Po-Po

I’ve known “Po-Po” for 30 years. 30 years is a good size portion of one’s life. Po-Po was middle-aged at 63 when she first met me and 93 when our living relationship was no more. What was it like for her to go from her 60s to her 70s to her 80s to her 90s? I didn’t really notice, and I’ll never really know. She knew me for a full one-third of her life. Presently I knew her for 100% of mine.

My first memories of my grandmother—my mother’s mother—were of regular overnight visits to Riverside. My mom and I would drive out from Los Angeles, a gruelingly long 3 hours for a child, with a quick visit to the cemetery of my mother’s father, whom I never had the chance to know. Po-Po would present me with toys and I would run around the large house playfully in the imaginary world of children’s minds. For breakfast she would prepare a meal that I can taste to this day just by thinking about it: pancakes with marmalade, honey, jam and syrup, Chinese sausage, and dun dun, which is a fantastic light egg custard. Food has an amazing quality to solidify itself in memory.

But let’s return to the toys shall we? My mom was always quite strict and thrifty when it came to buying things (which is very much a good thing). Po-Po, however, was given some freedom to spoil me with lots of toys (which is very much a great thing). She would take me to the department store and get me the latest in transforming cars, powerful robots and playful stuffed animals. Christmas was always a phenomenal treat at Po-Po’s. I remember for Christmas one year she took me to the mall on a mission: I was to pick out the biggest stuffed animal of them all and take it home. I didn’t really know what to expect but was intrigued with this mission, which I confidently chose to accept. We selected a large brown bear that I named “Fuzzy” who was to be the recipient of much affection throughout my childhood.

Okay enough with the toys, and back to the food. I remember when Po-Po helped run a restaurant. The idea of that was so cool. But actually it was pretty boring. I sat around the restaurant while she and the other adults did whatever they needed to do, but not a lot of customers would come in during the off-peak hours so it was pretty quiet. However, that’s where I learned to use chopsticks. I would sit there for hours practicing on my own (only realizing that my technique wasn’t “proper” many years later) until I developed a technique that would successfully and consistently transport large amounts of food from my plate to my mouth. The restaurant business was short-lived, but it was at this point that I began to notice my grandmother’s, let’s just say, snobbishness about Chinese food. She would sample every Chinese restaurant in a huge radius around her home wherever she lived whether it was Southern or Northern California, demand to know certain aspects of the food and cooking, and talk with the chefs. She quickly dismissed those who would not be contenders, yet was faithful to those who were up to task.

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I soon left childhood and entered adolescence. My cousin Bambuda came to live with Po-Po, and I thought Bambuda was super cool as he was into computers and so was I. The toys changed from robots and cars to video games and skateboards. I looked forward to playing with my other cousins too—Satva, Wu-li and Molly. It was especially fun to visit them all in Mendocino. Throughout the rest of my teenage years I was absorbed with being a teenager, the visits to Riverside decreased in frequency with the increase in social activities and homework of high school, and my memories with Po-Po were limited to Thanksgiving’s and Christmas’s. Oh but those Thanksgiving’s were incredible and something to be looked forward to with a salivating mouth and grumbling stomach.

As teenagers and well into our 20s, Bambuda and I ate a lot. We ate a lot, as young men do, and we were fed a lot, as any grandchild of Po-Po would be. After a ridiculously enormous family meal out at a Chinese restaurant, we would be called upon to finish the remaining food, which we would happily oblige, though it was still rather odd that people would actually need to call upon us, when it was so obvious to us to keep eating. We’d finish the very last grain of rice, then order more rice.

Okay enough with food, and back to, well, I guess back to food. Right, Thanksgiving. Those were mighty feasts. Tons of people filled the house in Riverside, and tons of food awaited them. The staples that Americans know and love about Thanksgiving—turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, etc.—were fantastic and eaten up quickly. However, one “staple” that I always looked forward to and associated with Thanksgiving, was Po-Po’s famous Chinese sticky rice. Oh man that was so good. Turkey defines Thanksgiving for others. Po-Po’s Chinese sticky rice defined Thanksgiving to me. It took her hours to prepare and was full of little treasures of Chinese sausage, Chinese mushrooms, chestnuts and shrimp. I once tried making it in College, but failed miserably. I make a mean risotto, however, and I keep the sticky rice tradition strong with it every Thanksgiving in Los Angeles.

