Words of Innocence and Experience

Around eight o’clock in the morning, Grandma walked to the door, dragging a small cart. Although I already knew where she was heading for, I still saluted her.

“Good morning, Grandma. Where are you going?”

“To the ‘mark’t,” answered her impatiently. “I need to buy some fish for my beloved kitties.” Then she slammed the red gate of the house close and began her daily routine in heavy footsteps, which could hardly bolster her heavy weight. She staggered with her chin up with resolute pride written over her slightly wrinkled face.

As a woman from mainland China who had been in Taiwan for over fifty years, Grandma still went her own way. She chose to pronounce words in her resonant Beijing accent, which sounded elegant to me but quaint to others. Although being short and plump, she had short, straight hair, the same style as most high school girls are required to have in Taiwan. She barely had friends and was usually indifferent when people greeted her. Therefore, some residents in the neighborhood referred to her as “the cold outsider,” yet she could not care less about others’ views on her.

Grandma’s love for her cats was probably her oddest hobby. As a person who was fortunate to receive quality education, she named her cats poetically. “Blackie,” “Whitie,” and “Flowery” might have been ordinary names, but it was amazing that she named a male cat “Snow-covered” because the cat was all in black except for a tuft of white furs covering his back. When she was ready to fill the cats’ already full stomachs with even more food, she always knocked on the iron-made bowl that she used to feed the cats with chopsticks. Hearing the clear but sharp sound, the cats would rush to the messy back yard and devour the delicacy, tasty tomato fish from cans or steamed fish which Grandma made especially for them. Interestingly, she showed conspicuous preference for the male, the very same difference in treatment that happened in our family. “Snow-covered” and “Little Brown” were offered extra pieces of fish maw all the time.

The cats were eternally allowed to enter the kitchen, which was designed queerly. To be precise, the kitchen was a small hut in the back yard with a small window connected with the house. Mother hated the design and complained to Grandma several times but always encountered cold shoulders.

“That is what the kitchen is like in my hometown!” Grandma would howl.

“But it isn’t useful in Taiwan. Besides…”

“Shut up!” Grandma stomped on the floor, “how dare you defy me! I’m the daughter of a general and the wife of a professor! If you don’t like it, just get out of my house! Stop the nonsense! ‘Little Brown’ is home…” When one of her favorite cats returned meowing, Grandma’s harsh expression softened as she approached the cat and held it in her round arms.

Ironically, Grandma was apathetic toward nearly every human being except for my father; in contrast, the cats meant more than life to her. She always roared like an enraged lion when she caught me trying to throw the innocent cubs down from the wall.

“The cats are far more precious than you! Ungrateful, non-filial kid!”

Nevertheless, we hated the cats! Grandma never cleaned the back yard every time she finished feeding the cats and let the leftover lie on the ground, uncleaned. Thus, our back yard had become the favorite residence for cockroaches. Worst still, a pungent smell of rotten food mixed with vile excrement would ruthlessly assault people whenever they came near the house. Nevertheless, our urgent advice fell deaf on Grandma’s weakness of hearing.

In addition to her devotion to cats, watching TV was what Grandma did most often. She watched news all day long, afraid to be uninformed of any new occurrence. That she could not take her eye away from the TV news perplexed me because she always ended up in a fury.

“That is what Taiwanese people do. Uneducated citizens!” she remarked bitterly every time she caught a glimpse at a murder or robbery case. Sometimes I aspired to remind her that she herself was also a Taiwanese according to her identification card as severely as she disdained the identity.

The truth was that she detested the place where she lived. She did not believe any of the circumlocution came from the politicians she disdained and retorted upon them right in from of the TV set. Also, as a determined atheist, she always mocked on the traditional beliefs which were common in Taiwanese society. After some disrespectful words being exchanged, we decided to let her believe that every religion was sheer foolishness and superstition.

Grandma held on to some restrictions that we could never cross. Unlike most families, we had meals separately, even on Chinese New Year’s Eve. During our first year of living with her, a number of collisions had taken place, particularly owing to her untidiness and some troubles caused by the cats. Therefore, we expected a harmonious truce during the Chinese New Year. Yet, the impossibility struck us right on New Year’s Eve.

“Happy New Year, Grandma!” We led her to the table and showed her the gourmet meal we were about to have together.

“What is that?” Grandma pointed at the still boiling pot whose smoke was fluttering to the air.

“That’s ‘hot pot,’ Grandma! It is very delicious!”

“No, said she, in a nonchalant but stern tone, “that is not what we eat in China.”

“Well, it is what we eat here. Haven’t you ever had hot pot, Grandma?”

“No, and I don’t want to try it. You have your dinner, then.” She paced away to the kitchen, her favorite retreat, leaving us jaw-dropped.

After years of being under the same roof with her, finally there came a day that Grandma’s rejection of adaptability would never be judged by others anymore. When she told us about her decision, Mother and I could hardly believe our ears.

“Are you sure you want to do so, Grandma?” asked I, still not recovered from the shock.

“I never joke, you know. Of course I mean it. I’m moving back to China!” replied her, sternly.

“But… but…” I fought with my irresistible desire to continue, “You have been here for over 50 years, but you don’t like here a bit?”

“No!” she shouted emphatically. “I hate this vulgar, downward island! I’m leaving forever!”

However, later when she was packing, her remaining bond to Taiwan was unexpectedly confirmed. With her numerous suitcases standing respectably on the corner, she was tossing books endlessly into another large bag.

“I can’t stand simplified Chinese characters,” said she in her usual stubbornness. “I have to bring books so that I can be able to read there.” She continued her motion of stuffing books into the bag regardless of the heaviness she would later suffer from.

I respect my grandma dearly, for she is the real non-conformist that I have ever met in my life. I hope she lives happily now in China.