How to Grieve
by Jennifer Ng
Be thankful that Po Po, your maternal grandmother, passed away before the pandemic begins. Stay silent as others worry about their vulnerable family members as COVID-19 spreads across the world.
Feel small whenever you’re told, “Speak up.” Meaning that they couldn’t hear you. Or maybe they never noticed you speaking in the first place.
Hear your father say, “She’s dying” in English at dim sum. The words are directed at you and you glance at Po Po, who continues eating the beef rice noodles and taro cake. English wasn’t needed in Oakland Chinatown.
The din of the restaurant grows louder. This isn’t your first or even second foreboding death of a grandparent. Po Po happens to be the last of her generation in your family. Hold your breath, waiting for something to rip. The guilt of not feeling settles in the tip of your head and rattles down your spine.
Get handed a manila envelope after dim sum. Your mother adds, “You might find this interesting.” Discover the printed reports describing you at the age of five years old—quiet and cooperative girl, expressive language disorder, recommended speech therapy. Wonder if that’s the reason that you didn’t hear racist epithets directed at your Asianness as a child. Wonder why you’re so attracted to writing. Wonder if your parents rushed toward assimilation, sacrificing their heritage in the process.
Ask to hear Po Po’s life story. Not that you try. Unlike the uncles and grandfathers who willingly tell you their life story, Po Po is eternally silent about her past. The unspoken pain of family trauma—a dead son and a spousal betrayal, which you learn from your mother—has burrowed deep and refuses to surface. The door has swung shut, you think, so you never ask.
Your mother mentions how Po Po’s cousin attempted to carry a bomb to the Japanese during their occupation of Hong Kong. But it accidentally exploded before arrival, killing him instantly. Po Po and other family members were lined up on the street, interrogated one by one. Think only about their pain as they stayed silent. Never hear that story from her.
Feel always so different from everyone. The way that you speak. The way that you think. The way that you interpret things. In a silly “The Official True Asian Purity Test,” you score 20 out of 100. The average is around 70. You hate failing. And you don’t even think that you’re whitewashed. You barely have any close white friends. Is it because you don’t crave Chinese food? Is it because your parents spent their free time caregiving for your grandparents rather than participating in the Chinese community? Is it because your family doesn’t harbor ghost stories and play the “saving face” game?
Resist the “nice” and “quiet” labels of an Asian girl. Your mom used to help others spell your last name by saying “N-G. Like ‘nice girl.’” You enjoyed saying “N-G. Like ‘nitroglycerin.’ You know, the chemical that explodes.”
Discover that you have been taught to view the world through the white gaze. Like many American readers, you believed for years that Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth accurately depicted China as a backward simple rural country. For years, you believed that your father as a child ran along dirt roads with swinging pigtails. Instead, he always had short cropped hair and lived in a house with modern plumbing.
Recall that your elementary school was named after the Ohlone people and how you thought that the indigenous people disappeared. They do exist, and that reminds you that your own cultural history with its voices can be erased.
When your parents go on a trip, you’re tasked with checking up on Po Po. But the language barrier created a gulf, and every conversation is painful. Your memories of being raised by her have faded. She moved out unceremoniously when you were seven. To minimize the discomfort, you call her once, and after awkward platitudes, she soon declares goodbye.
In college, she called you incessantly, but what were you supposed to say? She would scold you for walking at night, for not eating, for not studying, for not working, for not being good enough.
But one day, your phone reset and you lost all your contacts. When Po Po called, you didn’t recognize the number and when she spoke, you interpreted her words as gibberish. You asked in English, “Did you call the right person?” She stuttered. “Hey, this is the wrong number,” you said and hung up.
Realized who it was right before bed. It was too late.
Tap reply by text “can’t talk right now, what’s up?” when your boyfriend’s name bounces on your phone. You are in the middle of a meeting. To be exact, you are patting yourself on the back for saying something “very important.” You’re taking steps toward your manager’s recommendation of speaking up. Fifteen minutes later, see the subsequent text message stating that your boyfriend was hit by a car and is on the way to San Francisco General.
On the way down in the elevator, you panic about whether he’s alive and whether you have to get to know his estranged mother. You’re instantly furious that you still aren’t married yet, after thirteen years of dating. What if they won’t let you in? But the police and hospital staff wave you through when you arrive. Relief washes over you when you discover him whole in the emergency room hallway. Just scrapes and bruises, the doctor says, discharging him. But within days, your boyfriend develops post-concussion syndrome—an increased sensitivity to noise, light, and stress. Anxiety rises at experiences you both once enjoyed—parties, weddings, movies, concerts, traveling, restaurants. Stop being so loud, you want to yell. But you know that you can’t tell others to stop living. Take the responsibility of explaining why he is no longer the exuberant, extroverted person. Being attached at the hip, you both stay at home.
Then the pandemic begins. Now nobody goes out at all.
During college, you were in charge of troubleshooting Po Po’s computer and hated every minute of it. She wrote down instructions on paper: Move mouse to menu bar, File, Scroll, Click, Open, Click. You frowned and suggested changing the operating system to Chinese, but that meant that you couldn’t read anything. She kept it in English.
Your last attempt to improve her technology was to install Skype. Your parents resisted because it would be yet another thing to manage. It would make a difference, you insisted. It did. She spoke to her daughter-in-law and grandson in Hong Kong like there was no ocean between them.
