HIS WORDS: A PREFACE
Two years ago, on a monthly family trip to Gong Gong and Lao Lao’s, I was handed a thin Manila folder. Gong Gong had typed up some of his childhood memories and abashedly asked me to proofread his writing.
Up until that day, Gong Gong had never shared his past with me. My knowledge of his traumatic childhood was limited to the occasional vague explanation my mom would offer when prodded. His parents were killed. He escaped the communists. He was a good student and worked his way to America. Study hard.
My mom told me she herself did not know much about his past. He had explained that he could not discuss his childhood without crying. He didn’t want to cry, so he didn’t want to talk about it.
I read his story on the bumpy car ride home.
That manila folder collected dust on my desk for the next year. Though Gong Gong’s writing was riddled with grammatical and punctuation errors, I could not bring myself to touch his raw word.
Six months ago, I called home and asked my mom to search for the folder and send photos of the pages inside. I heard whispers of the coveted “Appel Fellowship” on campus and thought it could be an apt opportunity to shed light on Gong Gong’s story.
Five months ago, Gong Gong suffered from a stroke. He lost his ability to read and write. Now, every morning, he practices reading the preschool alphabet poster taped to his bedroom door. He loves stickers. He sometimes forgets names. He remembered to call me the day before I left for Taiwan.
Gong Gong has always prided himself upon his health. At 85 years old, he still has a head full of black hair. Before his stroke, he would often joke about how he would live forever.
Up until that day, Gong Gong had never shared his past with me. My knowledge of his traumatic childhood was limited to the occasional vague explanation my mom would offer when prodded. His parents were killed. He escaped the communists. He was a good student and worked his way to America. Study hard.
My mom told me she herself did not know much about his past. He had explained that he could not discuss his childhood without crying. He didn’t want to cry, so he didn’t want to talk about it.
I read his story on the bumpy car ride home.
That manila folder collected dust on my desk for the next year. Though Gong Gong’s writing was riddled with grammatical and punctuation errors, I could not bring myself to touch his raw word.
Six months ago, I called home and asked my mom to search for the folder and send photos of the pages inside. I heard whispers of the coveted “Appel Fellowship” on campus and thought it could be an apt opportunity to shed light on Gong Gong’s story.
Five months ago, Gong Gong suffered from a stroke. He lost his ability to read and write. Now, every morning, he practices reading the preschool alphabet poster taped to his bedroom door. He loves stickers. He sometimes forgets names. He remembered to call me the day before I left for Taiwan.
Gong Gong has always prided himself upon his health. At 85 years old, he still has a head full of black hair. Before his stroke, he would often joke about how he would live forever.
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