my father's ghost

I left my country and my father at the age of eleven. I longed for both most of my life. The memories of my father colored my being. I was three or four when my father sat me on his lap and held my hand as he tried to teach me to write guiding my fist. I fought him, going right when he wanted me go left. He wondered why I didn’t learn as quickly as my sister. When the war was over, at age seven, we left Chongqing and arrived at our house in Shanghai. We found a gift box of bananas at our doorstep. All the bananas were black, they must have sat there for days. My father and I ate at least a dozen each. The private school in Shanghai was much more advanced than the country school I had attended. My father tutored me daily in math. Catching up with my classmates in mathematics was a daunting task. When we had a test and I scored two correct out of eight, my parents held a party for me. It was the first time I got anything correct in math class. “Remember to embrace your weaknesses as well as your strengths,” he said. While my mother was distressed over my seemingly lack of intelligence, my father appeared more forgiving. When I was eight, he fashioned a bow and some arrows out of scrap wood. I loved that gift and the hours of pleasure it gave me. At ten he took me to every Tarzan
movie shown.

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Once my mom brought her kids to the U.S. to avoid the Communist invasion, while my dad stayed in China to protect his reputation. I didn’t see my father again until I was married with a child. The next few visits were intense and wonderful. I
adored my father.

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Christmas Eve, in 1975, my brother called to say my father had died of a heart attack. The news was devastating. I then remembered that the Chinese believed the dead would come visit family members seven days after death. I stayed awake that night waiting to see my father’s ghost. He didn’t come, not even in my dream. Perhaps it was seven weeks after death, I thought to myself. So that night I waited.

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Nope. Seven months, maybe it was seven months. I waited, no visit from my beloved father. Seven years later I waited again in vain. I gave up. Many, many years later I was watching TV when Deng Xiaoping was visiting the U.S. and making a speech. The first few sentences were in Mandarin. I was shocked to find that I had forgotten so much that I was unable to understand him. That night, finally, my father’s ghost came in my dream!

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“ Baba, Baba, “ I cried, “I have forgotten ALL my Chinese! I feel so stupid!”

 

My father’s gentle face smiled with great warmth and love, lifted his hand to place on my shoulder softly and said,
“ Don’t feel badly, sweetie, you ARE stupid.”