All My Perspective is Retrospective

     I was raised between a culture and a religion, a mixed heritage my step dad affectionately refers to as “Chew” for Chinese-Jew.  Both families were focused on food and familial bonds, doing good in the world at large as well as self-improvement; both believed in a strong relationship between grand-parents and –children, and I was blessed to have close relationships with both my paternal (Jewish) and maternal (Chinese) grandmothers.  My Jewish grandmother died ten years ago of a swift-moving cancer, and my Chinese grandmother died a week ago (in fourteen minutes, exactly) of a slow moving brain deterioration.  All my perspective is retrospective from here ‘til forever comes.

     Though stubborn and hard-headed as every rumor of a Taurus is supposed to be, I’ve come to understand more of the parallels these two sides share in common than I ever identified as a child, and I’m beginning to analyze the results of growing up with traditions of prayer and meditation; learning recipes by counterside-osmosis, and enjoying meals ranging from simple breakfasts to vast complexes of grandmotherly mental vaults (all delicious); being close to the women in my life who grew up and had families before workplace equality and women’s rights were even whispers in the halls of Washington, D.C.

     I was in my early twenties when I realized growing up without any anxiety over, or thought of, eternal punishment from anyone in my family had rooted in me a fearless and inquisitive nature, along with a willingness to give into my empathy more often than not, knowing that nothing I could do with good intentions would condemn me forever.  Neither the Jews nor the Buddhists believe in a place of eternal damnation and suffering; there are no “unforgivable” sins.  Instead, both philosophies focus on being virtuous and good and easing suffering in this life, rather than worrying about the next.  Simply put, the Jews believe that after a life on earth, each soul is cleansed and purged for ascension to a closer relationship with god.  Cleansing lasts not longer than a year, and is viewed as a time to objectively review one’s life and sins and to atone, rather than a terrible and wrathful punishment.  The Buddhists believe in bettering one’s soul through acts of generosity and kindness, living without greed and desire, and doing it over again until it’s done right, at which time one may ascend to a state of nirvana.  Both my halves instilled the idea that no one is perfect, no matter what they may claim, and that we’re all struggling for the same things in this life.  I’ve come to believe that self-improvement can be at least partially achieved through benefitting others, that healing the parts, however small they may seem from where I stand, helps heal the whole.

     This willingness to allow compassion and sentiment to decide my moral compass is paired with decades of encouragement from two women who were intelligent and bold, born into a time when beauty and fertility were their marketable features.  Perhaps watching their daughters struggle through the women’s liberation movement and succeed provided them fortitude, perhaps it was their internal strength of character, but these women both encouraged me with every fiber of their beings to be anything and everything I ever dreamed.  My grandmothers witnessed the revolution, and both made it clear from the time I was old enough to understand that I would never have to marry for financial stability or social legitimacy.  They taught me to meet obstacles with poise and confidence, never meek and mealy-mouthed, never backing down, whether the antagonist was academic, creative, or personal.

I remember being seven years old in my Jewish grandmother’s living room, sitting on “my” footstool, a very small wooden stool with a yellow cushion that was one of the designated “grandkids’ seats” for whenever cousins or my brother and I came to visit.  It had always been “mine,” since my brother and I were the only grandchildren who lived in the same city as she did, and I used it more than anyone else.  My brother’s version was white.  With my head craned back to look up at her from my diminutive perch, I was paying close attention as she related an article she’d read about elementary school teachers calling on boys more than girls in math and science classes; she was convincing me it was ok to keep raising my hand, even if they didn’t call on me.

“They’re set in their ways,” she said, “but don’t let that stop you.  If you know the answer, honey, you raise your hand and wave it around ‘til they can’t ignore you.”

This led to some theatrics in Mrs. Taelour’s second grade classroom, but I did get called on, and developed a strong affinity for the sciences.  I remain unafraid to speak my mind in classroom settings, and I am grateful for the public-speaking courage that little chat instilled.  The quality of my education has been and will continue to be better than it would’ve been without that sound advice.  When she passed, I took the little yellow footstool home with me; I still use it as my thinking chair when I want a head clear of physical discomforts and distractions.

Both of my families are steeped in traditions of food and ritual meals, particular foods for particular celebrations, and secret recipes for favorite snacks.  We all love to eat, and whether it’s the familial emphasis or the sensory reinforcement, my clearest memories of both my grandmothers are in their kitchens, perpetually stirring, chopping, and tasting their creations for others.  Working with my Jewish grandmother to prepare matzo brie and chopped liver remain some of my earliest vivid memories of learning how to follow verbal instructions in order, from memory, and the consequences of skipping even one seemingly insignificant step.  Watching my Chinese grandmother work in her kitchen taught me lessons in humility as well as triumph, satisfaction in a job well done to produce something transient for someone else, and the joy of working with my hands in creating something from its component parts.

My favorite Chinese food as a child was char-sieu bau, a steam bun filled with barbeque pork of an unholy red color not found in nature.  When I stayed with my grandparents for a few weeks each summer, I would request it at least once a day, as Reno had no Chinese bakeries at that time, and Hawaii was rife with them.  One day, Grandmama decided we would make it ourselves, this amazing bakery treat.  I did not have her confidence that we could produce anything as good as we could buy from the chefs at the store.  She took me to the market to buy the pork, and the rest was up to us, working from the recipe in her mind.  I learned so much that day: a love for bamboo steamers and dough-kneading, the secret of filling the buns, and elation at being able to replicate something commercial from scratch.  One of my fundamental beliefs in myself comes from that day: I know I am clever and determined and patient enough to make by hand any thing I can find in the wild.

I am tremendously grateful to have had brilliant tacticians forming the wrinkles in my brain through the battles of childhood, to have avoided (most of) the insecurities and neuroses of children raised to be seen and not heard, or reared to be replicas of parents rather than independent thinkers.  I look at the fundamental parts of me, not the day-to-day likes and dislikes, or the preferences of zeitgeist, but the core of what I believe and where it came from, and I find vignettes and reflections of these two women echoing in my heart and soul; I wouldn’t be half of what I am without either of them.