Mother’s Treasures
Garry Engkent
When I was very young, my mother told me in secret the hiding place of all her treasures. She said she hid everything she valued in a niche inside the brick post at the southern gate behind our house. She would return there one day, recover everything, and amaze me.
That place was in China.
“Chiang Kai-shek,” she hoped and predicted when we fled to Hong Kong, “will soon sweep Mao Tse-tung and his communists like so much dust and dirt on the walkway.”
The generalissimo evacuated to the tiny island of Formosa. He made noises about a quick, victorious return to the mainland. It was only so much political hot air from the defeated. He never left the island, and we flew away from Hong Kong to a place called Canada.
My mother never returned to China, to her home on Jun-Sing Road in Shanwei district. She, however, never forgot to remind me of her secret hiding place. All her memories and valuables stored away from looters, thieves, and neighbors. Even when I was young, too young to understand fully, I could see that this foreign land of ice and snow and white society and white language was not for her. There were times I could see her eyes lost in a distance and a time–and drops of tears.
“We escaped the communists,” she would often say, as if that made everything all right. But it didn’t. And as I was growing up, I could clearly see how things set in her face. Hardly ever smiling, unless forced. Laughter, with an edge. Always. For her, there was no joy, no happiness, only existence in a foreign world.
I saw, I heard, I felt, but I did not, could not, understand the ways of my mother. Yes, in a small town like Thibeault Falls, it was damned difficult being different. Noticeably different. By face, by stature, by being. Most of us worked in the restaurant or laundry trade. In the 1950s, that was all there was. At least we were free from the dreaded communists and the local cruel, callous cadres–our friends, relatives, and neighbors. My mother herself had said this many times over the years: escape!
In a careless fan gwei Canadian moment, because I heard this in school, I uttered, “Let’s be thankful that we aren’t in China now!”
She lectured me: “China is not just the Middle Kingdom, jong gwok, it is the sweet land, hon saan. Our home. China stays with you; China does not forget. One day we will return, and recover my treasure, my gift to you, my son.”
Mother reminded me where her treasure was concealed (about the tenth time now, but I might have lost count) and made me promise again never to reveal it to anyone. Over the years as I was growing up, I would periodically recall her exact words and then other occasions snatches of “treasure,” “south gate,” “Shanwei,” and “Jun-Sing Road.”
There was an occasion when I was older and thought of myself as more mature and I had gotten so tired of her dreams, hopes, and reminders that I almost screamed out that she should face reality, truth and facts. She could never return to China, at least to the China she grew up in, loved, and cherished, and if she did, she would have found the land and people so changed that she would ironically prefer Canada. And even her old homestead would not be there. It would not be the same structure she had reluctantly left twenty-five years ago. Her place was now Canada. But I looked at her aged face, sad eyes, the sparse white hairs on her head, and her withered stature in widowhood. “Yes, Ah-mah,” I said quietly. “When we return to hon saan, we will find your treasure.”
My mother died soon after her eightieth birthday. Ah-mah was buried beside her husband, my father. I mourned, and I remembered her hope and dream. It never came to fruition. I think in her heart she knew there would be no return when she and I bundled ourselves on to an airplane that would take us thousands of miles, across an ocean, across a stretch of land to a place called Thibeault Falls, Ontario.
When China opened up its doors to the world and anybody with money could visit, I declined the opportunity. My excuse was that I was Canadian, no longer Chinese. The memories from childhood were walls and barriers, physically and psychologically.
One day, with the Internet and keyboard at my fingertips, I searched for my mother’s home. It took many tries. Mainly how I pronounced Cantonese with a certain Shanwei dialect made me transliterate into English differently. There were no matches until I went with what was on the Internet local maps: their English translation of Mandarin.
Surprisingly, there was visual accompaniment. The video rolled through the town, the streets and alleyways. There was a certain North American modernity about traffic, clothing, and stores. Among the Chinese lettered signs, there were English ones. I typed in the name of the street. Buildings of gray slabs, especially apartment complexes of almost uniform sizes, populated the long street.
I wasn’t sure, but I thought I did glimpse what could have been my mother’s house.
Of course, my mother's house–her beloved home–was no longer there. Instead, on that lot, a small orchard of pear trees, oranges and plums that once gave delight and fruit had been razed. Now, a high rise of fifteen stories stands there. The earth and stone wall, along with the massive brick posts at the southern gate, is no more, replaced by fencing. I wondered if anyone had found my mother’s hidden treasure, and if they had, what they would have made of it. I am sure the jewelry, coins, and money would have been immediately pocketed. But what of the black-and-white photographs that held memories of a time, a place, a happiness to those who treasured the holding of something physical, things ephemeral to chance and fate?
I went to the cemetery, burned incense and, at the gravestone, told my mother that I saw her home. In a way, it was a lie. I didn’t go there; I saw it in stop motion on a screen. I saved the picture in my computer. Maybe that would be enough, enough to satisfy my own guilt.
A month later, I received a letter, postmarked from China. It was clearly addressed to me, to my current address. There was no return address, no name of sender. Inside was a faded black-and-white photo, aged, with creases. On the back, three vertical rows of Chinese words. The image was of a generational family, all with serious faces for this cherished occasion. I was the baby in my mother’s arms.
I understood immediately the message.
China stays with you forever; Jong Gwok does not forget. China keeps tabs forever.
