or two comes into view—they sit in the middle of the
corn and peel off the shafts by hand. I wonder if Nainai, my grandmother, did the same,
decades ago when she lived in this area.
Nainai passed away when I was a teenager. Among my five siblings, my sister Wen and I
were brought up by Nainai who moved in with our family from her home village in Shandong
after Grandpa died in 1954. Throughout our growing up years, our parents were either busy at
work or being detained and persecuted during the Cultural Revolution. Nainai was our caretaker
and constant companion. She was a traditional woman—soft-spoken, illiterate, and with bound
feet. But under that fragile appearance was a peasant woman full of strength and resilience. At
a time when political movements swept through China and threw our family into turmoil, Nainai
nurtured us with unconditional love and showed us by example what was kindness, trust, and
| Jian Ping |
loyalty. We were all very attached to her, especially Wen and I.
Father had discreetly arranged to have Nainai’s ashes taken back to her village and
buried in Grandpa’s grave when she passed away. Since ground burial of any kind was
banned at the time, none of us were present at the burial, a regret that has stayed with me to
this day.
It’s been 36 years since Nainai’s passing. But now, finally, Wen and I, joined by Shiqing
and Fengqin—two children of my uncle, Father’s older brother—make our way to Dong Wan,
Nainai’s home village, to pay tribute to her.
“Dong Wan is right over there,” my cousin Shiqing says, pointing to a narrow country road.
Shiqing grew up in the village in Nainai’s care and claimed he could find his way around with
his eyes closed.
“I feel her presence,” I murmur to Wen. I feel a sudden surge of energy rushing through my
body and my eyes are filled with tears. “Nainai,” I say silently, clasping both hands together. “At
long last, we are here to see you.”
We get off the bus at the next stop and follow Lanzhi, a niece, to her younger sister Lanju’s
home. A large gate opens to a brick-paved courtyard, and we find ourselves surrounded by a
large group, mostly women and children—they are the children and grandchildren of our
cousin Fu, Shiqing’s older sister, who was the oldest child of our uncle. Loud greetings
laughter and introductions are joined by the excited barking of two dogs. I had no idea we still
Father had discreetly arranged to have Nainai’s ashes taken back to her village and
buried in Grandpa’s grave when she passed away. Since ground burial of any kind was
banned at the time, none of us were present at the burial, a regret that has stayed with me to
this day.
It’s been 36 years since Nainai’s passing. But now, finally, Wen and I, joined by Shiqing
and Fengqin—two children of my uncle, Father’s older brother—make our way to Dong Wan,
Nainai’s home village, to pay tribute to her.
“Dong Wan is right over there,” my cousin Shiqing says, pointing to a narrow country road.
Shiqing grew up in the village in Nainai’s care and claimed he could find his way around with
his eyes closed.
“I feel her presence,” I murmur to Wen. I feel a sudden surge of energy rushing through my
body and my eyes are filled with tears. “Nainai,” I say silently, clasping both hands together. “At
long last, we are here to see you.”
We get off the bus at the next stop and follow Lanzhi, a niece, to her younger sister Lanju’s
home. A large gate opens to a brick-paved courtyard, and we find ourselves surrounded by a
large group, mostly women and children—they are the children and grandchildren of our
cousin Fu, Shiqing’s older sister, who was the oldest child of our uncle. Loud greetings
laughter and introductions are joined by the excited barking of two dogs. I had no idea we still
have so many relatives in the village. Fu had four daughters and three sons. Among
them, I have only met with one, Xiaodong, who has been working in the northeast of
China for years. It’s nice to meet the rest of his siblings, their spouses and
children, and more surprisingly, find myself being called a grandma.
I try hard to remember their names, rankings, and family units; and then Wen
takes out a piece of paper to make a family tree. A much smarter move. It’s dinner
time when we arrive at the village, and a big table has been set up in the middle of
a large bedroom. In a few minutes, a dozen dishes of pork, fish, tofu, and stir-fried
eggplants, green beans, mushrooms and green peppers are placed on the table.
Despite the fact that we have never met before, we feel right at home among our
large, extended family.
