If I Let A Floating Lantern Go

One of my earliest memories as a child, back when I still lived in my hometown in China with my mother and father and all my extended relatives, was of a Chinese New Year Lantern Festival that everyone was a part of. The streets would be littered with hanging lanterns, the air would be filled with the smell of barbecue and praying incense, and the stars of the night would shine brightly as crowds and crowds of people pushed through the streets talking, laughing, playing instruments, doing hapopi and swaying the burning sticks while conversing with their deceased loved ones, and having fun watching the dragon parade. But of course, the floating lanterns were the highlight. Everyone would prepare their own to release to the sky, each one supposedly meant to represent a deceased ancestor.

I was still a little girl back then. My parents would help me with my own lantern. My mother told me, “Yours will be for your great-grandfather,” and then would guide my hands up to release it to the sky. But while everyone else was releasing theirs, I was a strange case. I did not want to let go of mine. I was scared to, perhaps. Watching everyone else’s lanterns float aimlessly into the sky, creating a beautiful band of countless lights against the blanket of darkness, I feared that when I would let go of my lantern, it would drift endlessly into the void of space above and its flame would die. 

What happened next? I don’t remember. But what I do remember is everything that happened in my life up until this point in today. Right now, I am sitting in a house in America, living with a furious-working machine of a man known as my son, my very American daughter-in-law, and my even more American estranged granddaughter. I don’t mind my son’s choice of a wife, let me assure you. Maybe in the early days of their relationship--him having been a recent immigrant from the Philippines while she was a second-generation daughter of immigrant Taiwanese parents--I had been disapproving of their togetherness. She had been too American for my taste. Extremely poor Mandarin, practically no knowledge of traditions, and grown up in a predominantly--let me say once more, American--suburb, she was not the type of wife I had envisioned for son. But I knew something like this would happen one way or another with my son’s decision to bring the family to the States. It was not something I would have done in a million years, but he had insisted on going whether I was coming or not, and I did not want to leave my son.

I must also say that, on the other hand, while my daughter-in-law knows no Mandarin, when I first came to the States twenty-five years ago with my son, I practically had no knowledge of English. I had no reason to learn it in the Philippines, even if it was mixed in everyday Tagalog because of--yet again, our history with the Americans--and I was fully content with my fluency in Hokkien. I grew up with Hokkien after fleeing mainland China.

I suppose I also have to get to that part. It’s not something I talk about much. My days of happy lantern festivals with my parents in my original hometown in China came to an end when the communist takeover began. My parents did not feel we were safe in the country, so we fled to Vietnam. I remember having to cross thick and humid jungles filled with mosquitos in between long and hot jeep rides between towns. Eventually, we settled in a town there and my parents made sure to, even in a heavily tense era in history, give me a good education and send me to school. I had to fit in with all the Vietnamese kids, me being Chinese. I was the only one there who knew my language, and while I don’t remember any bullying being too bad, I still felt I had always been an outcast in the class.

We lived there in Vietnam for a long time. About twenty-five years, if I can remember correctly. As I grew up there, things got worse when the war reached Vietnam. My parents, once again, felt it was necessary to avoid this plague of a conflict and struggled to get a boat to escape our home country once more. We did manage to find one, headed for the Philippines, but we were told the journey would be extremely dangerous. At this point my parents were getting old, and I was still but a young woman trying to find my way in the world amidst all this war, but we still decided to take the risk, and after all our pain and hardship, we miraculously made the journey.

Then, for the next twenty-two years, we spent our lives in the Philippines. We didn’t want it that way. We had originally planned, as we heard many others do so, that it would only be a temporary place until we could figure out how to get to America, with the help of donation organizations and the UN. When we first arrived, we got put into a refugee camp. It wasn’t long, only lasting a few months, but I still remember some of the worst violence, starvation, and disease I’ve ever seen in my life in there.

