“Auntie does not think in environmental terms. She does not calculate the economics of her garden, full of the flavors of home that she cannot buy, from jiu tsai to persimmon trees.”
By Frances Kai-Hwa Wang
An APWT Publication
Winning Entry
1
He laughed at me and my family for saving and reusing—tofu containers, green onion rubber bands, plastic bags, twist ties, takeout containers, glass jars, cookie tins—and he took it upon himself to secretly throw away all that we had carefully saved and washed and stored away. He thought it made us small and poor to reuse. He was big and rich enough to go out to the store to buy things new.
He even opened and ate all the boxes of chocolates people gave us as gifts, “to take them out of circulation,” before we could regift them to someone else. (Regifting wasn’t even a word then, it was just normal.)
He said he did not have to recycle because he recycled enough in the 70s.
When I speak to Asian American student groups and tell them that there are people in the world who throw away all the green onion rubber bands and then go out to Office Max to purchase new rubber bands, the entire audience gasps.
2
At any Auntie’s home, the world comes full circle. Shoes off at the door. Stacks of tofu containers by the kitchen sink, green onion rubber bands looped on the faucet, plastic bags full of plastic bags, kitchen towels sewn from rice bags. Twist ties in the chopstick drawer, giant soy sauce can under the sink. Big detergent containers and cardboard boxes carefully cut into new shapes for new purposes. Old children’s toys transformed into tools couched in memory. “Have you eaten yet?” 你吃飯了嗎? as code.
Auntie greets me wearing a blue monkey Aeropostale sweatshirt I remember my cousin wearing in the 90s. We eat from plastic Hello Kitty bowls and plates, the same ones we used when I was small. The secret cupboard full of candy and red envelopes is still stocked, I checked. When she sees a tear in the knee of my jeans, she tells me to fetch her cookie tin so she can mend it. She lets me go “shopping” in her closet. She sends me home with a huge pile of leftovers packaged in a variety of plastic takeout containers and vegetables from her garden wrapped in last week’s Chinese newspaper.
Auntie does not think in environmental terms. She does not calculate the economics of her garden, full of the flavors of home that she cannot buy, from jiu tsai to persimmon trees. She fertilizes with egg shells and tea leaves, and her garage is full of dried seeds for next year. Despite a long successful career in America, she still does not buy anything full price. When I buy her a CSA for the quarantine so that she does not have to go to the grocery store so often, she complains that $16/week for vegetables is too expensive.
Auntie fights with the heron who hovers by her pond, “Those are MY fish, not the bird’s fish.”
3
We never talk politics, but my mom told me that my dad (who had always voted Republican) came to her in a dream and told her to vote for Bernie in the primaries.
4
My daughter goes to college with a big box of old mis-matched bowls. Her housemates are mortified when a blue and white noodle bowl breaks because they think they have broken an antique family heirloom. True, that bowl was once her grandmother’s, then mine, then her uncle’s, then hers, but it is more hand-me-down than heirloom. (Heirlooms are for white people.)
At school, my daughter studies the science of climate change and environmental sustainability.
My daughter likes to search for treasures in vintage stores and thrift shops.
My daughter buys from sustainably and ethically sourced companies.
My daughter teases me for the Marie-Kondo-resistant clutter in my house, where a stack of tofu containers sparks joy. Yet I find that same stack of tofu containers by her kitchen sink, holding the soap, holding some coins, holding a few ripe tomatoes from her garden.
My daughter borrows Auntie’s sewing machine and sews masks for all of us by trimming the ends off of old Hello Kitty tablecloths, cutting apart old baby clothes, “shopping” for fabric in Auntie’s sewing room. My other daughter finds old flower pots and seeds at Auntie’s home, and begins growing her own #quarantinegarden from bok choy ends and green onion roots. Little Brother bikes and bikes and bikes.
5
I come from a long line of Aunties, each one stronger, smarter, and feistier than the next. Six sisters in my grandmother’s family, six in my mother’s family, three in my father’s family, at least nine cousin Aunties, a few married-in Aunties, countless friend-of-the-family Aunties, and still more Aunties back in China and Taiwan that I don’t know. My children have all these plus my generation scattered across the continents.
Aunties may look cute and sweet on the outside, but never underestimate what is on the inside.
Only Aunties are able to coax tropical plants out of the snow-covered ground.
Only Aunties are able to take on rude white men twice their size and make them cry.
Only Aunties are able to keep us all rooted and fed and supplied in #quarantinetoiletpaper, creating home half a world away from where they were born. While keeping up with everything and supporting everyone back home too. Global interconnectedness is not new for us — we overhear it in our mom’s phone calls every week and we help carry big boxes of it to the post office every holiday.
As our Aunties and Uncles and parents and grandparents get older, we watch as they walk slower and begin to forget their English. We take them to the grocery store and go with them to doctor appointments. We beg them not to sneak out during COVID times. We worry about the long term effects of the bombs that fell all around them during the war. We wonder how the trauma of war and famine and poverty and racism have been passed down through the generations.
These are things they never talk about, except as jokes.
“And we thought the bomb fell on your Auntie, but then we found out it fell on the cow!” Ha!
“Because of the war, there was no milk, only rice gruel. That’s why I’m so short!” Ha!
“I had a picture of my daughter on my desk at work, and this white man said ‘Reminds me of a girl I knew in ‘Nam.’” Ha!
We are the children and grandchildren of immigrants and refugees. We carry more with us than family recipes, a second language, and hand-me-down homemade clothes. We can never be as frugal, as hardworking, as smart, or as able to find a deal as our immigrant and refugee elders, but we have seen them fight for us. We have seen them sowing stories to grow a life for us here.
During hard times, we know it can be done.
And we know who to ask for help.
Frances Kai-Hwa Wang is a poet, essayist, journalist, and activist focused on issues of Asian America, race, justice, and the arts. Her writing has appeared at NBCAsianAmerica, PRIGlobalNation, Center for Asian American Media, Cha Asian Literary Journal, Kartika Review, Drunken Boat. She teaches Asian/Pacific Islander American Studies at University of Michigan and creative writing at University of Hawaii Hilo. Her book of poetry, Breath Rises, is forthcoming in 2022. She co-created a multimedia artwork for Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center. She is a Knight Arts Challenge Detroit artist working on an anthology and digital arts archive about Vincent Chin. franceskaihwawang.com
Banner image is by Thomas M. Evans and is downloaded from Unsplash.com