Set Sail, My Son

Stamps

There was once a time when I believed that the saddest associations, the saddest bonds, were the ones that were held together solely by the adhesive of postage stamps.  They were nothing more than futile attempts to postpone the inevitable fate of all things good and beautiful: their end.  Every parcel, every exchange could only serve as a painful reminder of what once was, what is now dying, what will soon die.

But, I see that there is beauty in it.  I wish I knew how this came to be.  But, the idea that an association can be mended back together through the mere adhesive of stamps now brings me hope, for every stamp serves as a beacon, revealing the past shared moments of beauty, of love, and of comfort. 

There was once a time when I was capable of such things.  It’s getting harder and harder to remember what I once was able to do.  Sometimes, I need a little reminder.

*I’m basically saying that I want your addresses so that I can write you.

Old Haunts

As I boarded, I still had no idea what I would experience.  The abstract idea of seeing what he saw, of smelling, hearing, and living what he lived, floated in my mind.  But, one of my many weaknesses is merely having ideas; ideas that have done nothing more than exist in the abstract ether of my mind.

I’ve been to his city before. Still, both my legs and my heart wavered when I took that first step onto my father’s land, as if I were learning to both walk and love again.  In a way, I was. 

In seeking out his old haunts - his old neighborhood, the family store front, the school where he once taught - they brought to life a past that I never knew existed; they brought him back, if only for a moment.  I grasp for anything that can remind me of him now.  Time has a way of making you do that.  And, while the stories that arose added to the legend of my father in my mind, they filled me with regret, for I will never be able to hear them from him firsthand.  That is a pain that I will have to learn to live with.

Many have wished that my travels would be a time of healing.  And, to a certain extent, it has been (it has also been a time of gluttony, but I’ll save that for another time).  But, I feel that there are some wounds that do not heal, wounds that haunt.  And, that this too is a pain that I will have to learn to live with.

Ghosts

High above the buildings, above even the clouds, the ghosts of the ancestors lay. The world up here is vastly different, almost alien to what lies below.  Nestled in the quiet of the mountains, they call out and give their thoughts and advice, but none hear.  They lay there trapped, able to do nothing more than watch their progeny from afar. 

I wonder their thoughts, their opinions on what has become of their home.  Do they watch in horror or in awe as their childhood homes are transformed?  Are they filled with pride over how far they have come?  The slums and squatter houses have disappeared, and the reservoirs ensure that no rationing will occur again.  That must mean something to them.  Or, are they filled with loathing?  An ever developing culture of consumerism and materialism spreads throughout the citizens.  That must mean even more.

It must be torturous to watch your creation change before you.  All they can do is hope that their time on Earth, their teachings, have had an effect, have meant something.  That their words can still be heard.  It’s a shame though.  The ancestors have already forgotten their first lesson to their children: never believe in ghosts.

Life After Death

I remind her of him.  I must.  I can see it in her eyes: a tinge of sadness mixed with a sliver of hope. 

I was like him in so many ways, ways that have only made themselves known now that he’s gone.  Hong Kong to Murfreesboro.  Los Angeles to San Diego.  Both represent a longing to escape the crowds.  The restaurant work.  The bar tending.  The near constant feeling that we, as Chinese people, will never truly belong here in the States.  Those experiences, those sentiments we had are different, but they are the same.

She can see our lives running parallel, and it only reminds her that she’s lost him.  That we lost him.  But, he is still here.  His spirit is still alive.  It must be.  For, it is in me.

A Stillborn Legend

The school’s name changed.  The gates closed and locked.  With that, so too are the stories that were once contained within it.  Tucked away, never to be heard again.

A new history is created, one that neglects to include its former self.  As Moral Training English College fades into the forgotten realms of time, the stories of one of its former teachers, of my father, fades along with it.

There is sadness in the idea of a forgotten story.  That is why they must be told, no matter how insignificant they may seem.  A legend was neglected, malnourished, and allowed to die before it was even born.

The Art of Flight

As I’m sitting here, stricken with some strange cocktail of anxiety, nerves, and fatigue, I cannot help but to think.  To imagine.

I am here, privileged with being able to say that a 16 hour flight is not a novel idea - I’ve lost count of how many I’ve been on.  I even know what lies before me: family, a familiar city, and a culture that I can blend into if I truly wanted it.

But, as I sit here trapped in my seat and unwilling to let myself fall into my default habits on these types of trips - binging on the on-board movie selection - I can’t help but think about what my father was thinking on his first flight to the States.  Was he nervous?  He must have been.  Anxious?  Excited?  

I don’t know if I could have done it.  As much as I have been a wanderer in my short life, I’ve always done so with the knowledge that there was always an out for me if I grew tired of my journey.  If my interest waned, there would always be a way home, and there would be no repercussions for returning.

Establishing a new life?  Pioneering a trail for my future children?  My future wife?  It sounds like a weight that I could not carry.  I can’t even begin to imagine sitting for 16 hours with nothing but those thoughts and fears and anxieties running circles in my mind.  It would be overbearing for me, but privilege has made me weak.

To him, he was taking the plunge, diving headfirst into the unknown.  The more that I think about it, the more that I am convinced that this was not just a simple flight.  It was more than that.  It had to have been.  It was on this flight that he learned how to truly fly.

* This was written while on the plane.  I hope you got that.

**I am no longer on a plane.  I hope you got that too.

So It Begins

To see what he saw.  To smell and to hear and to live what he lived.  To explore how, even in the seemingly mundane, there are incredible stories at hand, stories that must be told.  This is why I travel.  This is why I write.  This is why I am excited.