New plastic flowers replace the faded ones from last year. A bowl of oranges is placed next to the bahn mis in front of Grandpa. The cemetery is filled with families and burning incense. Qing Ming. I call it the Chinese Day of the Dead.
I look at Grandpa smiling in the black and white picture on his tombstone. I grind through my primary school level Mandarin vocabulary.
"Dà jīa hen háo. Ni bú yòng dān xīn." Everyone is well. You don’t need to worry.
The words feel vacant and rehearsed. Every time I venture deeper to find what I really want to say you Grandpa, a deep chasm opens, allowing all the past hurt I have suppressed away over the years to resurface.
It’s now my brother’s turn to speak to Grandpa. "Ah, Ou Gum," my Aunty cries. The one who poos gold. "Grandpa has been waiting for you." The one who poos gold. Even now the term stirs up a level of resentment and anger. Let it go. "The one who poos gold" is the nickname my relatives gave my younger brother.
I remember my Grandma telling me how disappointed my dad was when he learnt that I was a girl. Being a boy meant you were special. Being a girl, meant you were not. It meant that at dinner time, Grandpa would always give the best cuts of meat to my brother. My sister and I would pick at the other pieces. My Grandma would always ask what my brother would like to eat for dinner, and she would cook his dishes. My brother’s wants and needs were always first. This was how things were.
Grandpa’s annual birthday celebration with all his grandchildren. Source: Supplied
When my sister was four, the three of us were in the backseat while my Grandpa drove us back from Kumon. My sister asked if we could get McDonalds for dinner. My brother wanted KFC. As we drove to the front of the Colonel’s takeaway speaker, I turned to see tears welling in my sister’s eyes. When Grandpa and my brother got out of the car, she asked me, "Why does he always get what he wants?" I didn’t know how to respond. How do you tell a four-year-old that you will be treated differently purely based on your sex? And by your own family?
I remember my Grandma telling me how disappointed my dad was when he learnt that I was a girl.
Whenever I brought Grandpa’s favouritism up with Mum, she would say, "Suan le." Let it go. My problem was that I couldn’t let it go. I remember I was about 12 when I finally confronted Grandpa. At Lunar New year, my Grandpa had given my sister and I $20, while giving my brother $50. I remember staring at that crisp $50 and the anger that piled up. I stormed into Grandpa’s room, pushing open his door. I remember the door ricocheting from the wall. I could feel the years of resentment and anger pour out in incoherent broken Mandarin as I yelled at him. I stormed back into my room and slammed the door. Mum, it was always Mum, came to my room later.
She gave me a $50 note. "It’s from Gong Gong."
I didn’t take it. It wasn’t the $50. It was all of it. The acceptance of prejudice against your own children. The hurt it caused. The inequity.
I take the luggage upstairs. I could hear my parents’ voices echoing from the kitchen.
"But Alex doesn’t like these noodles," dad exclaimed.
"What if we cooked bun bo hue instead," Mum suggested. "He likes bun bo hue."
I had just driven eight hours from Canberra to attend Qing Ming while my brother lives half an hour away. But it was my brother’s needs that were front and centre.
The one who poos gold. Even now the term stirs up a level of resentment and anger.
My partner follows me up the stairs. He’s Sinhalese with dark brown skin. I wonder what my Grandpa would’ve thought if he’d been alive to see me marry a Sinhalese man. I remember doors being slammed as a result of who I was dating. There was my first boyfriend, a guy from a Vietnamese background.
"They’re not trustworthy!" my Grandpa would say. "His skin is too dark," my dad would yell.
Then came the White Guy. A family friend had seen us holding hands at The Glen after school and decided to tell my parents.
"He’s not even Asian! You’ve lost your way. You’ve turned bad!" my Grandpa would shout.
I would vent to my boyfriend and together we would judge my family. How backwards they all were. How racist and sexist they were. I would stay at his house as often as I could. Now there was a modern family with modern values. A family that treated each other as equals. Normal. And they ate off plates. And ate things like rissoles. And pasta. Why couldn’t my family be like this?
I hope you know I loved you despite my feelings of anger and resentment. I know you loved me despite your favouritism towards my brother. I'm sorry if I hurt you. But I was hurting too.
But you still cared for me, Grandpa. You would still drive me to my friends’ houses, to the station, to all my sporting events. I also remember how you would be proud of me. Like when I was five and you asked me to show your friend my Chinese handwriting. But at the same time, your favouritism hurt. How do I reconcile that? Do I just accept that he was a man who was a product of his times? Could he not see how much hurt he was causing?
This is what I really want to say to you Grandpa: "I hope you know I loved you despite my feelings of anger and resentment. I know you loved me despite your favouritism towards my brother. I'm sorry if I hurt you. But I was hurting too."
As I drifted off to sleep, Grandpa came. It's the only time I've ever dreamt of him. He had his slight hunch he'd developed as he got older. He was in my living room, his figure framed by my open bedroom door. Without saying a word, he turned to look at me and I felt a sense of calm and peace.
Virginia Wong is a management consultant working in Canberra. She loves veganising recipes and spends her time doing geeky things like board-gaming, watching sci-fi and reading comics.
This article is an edited extract from an entry to the 2021 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition.