We managed to get out and build ourselves a home in the city of Manila, where we had to learn how to fit in. My mother chose to give me a new non-Chinese name so I could blend in better. She chose Vivian. My father had a brother in the city that he reconnected to, who helped us a lot in our first few years. But it wasn’t long until years of malnourishment and tribulation caught up to him. One year, he got sick and died. He wasn’t too old yet, he was somewhere in his early sixties. It came out of nowhere and created a huge burden on our family. I remember my mother sobbing all night.

My father’s death was not so kind on my emotions at that age. After the full realization that he was gone had hit me, for at first I was in complete denial, I became angry and bitter at the world. I was mean to all my classmates at school--a cheap community college my parents had enrolled me in--the children of locals who had lived there for generations, who did not know the pain of having to flee a home multiple times with the constant fear of communist soldiers barging in your doors and gunning you down. I got into many fights. I began doing drugs. There was this one night that I had gotten into a fight in a street with another student and was hurt really badly. I don’t remember now who had initiated it, but the teachers told my mother it had been me, so I was to be suspended for a few days. I had been outside the room, listening to my mother talk with them. I remember clearly hearing her sob quietly, and the teachers going silent as if giving her time to cry, and then feeling the worst I ever had in my entire life. Yes, even worse than my war-torn memories of mainland China and Vietnam. Here I was, a spoiled little brat, being an absolute disappointment of a child. My mother and father risked everything in the world to give me a better life. They lied, they bargained, they laboured, and through sheer willpower and love for me found a way to get me first to Vietnam, then to here, the Philippines. All while making sure I was keeping up in school! And now, here I was, throwing it away like a baby who did not like their lollipop. My mother was now alone because my father was dead, having little to no help in raising me. And I was doing the absolute worst I could to help her.

After that moment, I decided to get my act together.

I began trying my best in school. I prioritized it above all others. I sobered up. I chose my friends more carefully. I stopped hanging out in sketchy places and stopped being mean to others. It was then that I began to see my life turning around. I graduated college with one of the highest averages in my class. I began to repair my relationship with my mother. I got a boyfriend--whom she liked a lot--and married him later, and had a son. When my mother died a long time later, she told me on her deathbed I was the best daughter she could ask for, and she was the proudest mother she could ever be.

We had never stopped applying to immigrate to the United States since first coming to the Philippines. It took effort over years and years with no success. It mainly had to do with us knowing barely any English, as well as what skills we were able to offer. So, with no other choice, we lived in the Philippines for a long time. I only made it here today because of my hard-working eldest son, who has mastered English and educated himself with skills beyond cheap labour enough to bring all of us here. I truly thank him for that. After many long, long years of suffering, I can finally live in peace, knowing I won’t have to wake up one day fleeing my home in terror. It has truly been a blessing coming to America. There are many people who live here who think it has many problems, and while that may be true, they don’t seem to understand how many people in the world would kill to have a life here. I never want to go back to my old life.

But now I have a new problem. My estranged seventeen-year-old granddaughter, Arden.

She is everything I despise in a granddaughter. First of all, she has zero knowledge about our family history. She knows I’m originally from China, and her father is originally from the Philippines, but that is about it. She is oblivious to all the struggles of the ones that came before her. She shows it when she complains every time her father and I tell her to do hapopi. We do the tradition to honour our deceased ancestors, especially my mother and father, her great-grandparents, but yet she complains, unaware that her life would be vastly different if not for them. She doesn’t know any other traditions further than that, and she doesn’t know a single word of Mandarin, Hokkien, Tagalog, or might I even say humorously, English. Because second of all, she does terrible in school. Her grades are horrendous, despite everything her parents have done to help her. None of us believe her when she says she’s simply not intelligent enough, when it is clear the problem is that she is providing no effort to her academics. We are all worried for her future. Third of all, she parties and drinks a lot. Something I never did much of when I was younger. It is very awkward at the dinner table when our two worlds collide. She is always talking about her group of friends, what they did the night before, or which boys she is interested in, but I could tell she is reserved in what she says because I am there. It is clear to me this “fun” she’s having is more important to her than her future, and it irritates me a lot because it wastes everything I, my parents before me, and my children after me have done for her future. We promised her a diamond of a land rich with freedom and opportunity, and a better life overall than all the ones that came before her, and she is throwing it away with no second thought like I had once done.