Wen and I spend the night on a Kang—a “bed” built with adobe blocks. Cooking
smoke goes through a tunnel under the surface and warms the Kang. I used to
sleep on a Kang with Nainai when I was a child, and Wen and I sleep
them, I have only met with one, Xiaodong, who has been working in the northeast of
China for years. It’s nice to meet the rest of his siblings, their spouses and
children, and more surprisingly, find myself being called a grandma.
I try hard to remember their names, rankings, and family units; and then Wen
takes out a piece of paper to make a family tree. A much smarter move. It’s dinner
time when we arrive at the village, and a big table has been set up in the middle of
a large bedroom. In a few minutes, a dozen dishes of pork, fish, tofu, and stir-fried
eggplants, green beans, mushrooms and green peppers are placed on the table.
Despite the fact that we have never met before, we feel right at home among our
large, extended family.
Wen and I spend the night on a Kang—a “bed” built with adobe blocks. Cooking
smoke goes through a tunnel under the surface and warms the Kang. I used to
sleep on a Kang with Nainai when I was a child, and Wen and I sleep
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soundly in the quietness of the night, warmed by the heat from the Kang.
The next day, two of our nieces and a niece’s husband take us to visit
relatives in nearby villages—family branches from children of our second aunt,
Father’s older sister. I sit on the back of an electric motor bike, and Wen, on
another; while Shiqing and Fengqin get onto a small tricycle. Our nieces say hi
to everyone we pass on the road and explain to us who they are—half of the
village seems to be connected either by blood or marriage.
According to local customs, visiting graves of loved ones has to be at
sunset—a time when Yang changes to Yin. Earlier in the day, Wen and I bought
five kinds of fruit at a farmer’s market and a niece went to a shop and purchased
a large bundle of paper—a thin, yellowish paper that is considered “paper
money” for the next world and will be burned at the grave. At the designated time,
we walk over to Nainai and Grandpa’s grave at the edge of a cornfield. We push
aside the sharp leaves of corn and arrive at a small open space. A single
grave—a mere mound of dirt covered by grass—stands near a date tree. Tears
well up in my eyes. Nainai lived a hard and simple life when she was alive, and
The next day, two of our nieces and a niece’s husband take us to visit
relatives in nearby villages—family branches from children of our second aunt,
Father’s older sister. I sit on the back of an electric motor bike, and Wen, on
another; while Shiqing and Fengqin get onto a small tricycle. Our nieces say hi
to everyone we pass on the road and explain to us who they are—half of the
village seems to be connected either by blood or marriage.
According to local customs, visiting graves of loved ones has to be at
sunset—a time when Yang changes to Yin. Earlier in the day, Wen and I bought
five kinds of fruit at a farmer’s market and a niece went to a shop and purchased
a large bundle of paper—a thin, yellowish paper that is considered “paper
money” for the next world and will be burned at the grave. At the designated time,
we walk over to Nainai and Grandpa’s grave at the edge of a cornfield. We push
aside the sharp leaves of corn and arrive at a small open space. A single
grave—a mere mound of dirt covered by grass—stands near a date tree. Tears
well up in my eyes. Nainai lived a hard and simple life when she was alive, and
Nainai's tomb
Burning paper at Nainai's tomb
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.
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 (center) with my parents (back) and two aunts |
Wen and I stand side and side and bow three times to
the tomb. I turn to Wen and sob in her arms. I don’t want to
leave. A niece returns to fetch us and reluctantly, we bid
farewell to Nainai.
We spend the second night at another cousin’s home.
Early the following morning, Xiaogui, a nephew who works as
taxi driver, gives us a ride to Dezhou, the nearest town where
we can board a train to Beijing. It’s the end of a weeklong
National Holiday and we can’t get any train tickets. In the end,
we take the long distance bus—a service notorious for its
lack of safety and security. The two-hour fast train ride from
Beijing to Dezhou turns into a six-hour long journey on bumpy
and local roads, with only one five-minute bathroom break at
an outhouse. We are thirsty and hungry by the time we reach
Beijing, but we have no regrets.
the tomb. I turn to Wen and sob in her arms. I don’t want to
leave. A niece returns to fetch us and reluctantly, we bid
farewell to Nainai.
We spend the second night at another cousin’s home.
