My Great Uncle
My mother likes to tell stories of my great uncle Yiji that we are proud to hear. She tells how he was a college classmate of President Jiang Zemin, and how at the graduation, Jiang refused to exchange his future address and arrogantly told great uncle to look for him in the government of Shanghai City. She also tells how great uncle was once a supervisor to the later infamous Prime Minister Li Peng and how he thought Li was incompetent at the job. In my young years, these stories added various shades of glamour, humor, and adventure to the distant image of great uncle. To me, he had always been a legend.
I saw great uncle only a few times when I was a little girl. He was our only relative in China whose work allowed him to travel around. Every couple of years when he came to Beijing, he would pay us a visit. Not like other relatives who had to stay with us for days, he made his brief appearance and was gone again. Usually he was in Beijing attending conferences, or flying back to China from a trip overseas.
Great uncle was also the only scientist I had met. Graduated from Shanghai Jiaotong University, he was an expert on power and energy. Once he told us that he was working on a project to study the health effects of high-voltage power lines on people who lived nearby. The concept of scientific research was so new to me and secretly fascinated me. And to what a noble cause! I was always proud of him for being a well-known expert. In those years, it was almost impossible for anyone from China to go abroad. Great uncle must have been so important in his field that he was invited and allowed to attend international conferences and speak to scientists from all over the world. He was the most impressive person I had known.
My great uncle Wang Yiji was my mother’s father’s brother-in-law. Like all my maternal relatives, he was Cantonese and always preferred to speak Cantonese. He was very tall and slim, had a long face, short hair, dark skin, and smoked excessively. He was extremely near-sighted, and his glasses were thicker than the bottoms of beer bottles. My mother always used him as an example to lecture me about the importance of eye protection. She many times threatened me—“Don’t hold the book so closely! Turn on the light or stop reading! If you abuse your eyes, you will be like your great uncle. Can’t you see his eyes are so bad that his eyeballs are about to fall out?! Look at you! Your eyes are already sticking out like goldfish! See how ugly your great uncle looks with bad eye sights!” Unfortunately I had to start wearing glasses when I was ten, and ever since, I was living in the eternal fear that one day I would look like great uncle.
Yet I was very fond of him, with great admiration. I loved his voice, deep and resonant, with each word distinctively articulated. I still remember the nasal way he pronounced my name, full of fondness and life. He always had a genuine smile on his face, and when he laughed, his countenance flared with joy. Unlike most other adults I knew, he was neither solemn nor thoughtless. He had just the right balance of authority and liveliness. Every time he talked to me, he was fully attentive and treated me as if I were an adult. I trusted him and absorbed all his words intently. When I was young, my parents liked to engage other adults to remark my accomplishments and to make me demonstrate my various talents, putting me on an unbearably embarrassing spot. Only great uncle never joined their vicious scheme. When he was around, I never felt the pressure to act as a prize that my parents could show off with. I didn’t feel I was someone very special, and that made him very special to me.
Great uncle brought me rare gifts from foreign countries. The first one I remembered was a set of Olympic Games stickers from America. Another was a portable checker game from Switzerland. He taught me how to play it and I was always looking forward to his visit to play a game with him. My favorite gift was a toy model of a giant construction machine he brought me from Germany. There was no toy like that in China, and I had seen pictures of the machine in magazines. The model was made with sturdy metal that would not bend, and colored in yellow paint that would not rub off. I loved how precisely the wheels turned, the arm extended, and the little doors fitted snugly. I often fantasized myself standing on the basket at the end of the arm and being raised higher and higher, maybe to fix a damaged high-voltage power line. It was many years later when I first saw a real cherry-picker just like that, with the same yellow paint, and I was overwhelmingly excited.
Great uncle took me to my first “western meal” when I was six. There was only one restaurant in Beijing–the “Moscow Restaurant” near the zoo–that served western food to Chinese people. We had to line up for hours before getting in. In a large hall with glaring marble floor, high ceiling, and wall-to-wall windows, rows and rows of tables were crowded with people trying to manage forks and knives on plates. I was given my own set of knife and fork, and a small square of single-layered napkin folded in a triangular shape. Great uncle showed me how to butter my bread, how to hold a fork, and how to cut with a knife. I don’t remember what I ate, but probably everyone there was served with the same courses of dishes. I only remember that I kept my precious tiny piece of napkin for a few weeks before its much missed final misplacement.
Apart from these few brief visits, I had very little contact with my great uncle, and I knew almost nothing about him. From overhearing the conversations between my parents, I gathered a few facts about him. It was told that he had to go through hardships during the Cultural Revolution because of his intellect. His only child, my aunt, had to live in a separate city from an early age. Although coming from Guangdong where all the Cantonese people preferred to live and work, he and his wife were relocated to Wuhan, a steaming hot industrial city, to work. The government would not approve them to move to Guangzhou until after their retirement.