Garry Engkent
When I was very young, my mother told me in secret the hiding place of all her treasures. She said she hid everything she valued in a niche inside the brick post at the southern gate behind our house. She would return there one day, recover everything, and amaze me.
That place was in China.
“Chiang Kai-shek,” she hoped and predicted when we fled to Hong Kong, “will soon sweep Mao Tse-tung and his communists like so much dust and dirt on the walkway.”
The generalissimo evacuated to the tiny island of Formosa. He made noises about a quick, victorious return to the mainland. It was only so much political hot air from the defeated. He never left the island, and we flew away from Hong Kong to a place called Canada.
My mother never returned to China, to her home on Jun-Sing Road in Shanwei district. She, however, never forgot to remind me of her secret hiding place. All her memories and valuables stored away from looters, thieves, and neighbors. Even when I was young, too young to understand fully, I could see that this foreign land of ice and snow and white society and white language was not for her. There were times I could see her eyes lost in a distance and a time–and drops of tears.
“We escaped the communists,” she would often say, as if that made everything all right. But it didn’t. And as I was growing up, I could clearly see how things set in her face. Hardly ever smiling, unless forced. Laughter, with an edge. Always. For her, there was no joy, no happiness, only existence in a foreign world.
I saw, I heard, I felt, but I did not, could not, understand the ways of my mother. Yes, in a small town like Thibeault Falls, it was damned difficult being different. Noticeably different. By face, by stature, by being. Most of us worked in the restaurant or laundry trade. In the 1950s, that was all there was. At least we were free from the dreaded communists and the local cruel, callous cadres–our friends, relatives, and neighbors. My mother herself had said this many times over the years: escape!
In a careless fan gwei Canadian moment, because I heard this in school, I uttered, “Let’s be thankful that we aren’t in China now!”
She lectured me: “China is not just the Middle Kingdom, jong gwok, it is the sweet land, hon saan. Our home. China stays with you; China does not forget. One day we will return, and recover my treasure, my gift to you, my son.”
Mother reminded me where her treasure was concealed (about the tenth time now, but I might have lost count) and made me promise again never to reveal it to anyone. Over the years as I was growing up, I would periodically recall her exact words and then other occasions snatches of “treasure,” “south gate,” “Shanwei,” and “Jun-Sing Road.”
There was an occasion when I was older and thought of myself as more mature and I had gotten so tired of her dreams, hopes, and reminders that I almost screamed out that she should face reality, truth and facts. She could never return to China, at least to the China she grew up in, loved, and cherished, and if she did, she would have found the land and people so changed that she would ironically prefer Canada. And even her old homestead would not be there. It would not be the same structure she had reluctantly left twenty-five years ago. Her place was now Canada. But I looked at her aged face, sad eyes, the sparse white hairs on her head, and her withered stature in widowhood. “Yes, Ah-mah,” I said quietly. “When we return to hon saan, we will find your treasure.”
My mother died soon after her eightieth birthday. Ah-mah was buried beside her husband, my father. I mourned, and I remembered her hope and dream. It never came to fruition. I think in her heart she knew there would be no return when she and I bundled ourselves on to an airplane that would take us thousands of miles, across an ocean, across a stretch of land to a place called Thibeault Falls, Ontario.
When China opened up its doors to the world and anybody with money could visit, I declined the opportunity. My excuse was that I was Canadian, no longer Chinese. The memories from childhood were walls and barriers, physically and psychologically.
One day, with the Internet and keyboard at my fingertips, I searched for my mother’s home. It took many tries. Mainly how I pronounced Cantonese with a certain Shanwei dialect made me transliterate into English differently. There were no matches until I went with what was on the Internet local maps: their English translation of Mandarin.
Surprisingly, there was visual accompaniment. The video rolled through the town, the streets and alleyways. There was a certain North American modernity about traffic, clothing, and stores. Among the Chinese lettered signs, there were English ones. I typed in the name of the street. Buildings of gray slabs, especially apartment complexes of almost uniform sizes, populated the long street.
I wasn’t sure, but I thought I did glimpse what could have been my mother’s house.
Of course, my mother's house–her beloved home–was no longer there. Instead, on that lot, a small orchard of pear trees, oranges and plums that once gave delight and fruit had been razed. Now, a high rise of fifteen stories stands there. The earth and stone wall, along with the massive brick posts at the southern gate, is no more, replaced by fencing. I wondered if anyone had found my mother’s hidden treasure, and if they had, what they would have made of it. I am sure the jewelry, coins, and money would have been immediately pocketed. But what of the black-and-white photographs that held memories of a time, a place, a happiness to those who treasured the holding of something physical, things ephemeral to chance and fate?
I went to the cemetery, burned incense and, at the gravestone, told my mother that I saw her home. In a way, it was a lie. I didn’t go there; I saw it in stop motion on a screen. I saved the picture in my computer. Maybe that would be enough, enough to satisfy my own guilt.
A month later, I received a letter, postmarked from China. It was clearly addressed to me, to my current address. There was no return address, no name of sender. Inside was a faded black-and-white photo, aged, with creases. On the back, three vertical rows of Chinese words. The image was of a generational family, all with serious faces for this cherished occasion. I was the baby in my mother’s arms.
I understood immediately the message.
China stays with you forever; Jong Gwok does not forget. China keeps tabs forever.