At 18 I left Los Angeles and moved to Berkeley in northern California for 9 years. Po-Po also moved to Northern California a few years later—with Uncle Galen and Richard in their new house in San Francisco. The cousins were also starting to gravitate towards San Francisco. Also nearby were Uncle Bob, second cousins Kip and Kimery and their growing families, and actually lots of other cousins and relatives. We met regularly as a Family—with a capital F—for enormous Chinese meals. This Family was strong in numbers and bound in love. Every winter Bambuda took his siblings and me on memorable snowboard trips to Lake Tahoe. These were the types of trips that stay fresh in your head as the powder on your head, but also mark our current age in that we can’t (or shouldn’t) do the crazy jumps and races we used to do on the slopes. These were the best times I had with my cousins.

After four years at Berkeley, I graduated with a degree in Environmental Sciences. I’m sure Po-Po was immensely proud. Although I didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, Po-Po was heavily dedicated to higher education, she herself having left China to attend school at Columbia (and her husband went to MIT), and she had been Dean of Academics in Hong Kong. I later came to know that our family had always held education at the highest regard for generations, and our family of generations past was rather rebellious in that we actively supported education for girls and women. I stayed in Berkeley for another 5 years to complete a Ph.D., and it was more of the same for another 5 years with visiting Po-Po and the rest of the family for fantastic meals and holidays.

Before I move on to the next 3 years of my life, and the last 3 years of her life, let me just share one more little food story. At the end of my second year of grad school I tore the ACL in my left knee while playing basketball. I underwent reconstructive surgery soon thereafter. And Po-Po undertook the preparation of reconstructive meals soon thereafter for me. One of my favorites—beef tendon—was an immediate obvious choice given the involvement of a tendon in my knee. Additionally, Po-Po prepared something else of somewhat mysterious healing proportions—a “purple flower” soup. This flower was rare and difficult to acquire, but was known in our family because Po-Po prepared it for the women after they gave birth to help the healing and reduce the swelling. Apparently our family has a rich history as herbalists with the secrets of different flowers, leaves and roots passed down from generation to generation. I finished up the rations of soup and began rehabilitation at the top rehab place in San Francisco. This is where the SF 49’ers professional football players went for rehab, as well as other famous athletes. The doctors and physiotherapists were well-experienced and well-trained. On my first day there, the physiotherapist checked out my knee and asked if it had been a year or so since surgery. I replied that I had just had surgery a few weeks ago and that I was just starting rehab. The physiotherapist was shocked. Never in his professional career had he seen a knee at this stage post-ACL surgery with such reduced swelling. He called in other doctors to see and they were all equally shocked. They asked if I had any fluid removed by other doctors or if there was any other explanation for it. I shook my head and couldn’t think of anything. Oh but wait, there was one thing, I had been drinking a magical purple flower soup.

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I finished my Ph.D. and again I’m sure this was a huge source of pride for Po-Po. I am positive she was more proud of my Ph.D. than I was of it. However, my next steps would be difficult and terribly exciting at the same time. My decision was something Po-Po wholeheartedly encouraged and selfishly was against. With our family so nearby her and for so long—me in southern California when she was there, and in northern California when she was there—I decided to move to England. Coming from an internationally-educated, well-traveled immigrant family, it seemed in my blood to wander the globe. My work took me round the world continuously, from the tops of the gleaming spires of Oxford University to well into the treacherous trails of the Peruvian Andes and the winding rivers in the heart of the Amazon. However, amidst these adventures it did not occur to me that Po-Po was now 90 years old—that I may not have the chance to relay my incredible stories to a woman who was renowned as an incredible storyteller herself. It was my intention and dream to return to California with my partner, Carmel, but the economy crashed, jobs dried up, and I found myself stranded on a cold island in the north Atlantic. But, of course, I still had a job, so I can’t complain too much. Carmel and I griped that the only way we’d ever get back to the US is if President Obama himself gave us a job because the market was surely not helping us out.

But, luck would have it—Obama did have a hand in welcoming us back to America! While other universities were suffocating, a small liberal arts college in Los Angeles seemed to be immune. Occidental College was hiring like crazy, and they were hiring in Carmel’s field. As it was, Occidental was where Obama attended for his first two years of college before transferring to Columbia (which is where Po-Po had attended). This was the dream job for Carmel, and she worked feverishly to prepare for her interview. And, lo and behold, she got the job! Now it was up to me to find something.

I had intended to be a professor, to follow in the footsteps of my professor parents. But remember, the economy was still gutted, and it was only Occidental that was a mecca in a desert of academic jobs, and Occidental was not hiring in my field. California was even harder hit than the rest of the US. The UC system was cutting jobs. Endowments at private schools had taken hits. California had nothing to offer me.