Wake up feeling horrible in early March. But your colleague is visiting from New York and you have “very important” topics to discuss at work. Notice educational signs plastered on street poles and subway walls about coughing into your elbow and staying home when sick. Nonetheless, squeeze into the train for the downtown commute. You don’t know that it’s your last time taking public transit that year. Carry a water bottle to soothe your itchy throat. When you have a meeting with a potential mentor, you forget the water. Start talking and feel the itch rising. Breathe. You hold it down, but it comes out like a sneeze. She knows. You’re supposed to be home. Your new job has unlimited sick days. Why are you here, demonstrating unneeded dedication? You’re embarrassed, but she takes it in stride. Stay at home the following days and recover. Never speak to the mentor again.
Hear Po Po declare that she is lonely. You counter, “What about your friends? Your classmates? Your church? You can find them on the internet?” She tilts her head and blinks. “They’re dead,” she says. “They all died.”
The friends you had in your early twenties were all people you met online. You spent hours—not studying, of course—chatting online. A classmate observed, “But you can’t be friends with someone you never met.” You disagreed. During the pandemic, you want to feign sadness about missing hanging out in person, but you don’t.
Wear your mask diligently before the CDC releases guidance on face coverings. Realize how safe you feel. Nobody can see your mole, which you worried needlessly about being identifiable. Nobody can tell that you’re Asian, you think. Nobody can tell you to speak up.
A nearby business builds a parklet over two parking spots. A passerby observes out loud the beauty of the wooden structure. Thinking that your mask creates anonymity, go on an angry rant about the business’ lack of consideration for their neighbors, namely you. The cars block your driveway day and night. Later, a friend asks your boyfriend, “Was that your girlfriend outside? She seemed upset.”
Ask how Po Po is doing in a final phone call. Not well at all, she responds. You imagine her across the bay in Oakland, standing in her apartment alone. You’re in your apartment in San Francisco, wondering if you can go back to scrolling Instagram and Facebook. You don’t even know how to say you’re sorry. You can only say, “Be well” and “Be well.”
Love not having to attend any in-person social events now. Your social anxiety is assuaged by the plausible deniability of Zoom calls. It’s a bad connection. It’s hard to use. No longer have to be told, “Speak up.” No longer have to make small talk unless you want to do so. No longer have to perform.
Your mother says Po Po is in pain. Her eyes are agitated. Cancer of something something. In the middle of dim sum, your mother applies electrodes from an electrical pain machine to Po Po’s upper chest. Years ago, you would be embarrassed by this personal display in a public space. But why does it matter what people think anymore? Po Po visibly relaxes.
The night before Po Po’s surgery to remove the cancerous tissue, the doctor is wracked with anxiety and cancels the procedure. He tells your parents that a slow death is more kind.
Dim sum again. The din is louder. You pay this time. Po Po is pleased with your generosity, even if she eats very little. You have a pending job offer with a well-known company, which means a significant salary increase and what the family believes is finally a real job. Everyone is thrilled.
Her head is crooked. Her neck cannot support her head weight and she shuffles to the car. As you walk out, you yell, “Goodbye, see you soon.” You wave, not knowing that it would be the last time.
“You don’t know how to hug,” a friend said when you were a teenager. Today, you still don’t. Moreover, you shrink when friends embrace you. Early in the pandemic, a friend laments that she hasn’t hugged anyone for weeks. You respond that you feel fine, even happy. She’s still upset. You apologize.
Over Zoom, the head of your department says that she’s a hugger and can’t wait to hug everyone when it’s over. Hearts appear in the Zoom rectangles like confetti. Everyone agrees. Stay silent like you don’t know how to use the reactions feature.
Dread that when it’s all over, to be a good human, you have to hug.
Your dad texts you when Po Po passes away. Know what happens next. The silence. The relief. The cleanup. The paperwork. You show up at the apartment. Your parents have less than two weeks to empty it. Po Po has had cheap rent for over twenty years. A corner apartment in a senior living community right in the middle of Chinatown. When you walk in, take a seat on the couch closest to the window without much thought. Right at the spot where she was found, passed away during an afternoon nap.
Be asked to speak at Po Po’s funeral when the pandemic is only a whisper from China. You don’t have any heartwarming stories. Remember Po Po kneading your hands and remarking how supple they were. Post your college graduation photo on Instagram with a dedication about your grandmother. A friend remarks how Po Po must have had impact in you as a writer. Wonder where the heartwarming stories were about how Po Po believed in you and pushed for your happiness. So instead, you write about walking through her building, meditating on her presence.
Your mother gives a eulogy: “And now…I don’t have a mother.”
Wish you could weep, but it still doesn’t come.
Jennifer Ng is a Chinese American writer in San Francisco. She is working on an epic historical novel that explores the consequences of war and gender dynamics of Chinese family in Peru and the United States. Her nonfiction and fiction work has appeared in Quiet Lightning, Arkana, Havik, and elsewhere. She is an alumna of the Tin House and San Francisco Writers Grotto’s Rooted & Written. In her writing, she explores identity and relationships. Outside of writing, she helps teams understand user behavior for products and indulges herself in pop culture. If she was asked about her favorite hobby at the age of eight, she would answer “observing,” which is still a joy and inspiration for storytelling.