Family trees

I spent Friday night at my grandma’s with my aunt and her small family. My two year old cousin was being, well, a toddler, and it was a relief when he was finally asleep. While the US Open was on, my aunt and I talked. She told me stories of my uncles, their lives as they growing up – funny anecdotes that made them seem less intimidating than they are now. Other stories stretched a little further back, slowly filling in the gaps of my antecendents.

As I flicked through old photographs, she told me about my maternal grandmother’s parents: how my great-grandfather was a magistrate in China, a very strict man, such that when he died, my grandmother was overjoyed and skipped rope in the courtyard only to be beaten in admonition; and that my great-great-grandmother had bound feet and was addicted to opium. It must have been so hard for my grandmother to leave her family and fly to Singapore to join my grandfather in an arranged marriage.

My aunt told me how they had flown over my grandmother’s brother for a reunion after forty years, but he was not of worthy character – completely obsessed with money. He didn’t want to go back to China either, and my grandfather and my uncles had to physically drag him to the airport. My grandmother was very disappointed and severed all ties after that visit. It turns out that my maternal family have enough stories to write a book, but while some are fondly recalled, many others are gladly forgotten.

All these seemingly trivial details opened small but significant windows to the past, helping me put faces to the people who made my life possible. Maybe it’s because I’ve been so heavily influenced by Western culture that I place so much importance on being able to trace back family trees, or maybe I’m just fascinated by the personal stories of people who saw the world around them change so much in the last century – people who I can call family, but every little thing I learn about my heritage only increases my desire to know more.