Page 14 - Solstice Art & Literary Magazine 2020

14
ON ROOTS
STELLA DANG
cont.
In a way, my parents have always had
a vague fear that my immigration and integration into American culture have changed me somehow. Hanging unan- swered over every argument is the ques- tion, have we made the right decision? And the fear of uprooting was as real for us as for any other immigrant. Among the Chinese people, five thou-
sand years of shared histo-
ry bred a common under-
standing, a connection so
rich that minds may know
each other before eyes ever
meet. I had never taken
notice of it until I lived
in a different country, and
even then it took me years
to figure out what exactly
went missing. But then
came a day when English
came to me easier than Chinese. A day when I grasped for the right vocabulary to explain my sexual orientation to my parents. Words that are draped in rainbow colors in English became derogatory in my native tongue. I stammered.
But eventually that night, I found listen- ing easier than talking for once. Both my
parents and I clung on to our roots for comfort. And throughout our four years here in America—actually, throughout my life—this is how the three of us deal with conflicts: we communicate.
My parents put an unbelievable, some- times outrageous, amount of effort into
building our new home, and it shows through the most in one area: garden- ing. More than once have I come back home to my parents wielding the rake and the spade, re-doing our lawn, planting tulips, sunflowers, hydrangeas, and daffodils. On one such August afternoon,
I came home to brown
patches blooming across our lawn. My parents told me we were
replanting patches of sick grass. I was called to help.
Before planting new grass, we had to clear out the sick grass and their roots. So I wrestled the roots. I pulled on a sinuous strand, and when it finally snapped, I fell backwards. They say plants communi-
cate with each other through chemicals secreted by their root systems, in the deep below of things that no one is aware of. I am yanking away the unspoken words bit by bit, until they pile up on the little brick path. I kept apologizing in my heart.
A few hours later, I told my father what was on my mind. “You know, dad, we’ll have to feel content at some point. We keep spending time on our lawn— even though it’s not perfect, it looks pretty good already. ”
“Yeah, but we’re aiming for the best lawn.” My father answered, not without mirth. But it wasn’t all sarcasm, as I remember him saying a year ago, “Let’s show them Americans that Chinese people are good at taking care of their lawns, too.”
A few quiet moments later, he remarked, “It’s only like this at the start. In a few
years, we’ll have less work, once the grass takes root. It just takes time.”
“Hopefully.” I smiled.
One of the many Chinese words that had no English equivalent could be roughly
described as a sorrow for one’s country. The closest translation in English would be nostalgia, but the connotations are com- pletely different. Nostalgia is a wistful long- ing for the past, for an indescribable and unattainable time colored in a golden shade. But the Chinese version of the sentiment
is a lamentation, a mourning for a home that no longer is. One can feel nostalgia for something they’ve never experienced, but one cannot feel the other sorrow unless they have wandered too far from home.
There is a distinction between losing and missing something. When we first came to America, we did not belong. Our house was not our home. Our new life felt flimsy, temporary, transient, and underneath it
all was a gaping absence. It took us a long time to notice what exactly was lacking; it took us an even longer time to realize that we thought was lost was merely missing. We were never cut off from our roots.
So we stayed. We dug deep. We planted ourselves in this land until it began to feel like our land. Deep in our subconscious, our roots never stopped growing. They made their way alongside us until they engulfed our whole world.
“I am yanking away the unspoken words bit by bit, until they pile up on the little brick
path.”
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