Remember the Source

When we learned that a boy was joining our family, we struggled to think of a name that would adequately capture the intercontinental collaboration that was responsible for our lives.  Ancestors from China, Iran, Italy, Germany and the Czech republic had all survived in order for this child to be here. One day when sitting in meditation, the name Toisan came into my awareness.  Toisan is the Cantonese name for the area where my grandfather was born in Southeastern China. I knew that ‘san’ meant mountain in cantonese, and I felt a strong desire to find a name that had a connection to nature.  Maya and I discussed the proposal and ended up settling on Taishan, which is the mandarin rendition of Toisan.  I consulted my mentor Al Cheng, the man who brought me to Toisan, and we discussed the various possible meanings of the word Tai in Taishan.  The obvious choice was 泰山, as in Tailand, or peaceful land as the Chinese call it.  We had a name! Taishan, or peaceful mountain.  My hope is that Taishan will feel a deep connection to his ancestors, much as I felt when I had the opportunity to visit Toisan and pay my respects to my paternal grandfather.

February 2003

The only surviving story of life in my grandfather’s village was delivered while he was clinging to life and suffering immense pain.  Ng Wai Pui, or Roy or Ayeh had a long and slow transition out of his body which involved kidney failure and dialysis.  Through layers of plastic tubing, the subtle buzz of medical devices and florescent lighting, he motioned for my father to come close, and whimpered a tale of resilience and determination that has only grown in my imagination over the years.  He relayed a summary of his premature birth and how the family line came close to being severed in the darkest hour before dawn in a small village in the Guandong province of China.  

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As the first-born child, it must have come as quite a disappointment to my great grandmother when it appeared that her newborn son was not fit to survive through infancy.  Resources were unimaginably scarce, and she immediately began formulating an equation in her mind, which led to her practical decision to put my grandfather's life in the hands of something beyond her own love and care.  

She decided to leave my grandfather, a newborn infant, at the side of the well in front of the family home.  If he was fit to live, he would brave the chill of a solitary night, and if not, the story would end here.  Needless to say, my grandfather survived the night.  The distance he traveled from that moment forward is nothing short of a miracle.  His uncle in New York sent money home for him to be educated, and eventually fronted the money that brought him across the Pacific Ocean, through Canada, and into the United States in search of opportunity.  What he found was a position in the U.S. military that sent him back across the Pacific Ocean to be a Morse code operator in Kunming, China in World War II.  While he was there he met my grandmother, and the rest is history.

February 2015

One piece of scrap paper was my golden ticket to a place I never dreamed of finding.  My prayers were answered when I learned about Friends of Roots, an organization which leads an annual pilgrimage to southeastern China to take Chinese Americans back to their ancestral villages. The only problem, which turned out to be a huge obstacle, was that nobody in my family knew what village my grandfather came from.  We searched databases based on our last name and contacted officials in China, which all turned up zero information. In an act of last-ditch desperation, members of the organization who can read mandarin, met with my father to scour through a large box of random documents he had been saving since my grandfather passed away over a decade prior.  In between, bank statements, shopping lists and all manner of seemingly inconsequential documents was a small slip of paper that read:

“If anything happens to me, I am from Taishan Chonglou Guandou Fuchaoli.” 

The theory that emerged was that my grandfather must have kept this note on his person while stationed in China in World War 2, in the hopes that if anything happened to him he could be delivered to his home village.  The enthusiasm upon making this discovery was like finding a needle in a haystack, and realizing the needle is made of solid gold.  We were advised to curb our enthusiasm until the name of the village could be run through some databases and verify that people with my last name could actually be found there.  Sure enough, it all checked out, and I had a destination.

June 2015

I stepped out of the air-conditioned bus directly into a vast field of corn shrouded in gelatinous, tropical air.  After a few timeless moments of pondering my alternate fate as a Chinese corn and peanut farmer, I was whisked away by a friendly old man who led us towards my grandfather’s home.  I had mentally prepared myself for a prolonged and potentially fruitless sleuthing, so when we turned a corner and I stood before my ancestral home within minutes of landing in the village, I was in a state of disbelief.  I watched as a humble padlock was removed from the front door, revealing a vibrant ecosystem that was taking root within the walls of the home. I was engulfed with the most profound sense of nostalgia I have ever known, despite having never set foot in this place.  As it had been uninhabited for over 50 years, the ceiling had partially collapsed, and life was claiming it’s territory and intertwining itself with the bricks and wooden beams that once provided shelter for my ancestors.  I had visions of Ankor Wat as I carefully examined each room, picturing scenes of daily life unfolding for my grandfather, his mother, and all those who came before.

I paid my respects to my ancestors by lighting incense, followed by 3 bows, and a message that I shared with my grandfather. 

I said, “Thank you for your sacrifices, for your multiple journeys across the Pacific Ocean and the difficult life you endured in the United States in order to create a better life for your offspring. You are present in everything that I do, and our family is thriving because of the foundation that you built.”

I knelt upon a carpet of roots and vibrant green leaves which sprawled across the brick floor, and I expected a river of tears to come flowing forth. 

One of my biggest regrets is that I did not make a stronger effort to get to know my father’s parents when they were alive.  I was ashamed of my ignorance about their lives and the lack of gratitude that I was able to express to them when they were alive.  As I waited for the liquid to leave my eye sockets, I felt an unexpected smile spread across my face, accompanied by a clearly communicated message from my grandfather.

He said, “Your presence in this place, and the life that you are leading are more than adequate displays of gratitude for my sacrifices.” 

Now the tears came. Tears of joy and wonder. I thanked him for imparting his calm, joyful demeanor to me via my father, and I felt the filling of a huge void that I never knew existed.  I walked across the threshold of the front door feeling an unprecedented sense of acceptance.

As I emerged into the relentless tropical sun, I immediately noticed a small concrete structure buried in foliage, and my mentor Al quickly confirmed that I had found my holy grail, the well.  I stared in amazement at my family's own historical landmark and found myself in a time machine. I bowed down, closed my eyes and was transported to a scene with my grandfather as a premature newborn baby, crying through the night as the temperature continued to dip.  I experienced my great grandmother's reaction when she discovered him alive the following morning.  I shuffled through all of the challenges I have faced in my life, and they all slipped into oblivion in the face of the well.  

Immediately following this experience, I felt myself walking through the world with greater ease and less anxiety, with a clear, visual representation of my roots, and the arduous journey that was traveled in order for me to even exist.  As I encounter obstacles on my path, I know that I always have access to a well of infinite strength and resilience. 

~

For an audio/visual experience of this story, check out the music video “Remember the Source” below (produced by my Cousin Celi Tamayo-Lee).

“when you drink water, remember the source

your ancestors handed you the torch

it gets much hotter when you follow your course

and when you find those roots you’re an unstoppable force”