I visited Guangzhou one summer when I was 15, and stayed at my great uncle’s apartment for two weeks. It was the first time I was not under the supervision of my parents. I was eager to enjoy my freedom. As a wishful teenager, I was completely absorbed in my pursuit of self perfection and my self-assigned mission and responsibilities to change the world. Guangzhou is the origin and hotbed of modern Chinese revolution. On sunny days I went into the city visiting historical monuments and sites, and feeling my blood heated with the blood shed by the revolutionary heroes. When it rained I stayed in and read books from great uncle’s bookshelves. I read a lot of communist novels plus Anna Karenina. I also attempted my first forbidden thing—I stole a cigarette from great uncle and tried to smoke, which fortunately choked me to disgust. I wrote long letters to my friends and diary. It was only a short period of two summer weeks, but it was the first time I felt like a grown-up. I could see no boundary when I looked into the future. I had a glimpse of the freedom and the danger and the inevitable contradiction of being an independent being.
Everyday, great uncle and great aunt would play mahjong with friends at home. To my refining taste and my yearning for high cultures and communist ideals, mahjong was a most deteriorating pastime. And they bet money! And they laughed so coarsely! In the evenings great uncle and aunt would cook supper, and at the dinner table they would have detailed discussion of the day’s mahjong games. Then they would watch TV! Some days great uncle would take me with him to the market to buy live chicken and fresh vegetables, or to pick up their three-year-old grandson from the kindergarten. Together we would stroll along the dirt-filled roads in the hot humid summer mid-days, passing by reckless bicycles and cars and screaming Cantonese people, with me feeling utterly isolated and displaced and incapable of speech.
During those two weeks, great uncle’s unstructured and aimless lifestyle was in such a complete clash with my youthful idealism that I was disappointedly ashamed of him. I did not seek to talk to him, especially not since he was speaking Cantonese all the time, for Cantonese always seemed to me as a symbol of capitalism. Instead I hid from him as much as possible. Although it was the longest time I ever stayed with great uncle, I never got close to him. I felt a deep sense of betrayal that my childhood favorite grown-up had turned out to be just another ordinary aging man with many common and distasteful vices, corrupted by a loud heavy wife.
(I am sorry great aunt to have ever thought that way of you. I was very ignorant and unsympathetic when I was young. I do love you! Maybe your memory is failing now, but I remember you fondly. The next time I saw you, you came with me to Las Vegas for the first time. The first few quarters you ever put into a slot machine returned more than 80 dollars of coins. You were overloaded with ecstasy for the next few days. Do you know, my dear great aunt, that your childlike laughter brought me such genuine joy, and your winning has always been my most treasured memory from that fascinating sin city?)
A few months after that visit, I left China and moved to Hong Kong. I was surrounded by opposite forces to disarm my idealism, and I began to embrace the possibilities of the world. A few years later I went to college in California. From time to time I heard news about great uncle. He was diagnosed with bladder cancer and suffered several serious operations. Eventually he and great aunt moved to Vancouver to live with their daughter. Ever since they moved so close to me to the same coast of a continent, I had been planning to visit them. Because I was a student of physics, I wanted to go and show my great uncle that I had become a scientist too, and I understood the principles of high-voltage power lines. And as I grew older, I began to appreciate him and who he had been in my life, and I longed to seek his wisdom. Yet time and again I postponed the visit.
Great uncle passed away before I made my trip. The news grieved me with devastation and remorse. It was then I realized that I had forever lost my chance to see him, to talk to him, to know him, to play checkers with him, to learn from him, to share with him, to understand him, to love him, and most of all, to tell him that he had been the first and still the only hero in my life.
First draft: Pasadena, September 2, 2001
Revision: Pasadena, September 23, 2001
Next revision: Ann Arbor, April 30, 2003
Latest revision: Ann Arbor, April 8, 2004
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写给美国朋友看的。请指教。
- Re: My Great Uncleposted on 04/12/2004
阿珊写得非常好。 我觉得如果你继续写下去,不会比Amy Tan差, 我很有信心你会超过她,你的经历比她丰富许多。
昨晚跟阿珊聊了一会儿,今天看这篇文章,觉得你在写作上,特别是英文畅销类的写作上,会有前途。 你的生活、学历比其他双语作者丰富。但是写作不仅是写本身苦,作家的生活方式最苦,特别是经济上,最少要作好五年时间内没有任何收入的准备,才可以进入这一行。做任何一行,不放进去至少10年,是不会出来成绩的。 还有,就是专心,既然选定了,就不能三心二意。 - posted on 04/12/2004
谢谢玛雅的鼓励。我翻过 Amy Tan 的书,觉得她写的好象只是新鲜而已。经历太少的,写多了就会乏味。自己不大看畅销书(我看书太慢了!),不知畅销书有什么诀窍:是写的时候就决定要给畅销读者看的(所以写得浅显些),还是严肃的写,畅不畅销是看运气?
