One Family People

        I arrived in ZhengZhou, exhausted after the overnight train ride from Beijing, and apprehensive about my first time that I would have no choice but to use my broken Chinese. Up until that point, I had usually been able to speak well enough to get across my point, but if I was completely at a loss, my wonderful host sister was more than willing to try out her English with me. But my sister, couldn’t come with us, because of an impending piano competition, so I was obliged to go myself with my host mother, and aunt to visit their parents in Henan province. Laolao and Laoye, the Chinese name for Grandma and Grandpa, couldn’t dream up a single word in English, not to mention their slurred accent that made it merely impossible for my untrained ears to understand.

        Always conscious of the Chinese mannerisms, I found myself becoming quieter and quieter, more modest; taking on the role of the earlier puritan Western ideal – speak when spoken too. One might think this quietness was negative, and perhaps if my conduct there was compared to my usual vehement participation in discussion, the silence was also against my true nature. But even so, it allowed me to open my ears, and I learned that there was a great value to listening and speaking through actions. When I was struggling to find words to explain myself and what I wished to do, I found the simplest method was just to do it – no reason, no excuse, just a desire to do. I never recognized how much the simple act of washing my bowl from dinner would be appreciated.

        I believe that in American culture, the habit of speech and outgoing individuality is regarded quite highly and I have always adhered to that custom, singing my note out, loud and clear. I realized that I had forgotten the value and the difficulty of obtaining knowledge through listening. As well as, showing individual greatness through action instead of some well thought-out argument. In my quiet little corner of the world for that week in Zhenzhou, I could listen to everything around me. I didn’t realize how much I’d learn from it until I was back at home and the familiar Beijing dialect was suddenly so intelligible. I could understand nearly everything I heard if I tried; even if I didn’t know a good amount of the words, it seemed easier than ever to guess.

        Even without really being able to understand Laolao and her garbled dialect, she and I could smile, peel pomegranates together, make dumplings, and marvel at the sight of the Yellow river with the same wide-eyed awe. One evening after a long day of sightseeing and being, it seemed, asked for my picture nearly ten times, my Laolao said something that I did understand. It was the uttermost lovely thing she could have said, and with it, all the frustration of my inability to communicate and my fear of "doing something wrong" dissipated for that moment. It was six small words, said in passing: "Women shi mei guo ren." We are ‘one family people; we are of one family.’ I was cared for and understood, and it didn’t matter that I couldn’t speak well and was six inches taller and had light hair and gray eyes. I could peel pomegranates and fold dumpling skin, but most importantly I was welcome, and different from all of those foreigners became I had a Chinese grandma.