Oct 17 2007
Poetic Popo
My grandma Popo loved poetry, enjoyed reading it as much as writing them. The very fine education she received at home had established a solid foundation. She was often seen with a book in hand; and most often, it’s a poetry. I remembered when I was little, perhaps as soon as I could mutter a word, she was ready to teach me. The highlight of that teaching was rewarded that I could recite few verses from Tang Poetry 300 from memory, in front of roomful adults, before I started nursery.
Did I enjoy it? I can’t say. For Popo had the distinct smell from years of smoking; worn a wide black rim thick glasses; suffered from osteoporosis; arthritis had deformed her fingers .. sitting next to her trying to memorize a poem wasn’t as pleasant as going out with Nainai, who bathed me, dressed me, made each meal a banquet with spotless matching chinas, smelled perfumey (even under the dire circumstance during the 60s) even she smoked too, fashionable; despite she’s illiterate, but she could sound like a learned scholar .. Few times Popo volunteered to make me lunch, ended up blacked them all: she was reading. So for a kid, my heart rested with Nainai. I didn’t want to be seen in public with Popo. And Nainai certainly took glee in all of those.
I hardly know my grandma. When she passed away quietly in the Beijing #2 Hospital alone on the eve of Yeye’s 79th birthday. The news relay to me weeks later, as a footnote. However, those past few years, through the genealogy research, gradually I found myself getting to know her better, without a word being spoken, or a gentle touch, a hug. I don’t remember that I ever hugged her, or held her hand.
It wasn’t a total surprise that I wanted to share her poems. With mostly strangers. An act as ode to her? I had gone over her three happier ones upon my birth very quickly. It’s sunny, defy, giddy, written on my 6 months anniversary with relish, after a photo session. Miraculously, many photos had survived the Culture Revolution’s confiscation and burning, included this one showing her holding me. The other one written in the 70s after my mother had passed away was drastically different, both in tones and appearances. The fluent brush calligraphy was in such contrast to the halting fountain pen, scribbled on the back of a hospital register sheet that teared in half. I was mindful of how her life had been as I began to read out loud, from an extremely privileged princess to a bitter wife who had to compete with a shrewd uneducated courtesan for her husband’s affection, and losing a daughter .. it’s just too much to bear at that moment. I fought hard to control my emotion and tears, but lost the battle. Frank got up, finished the reading - thanks.