Made in China

“Made in China?”

Yes.
Yes, me.
I was made in China.

Even now, the voices remain.
The conversations that have yet to happen, going on and on.
The distinct tones, rhythms, inflections of their voices. The vibrations, pulse. Mannerism.

I must have been listening to these voices since before I was born.

Voices, and - the kaleidoscopic symphony of their loving cacophony. Exclaiming, interrupting, interjecting, layering on top of one another, bantering, scolding, laughing. Again, and again. On repeat.

“Too cold 啦! Wear more clothes!” “Why you not wear more clothes!” “吃了吗? “ “Eat more! Eat more fruit! Baozi? Dumplings? Noodles? Tea? 吃饱了吗?多吃点！” “Aren’t you cold? Go put on more clothes!”

That kind of love language. That kind of jia, home, that I was made in.

Sometimes, it really takes being back there again, standing in the midst of it, to really remember, to really feel: how astonishingly much you’ve missed it all. That, these softly blurred images in your childhood memories, were perhaps not just conjured scenes - idyllic, chaotic, bustling family gatherings bursting with warmth and music and games and steaming dish after dish firing from the wok. They really, somehow, existed, and still exist, right here.

Waking up to two extra moms (‘aunt-mom’ and 'little-aunt’) making beautifully drawn lattes, traditional inner Mongolian milk tea (with beef jerky and ‘tofu cheese’), steamed sweet potato and pumpkin and sticky corn, bite after bite of peculiar pancake creations while chatting about everything from egg-white hair mask to retirement farm plans … to the lull between feasts when little-aunt is meditating over serene melodies on the guqin (the seven-stringed Chinese zither)…to later uncle joining with the harmonica and the whole sibling quartet singing together while little aunt shows us her traditional inner Mongolian horse-riding dances and grandma sitting there gleaming and clapping, cheering them on, “another one, another one!”

And there’s so much more. The in-between moments. The smallest, simplest moments. The endless card games, the tea, the homemade goji-berries baijiu, the hotpot feast with special ‘happy free-run’ inner Mongolian lamb freshly sliced at the wet market, to the charcoal grilled lamb skewers, red dates, to the farm cucumbers and white strawberries and butter watermelon and fruit peppers and Yunan blueberries and oranges and mandarins of all sizes and dragonfruit that is pink and fragrant and bananas and every kind of flour so I can make pancakes and all the vegetables uncle cooked for my mom that she couldn’t find in Canada for the past two decades, to the spiciest dumplings, the spiciest homemade chilli oil and pickled peanuts and ginger … on and on and on and on …

That kind of love language. That kind of jia. Made in China.

Girls shopping date. Mom being dressed up like a teenage girl. The siblings reminiscing about their crazy childhood days, the fighting, the gangs, each of their infamous legends, stories, mischiefs. The crazy kararoke dance party night chanting old patriotic songs and afterwards parading out on the streets arm-in-arm in a row, laughing, giggling.

Blood. Blood sisters. Sisters by blood. Mother of mother. All here. That kind of xing fu. To watch, and to be in. To be astonished: that somehow, for once: this is mine. My family. That I am not the participant in someone else’s 3-generation lineage. But rather, I am actually within. I actually have my own messy, loud, big loving family, just like this. Because really, it’s real. How could you love and miss something you’ve never known.

Before age 4, this was daily life. Every day life. We were all so close. Literally physically, and in heart. Day in, day out. Just next door. Mother, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin, mother of mother. To have these simple moments, eating, giggling, gossiping about nothing. And then, to also have those unexpected, most heartbreakingly tender, truthful, small-hour heart to hearts, tucked in the same bed, staring at the dark ceiling. Those are the memories that will go on to be ingrained in my blood. And in my daughter’s blood. And in hers.

I saw grandma. Watching her 4 kids from the 14th floor window, down at the open square bustling about the grill, trying to light the charcoal and arguing and getting their hands blistered.

How she smiled, then. That kind of knowing, open-hearted smile. Fulfilled, blessed.

After all this. After all this time.

The kids came home. The kids are all together.

What most miraculous of miracles.

What is more simply precious than that.

That’s all.

That’s what it comes back to. The repeat. The homecoming. :||

So, until next time,

Thank you, a thousand times over, to the land I was made in. To the people I was made from.
Thank you.

xoxo,

通通