Early the following morning, Xiaogui, a nephew who works as
taxi driver, gives us a ride to Dezhou, the nearest town where
we can board a train to Beijing. It’s the end of a weeklong
National Holiday and we can’t get any train tickets. In the end,
we take the long distance bus—a service notorious for its
lack of safety and security. The two-hour fast train ride from
Beijing to Dezhou turns into a six-hour long journey on bumpy
and local roads, with only one five-minute bathroom break at
an outhouse. We are thirsty and hungry by the time we reach
Beijing, but we have no regrets.
My sister Wen keep record of family tree.
Me on a motorbike
now, her burial place is just as simple and plain! A small elm tree has sprouted
from one side of the grave, indicating that no one has visited and cared for the
grave for a while. A distant nephew immediately sets out to cut down the tree—
no tree is allowed to grow on a grave. Wen begins to pull the grass from the
grave.
“Don’t touch anything,” a niece stops her. We are told that only Memorial Day
in early April is the “grave sweeping” time when people can add dirt to the
mound and cover the grass.
We place the fruits in front of the grave, and the six of us grandchildren, from
one daughter and two sons of Nainai and Grandpa, kneel down and light the
paper. A distant cousin strips the leaves off a corn stock and uses it to stir the
the fire. One layer after another, the yellow paper burst into flame. Facing the
glow of the fire, each of us, aloud or in silence, expresses our love, gratitude,
and respect for Nainai and Grandpa.
“Nainai, I’m sorry it took me so long to come,” I say. “All these years, no matter
whether I was in China or in the U.S., you have always been in my mind. You
were and continue to be my source of strength and inspiration….” A lump forms
in my throat and I have to pause. Images of Nainai and I keeping each other
company when I was a child flash through my mind. The flames from the
burning paper rise high in the air, and I can feel the heat on my face. I had hurt
my left knee from a biking accident a week ago, and a sharp pain shoots up
from my leg and goes right to my heart. Wen, who kneels by my side, reaches
over to give me support. I let go of her hand. The physical pain helps relieve the
emotional turmoil. I thought I could find a level of peace and closure by visiting
Nainai’s grave, but seeing the simplicity and condition of the site, I am more
unsettled. I apologize to Nainai and tell her that Wen and I will arrange to have a
tombstone set up at the next Memorial Day.
For half an hour, we kneel on the same spot and watch the paper burn,
hoping Nainai and Grandpa can take comfort in our sincerity and love. Wen
helps me stand up after the ritual and together, we stay behind as the rest of the
from one side of the grave, indicating that no one has visited and cared for the
grave for a while. A distant nephew immediately sets out to cut down the tree—
no tree is allowed to grow on a grave. Wen begins to pull the grass from the
grave.
“Don’t touch anything,” a niece stops her. We are told that only Memorial Day
in early April is the “grave sweeping” time when people can add dirt to the
mound and cover the grass.
We place the fruits in front of the grave, and the six of us grandchildren, from
one daughter and two sons of Nainai and Grandpa, kneel down and light the
paper. A distant cousin strips the leaves off a corn stock and uses it to stir the
the fire. One layer after another, the yellow paper burst into flame. Facing the
glow of the fire, each of us, aloud or in silence, expresses our love, gratitude,
and respect for Nainai and Grandpa.
“Nainai, I’m sorry it took me so long to come,” I say. “All these years, no matter
whether I was in China or in the U.S., you have always been in my mind. You
were and continue to be my source of strength and inspiration….” A lump forms
in my throat and I have to pause. Images of Nainai and I keeping each other
company when I was a child flash through my mind. The flames from the
burning paper rise high in the air, and I can feel the heat on my face. I had hurt
my left knee from a biking accident a week ago, and a sharp pain shoots up
from my leg and goes right to my heart. Wen, who kneels by my side, reaches
over to give me support. I let go of her hand. The physical pain helps relieve the
emotional turmoil. I thought I could find a level of peace and closure by visiting
Nainai’s grave, but seeing the simplicity and condition of the site, I am more
unsettled. I apologize to Nainai and tell her that Wen and I will arrange to have a
tombstone set up at the next Memorial Day.
For half an hour, we kneel on the same spot and watch the paper burn,
hoping Nainai and Grandpa can take comfort in our sincerity and love. Wen
helps me stand up after the ritual and together, we stay behind as the rest of the
group take leave.
“Give us a few more minutes, please” I tell Shiqing as he urges us to follow him.
“Give us a few more minutes, please” I tell Shiqing as he urges us to follow him.