我跟我的“知音”朋友讲了昨天我们的谈话。他说,五年十年的计划对我来讲恐怕还是太难了,先要学会一天天的专心。
玛雅 wrote:
阿珊写得非常好。 我觉得如果你继续写下去,不会比Amy Tan差, 我很有信心你会超过她,你的经历比她丰富许多。 - posted on 04/14/2004
Maya is right in the sense that your writing does have some elements that makes one think of Amy Tan. You mentioned that you wrote this for your American friends. I think they would read it with great interest and will enjoy reading it. The challenge, however, is how to make others, that is people who do not know you, feel interested in reading it. What would intrigue their interest? What would convince them that by reading it they would gain some benefits? Gain more useful or interesting knowledge? Have fun or a great laugh? Moved to tears and feel time well spent? If none of that but you just feel that you have a strong motive to write this out and want to share this story with someone you don't know, it may also work. But the key is to share it with someone you don't know. If you can get this person interested in sharing or listening to your story, you are a success.
Also, in terms of writing about lives, I would recommend an old book I have just finished reading. I told Maya that I was going to read this book. Here I would just like to let her know how much I admire this book. It is written in English and was published in Shanghai in 1935. The quality of its English and style is the best and it was full of insight. The title of the book is "Imperfect Understanding", and only 2 copies exist in libraries in the U.S. - posted on 04/14/2004
非常非常感谢 ZXD 的评语。我刚开始练习写作,英文的都是把我的一个好朋友作为读者写的,其他朋友喜不喜欢、看不看懂,我都没有太多考虑。不过昨天他告诉我说,我写的故事要考虑到不认识我的人,让他们也明白我的意思。这正好是跟你说的一样。其实很多时候我也不知道为什么要写,只是觉得有的故事不得不写。我想这还是因为我写作的技巧还很不够成熟,思考不够深刻。
我们学校图书馆有你说的那本 Imperfect Understanding ,刚才借了来一看,原来是中文翻译:温源宁的<一知半解几其他>。很失望。不过他写的好象是名人的故事。其他有什么例文,也请推荐。我前几年读过张中行的一些写人的文字。这些跟我想写的不太一样。
我想写一组真人的故事,但主要想写我与这些人的关系,藉以表现个人成长、人际关系的主题,希望能引发读者感受/思索一些容易被现代生活遗忘的东西(同情心)。
- posted on 04/14/2004
The reason I mentioned Wen's English essays is because they are really in good English, and therefore can't be translated. It is true that they are about famous or somewhat famous people, but those portraits actually will make the person he wrote about famous if the person is not famous yet. What I mean is that he really has insight and knows how to find out what this person is unique about. With such penetrating understanding, the figures will be alive in his words.
Back to your case, you feel regret you didn't visit your great uncle soon enough, and therefore want to write this to express your sorrow. That's fine. That happens to many people and many people wrote about such experiences. But only the best ones will survive as memorable. If you look at them you will find out that in most cases they are quite successful in depicting that person the author missed so much. In other words, the more successful you can portrait the person, the better chance you will have in having the readers share your feeling of a lost. Sympathy only comes after readers feel they can well understand this person.
In a few cases, it is the other way around. The author depicts himself or herself so well that readers may easily relate to and therefore shed tears with her or him. In your case, no one knows who you are, and you haven't introduced your great uncle well enough either.
You somewhat connected him with other celebrities but didn't seem to make the point that he is different or any better. You described him as being unique in his relationship to you as in a contrast to other adults in your life. That seems to be a selling point. You also mentioned how his images change in your mind as you grew up, but failed to explain why it is so. Is it that he changed? For a good reason? Or just you don't quite understand how life plays out in one's life and need to grow up to appreciate life better,
Unless you can really prove his value (either to the society as a whole or to you as an individual), readers won't be able to share your feelings of loss. I noticed you have redrafted several times already. If you want, you may try again. Restructure it with an unknown reader in mind, particularly someone who knows nothing about China. - Re: 回:ZXDposted on 04/15/2004
阿珊,zxd is a published author, his books were among the best-sellers. He can give you the help you need.
- posted on 04/15/2004
Thank you zxd again for your much needed critics. Since I am just starting to write seriously, these feedbacks are so helpful.
In this case about my great uncle, the regret is only part of what I want to write. Now I think about it, I was trying to write a story about a learning and growing process of "me" through my relationship with my great uncle. When I was a little girl I regarded him as a legend because he "seemed" so different and did this and that to me. When I was a teenager and I spent some real time with him, but my view of him was disillusioned because I was facing a real person rather than my own fantasy. Much later from my own life experience somehow I learned to merge the two images I had of him, and I wanted to see him to confirm this. Then came the regret.
I have not expressed myself well my writing. I left too many things unsaid and my depiction is not good enough to make my point. You are very right about me not making it clear to the readers about who I am, who my great uncle is (I have actually exhausted my memory of him in writing this), why his images changed as I grew up, etc.
I will re-write this story again with an unknown reader in mind. (I guess I doesn't help to always write solely for my "soul mate".)
Thank you very much again for your constructive comments. Greatly appreciated!
- Re: 回:ZXDposted on 04/16/2004
Sounds like you got a good plan. Glad to be helpful to you.
Maya has nicely overstated about my book. It has been well received but was never a bestseller. - Re: 回:ZXDposted on 04/16/2004
xd,how about put the book link here, let other friends know a bit of your works.
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