But, Obama was starting to put the economic wheels in motion. Certain Federal agencies were seeing the first of his oft-proclaimed Change. Finding a job in this barren economic landscape would be like finding water on the moon. But, as we were soon to discover, NASA did indeed discover water on the moon. And, I discovered NASA.

I had a friend and collaborator at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena who had tried to recruit me for a position months before. I had originally told him that I was happy in Oxford, but thanks anyway. Immediately after Carmel accepted the position back in Los Angeles, I called him up and said, “Remember how I told you ‘no’ before? I meant ‘yes.” The wheels had been set in motion by Obama in that NASA received an increased budget and a renewed focus to tackle climate change and environmental problems. With my call, the wheels were now churning with greater fervor. My friend at NASA directed me to a job opening that had been open for many months but had not been filled. The job description described exactly what I do.

I applied for the job and I got an interview. I prepared diligently for the interview, but this was coming as easily to me as it was for me to do my Ph.D.: I was built for this job. NASA flew me out, I met with key people, and I gave my job talk to a large audience of NASA scientists. It wasn’t a university, but this was certainly Change I could believe in. My job talk was thus aptly entitled, “C.H.A.N.G.E.: Carbon, Hydrology And Nitrogen for Global Evaluation.” Catchy title and catchy acronym, and you know NASA loves catchy acronyms. I left California a few days later, headed down to Peru to continue my work in the Andes and Amazon, met Carmel for a quick visit to Chile’s Atacama Desert and Easter Island, returned to England to check in on my students, went to Germany for a conference, and hopped down to Australia for a few more conferences and meetings. In all this time still nothing from NASA. Until about mid-way through my stay in Australia. I received an email from NASA. I got the job.

This was it: our dream of returning to our home and families in California was to be realized! After restlessly roaming the world for three incredible years, we would finally be able to settle down. Carmel and I talked of buying a house, of children, and of the future. Bambuda and Satva had wives, though they had no great-grandchildren yet for Po-Po. Perhaps I could have something to say about that. I just needed Po-Po to hang on for a few more years. I didn’t realize that this was a lot to ask from a 93 year old.

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One month before I was to move back to California, Po-Po passed away. My plans up to this point had all been fulfilled with great luck and fortune (perhaps it was because I had shaven my college-grown goatee that Po-Po said blocked my line of luck). This was not in the plans. I searched my plans over and over—where was it written that Po-Po would not live another year? If I had known that perhaps my plans could have accommodated. And since when did Po-Po suddenly become 93? When did the little boy who used to run up and down her stairs with a new toy car suddenly become 30? I took notice when my 20s were over, but I had took no notice whatsoever when Po-Po passed from her 60s to 70s to 80s to 90s. She was my grandmother, by default grandmothers are old. But somehow I had it in my mind that she would not age in her age, and only I would get older.

Po-Po was my last living grandparent. She was the rock, the matriarch of the family who tied everyone together, connected the East with the West, the history with the present. Who were we as a family? Some hybrid mix of American and Chinese, me and all of my cousins of mixed race, descended from one place and another. We could look to her for some answers.

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I never really knew Po-Po that well actually. This was mainly because of the language barrier. As a child I would sit around the dinner table eating silently while everyone spoke in Chinese for hours on end while I drained it out as background noise to my own thoughts. I was envious when Wu-li met regularly with Po-Po in San Francisco to learn Cantonese. I am envious that Richard got to learn Cantonese. UC Berkeley, as huge as it is, did not offer Cantonese. I took on Mandarin instead, which was fun, but poorly taught, and a huge amount of work that took lower priority over my research. It was difficult to compete for grades with native Chinese speakers who were in the class for the easy A GPA booster. Nonetheless, Po-Po also spoke Mandarin, and I was able to open a little window into Po-Po. Through that window flew new fresh air, though if only a breeze.

But that breeze was enough to pick up a scent. And that scent spoke of something divine, something rich, something powerful, something magical. I am immensely proud of Po-Po and of our family history, present and future. I am proud to be a snobbish foodie, like my grandmother. I am proud of the travels, adventures and hardships our family has experienced across the globe. I am proud of our family rebelliousness tied to the highest standards of education and human rights. I am proud of all of my current and growing family members. I am proud of the magic of purple flower soup. And I am proud of the magic of our family, of Po-Po’s family.