But finally, last of all, she refuses talks to me. I don’t know if it’s out of some false belief that I am senile, that I wouldn’t understand the things she talks about, or if she thinks I only speak Hokkien and would not understand much of her English slang, or something else. She only helps me upstairs when she is told to by her mother and father. She never spends time with me and is always up in her room, probably on her phone instead of doing homework. She is the one version of a granddaughter I never hoped for, and I would do anything to make her understand where I am coming from, to see the bigger picture. To repair our relationship. But I find it hard because she never talks to me. I sacrificed so much to get to America for her, and this is how she repays me.

#

My daughter-in-law was washing dishes in the kitchen as I peeled lychee fruit on the dining table to eat. My granddaughter was up in her room and my son was at work. He has an irregular schedule. My daughter-in-law’s job always ends at five and is at home after then.

It was a good opportunity to tell her what I thought about her daughter. So while listening to me from the kitchen, hot steam rising from the sink as she toiled away on plates, I told her everything.

“She doesn’t talk to me at all,” I said, using English to make things easier.

To my surprise, she didn’t seem to be on my side at all. “Mom, it’s you that doesn’t talk to her. She feels weird around you.”

“Nonsense!” I grumbled. “She lives her life here having all her parties and fun! She needs to learn some self-respect!”

“I agree she needs to do better in school.” She exhaled and relaxed her shoulders. “But we shouldn’t be so hard on her.”

“Hmph. We’re not being hard on her enough.”

“You need to loosen your grip on her, Mom. She lives here now. Things are different here.”

“I thought things would be better for her here, but it’s the opposite. Have you looked at her? Drunk all the time, obsessed with boys, she say’s no drugs but she probably did. She’s almost an adult, how will she survive on her own?”

“I’ll talk to her.”

She went upstairs, calling “Ari!” as I continued eating my lychee on the table.

#

It took three days until I took my daughter-in-law’s words to heart.

I didn’t know what she said to my granddaughter in that talk. But since then, something changed with Arden. In those three days, she would not look me in the eyes. She had a permanent scowl when I was nearby, clearly telling me I was the source. She was anxious at dinner, and she would always finish quickly and excuse herself to leave for her room as fast as possible.

It bothered me so much that I decided I had to talk to her. To finally get some sense into the young woman. So one night, after she fled for her room after dinner once more, I waited a few minutes in my chair. Then I followed her.

After slowly going up the stairs with my cane, I opened the door to her room. “Arden! Listen to your Ama, you--”

I stopped. She wasn’t on her bed with her phone. She was at her desk, three notebooks open, the desk lamp turned on. Her laptop was at the side, clearly showing research on it. She was hunched over the work, writing with her pencil.

“Ah, so you are finally following your mother,” I said, pompously pleased.

She noticed me. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“She must have told you to focus on your studies.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Ama. I’ve been doing this for months.”

I was stunned.

Then she began getting emotional. “Ama, I know you are not very proud of me. But I’m trying my best. I really wish I can be smart, and I’m working really hard. I don’t want to disappoint you. I never did.” She put her head in her arms and began sobbing.

It was like looking at a mirror.

I was crestfallen. I, once too, was in this position with my mother. I took a step closer. With teary eyes, she got up to give me her seat, but I waved a hand, telling her to sit back down. I remained standing, my hands resting on my cane. I said, “Why do you go to your parties and drink?”

“I’m responsible about it, Ama. I swear! I don’t do it excessively. I just want to have fun with friends, sometimes.”

“Ah, I see.” I was finally having a better understanding of my granddaughter. And I was ashamed to only learn now that my daughter-in-law was right. All I had to do was talk to her. All she had to do was talk to me.

Still standing, I embraced her in her seat. She embraced me back. This was my grandchild, trying her best to thrive in a completely new world, different from all her ancestors. I was proud of this girl.

I simply didn’t want a disconnection between thousands of years of ancestral generations. I didn’t want America to sever that. It was plain to see, from me to her, even from me to my son and daughter-in-law, that they were different and changed people. Not the ones I was used to when growing up. I had to get used to that. But at the same time, it was impossible to let go of this eternal, ancient chain of tradition born from our homeland. It was the birthplace of our people, and no matter where we went, we were obligated to carry with us a piece of it. We could change as people, but we would never change as a people. So, carefully, I said next, “Arden. I must tell you our family story. Teach you our traditions.”

“But--”

“No complaints. You are one of us. It’s necessary to keep them alive. I want you to know, no matter how hard your studies get, no matter how low you reach in life, you are being supported by millennia’s worth of generations. You can talk to any of them, any of us, whenever you want. Whenever you are feeling down, you can ask your ancestors for help. My mother and father--you can ask them for advice when you need it.”

“How?” she asked innocently. “Believe me, I want to. But I don’t understand how I can talk to them. I don’t hear anything when I try. Like when I do the hapopi. I try to talk to Kong Kong, but I can never hear him, no matter what I do.”

“It’s because you’re so disconnected from them,” I said. “You need to go back to your roots. I can teach you. It’s nowhere near Chinese New Year, but let’s have a little celebration on our own. Just the two of us. Drive us to the store to buy floating lanterns. You keep talking about how you just got your license, don’t you?”

“Okay, Ama. You’re right. I need to respect these traditions. I’ve been wrong this whole time, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Your ancestors will support you whether or not you care about them. That is how family is supposed to work. Who do you want to send your lantern for?”

She wiped her eyes and took a moment to decide. “I never got to meet Kong Kong.”

“No,” I said. My husband had passed away before she was born to Alzheimer’s, while we had already moved here to the States. So she had never known him.

“Mine will be for him,” she said.

#

We prepared the lanterns one night, just us two, and drove to a park with a hill overlooking the town below us. There was a single tree at the top, where we rested against, waiting for a perfect time. The breeze was light, there was no rain, and the night sky was cloudless. We unfolded our lanterns, aired them out to create their volume, and used a lighter to create the flames. We held them out in front of us, waiting until their interiors filled with hot air.

“Ama, I think mine is ready,” said my granddaughter, holding hers in her hands.

“You can let go,” I said. She smiled and did so. “Can you feel your Kong Kong now? Ask him something. See if he responds.”

“Okay.”

She closed her eyes and did.

When mine was ready as well, I was startled to realize that I had no hesitation to release it, like my younger self, many, many years ago near the beginning of my life. The fear I once felt in letting go of my lantern was gone without a trace. I had thought I would have to fight it again, but no. 

I decided to dedicate the lantern to my parents. I would not be standing here today without them. Before releasing it, I spent a good moment or thinking about my journey here.

I lost sight of whom it was all for. I had a hard life so that my children could have a better one. That was what mattered. If my granddaughter wanted to party and have fun, that was the very thing I had struggled and fought for. The happiness of my children. All these years, I made it about myself. I wanted her to be flawlessly successful. I wanted her to have worked as hard as me. But why? There was no need to--I was being selfish. She did not live in a world of war. She did not have to stay on her toes. She was free.

I knew she was inevitably going to hit her own modern hardships in life. Maybe she will get so drunk one night and not remember anything. Maybe she will run out of money and come back to her parents, begging for a place to stay. Or maybe nothing as bad as those, but still in some way, she will feel very sad about something. But a child had to learn how to be free. At a certain point in life, you can’t help them any further. You have to let them grow up and figure things out for themselves. When they do, they’ll thank you for everything.

I let go of the lantern, hugging my granddaughter at my side as we watched it together fly off into the cold, dark night. Alone. In my mind, I remembered again that day when I was a young child unable to let go of my lantern at that festival, all those years ago. That little girl would never know, until now, that she would be satisfied one day in doing so. She did not know how hard her life ahead would be. All the fear and the suffering, the pain and the starvation, the bleakness and the hopelessness. And, at last, she did not know that there would exist a day when she would finally be free from it all, in the form of her American granddaughter, by her side.

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