This is part 2 of a 3-part essay.
To read Part 1, click here, Part 3, click here.
♪ ♪ ♪ Liebesträume ♪ ♪ ♪
There was one thing Mom was not able to give us – three words: “I love you.”
Verbal communication was not deemed a necessary skill for most Chinese. They believed words were not the warren of love. A roof over the heads, food on the table, and a decent education were enough love most parents could give. And physical discipline was a way to show love for your children. Although my mom never subscribed to the discipline part of the theory, she felt quite comfortable avoiding verbal communication of any intimate nature – a trait I wish I did not inherit but nevertheless an emotional handicap I have not been able to escape.
Mom is the oldest of her parents’ six children. Grandpa and Grandma lost their first two infants—both were boys—to childhood diseases in the early 1930s, so Mom was treated as if she were their firstborn son. In a culture where physical discipline was part of childrearing and a form of unwavering love, she was spared from it, as it was the culture to grant your firstborn son special treatment. Physically spared but not from watching her siblings getting hit, more often than not as a result of her parents’ frustration with life during a tumultuous time. She told me stories of witnessing her younger siblings getting the physical “love” treatment with horror and anger. Her hands clenched to the door frame, seething with anger.
“I wanted so much to push your grandma away from my defenseless little sister!” she said, the anger in her voice still strong whenever she relives that memory now.
Mom vowed never to lift a finger against her own children. She kept her word.
Well, almost.
The only spanking I received from her was the consequence of my refusing to practice piano. I don’t remember the exact trigger of the punishment, but it is still a vivid memory of the red slipper she used to whip my behind, bright velvet with tiny plastic beads embroidered. If she reads this part of my story, she’d probably contest that the physical punishment was her wish that I would one day love music the way she did, and it was out of her unwavering love for me. Her way of loving music I did not inherit, I am forever thankful that Mom taught me to appreciate music, and led me to a special place for my soul.
Mom has always been drawn to everything sentimental: classic Chinese poetry, 19th-century European literature, early 20th-century Hollywood romantic movies, and of course, music. Yet she is awkwardly clumsy with words. Her first romantic relationship was with Dad. I have no memory of the two of them hugging each other nor saying these three magical words of “I love you”. But then in Chinese society during these years, such sentiment would never survive the harsh life itself. Mom instead turned her longing for sentiment and romance to music.
I wonder if Mom has ever been told that she was loved. Is that why she never utters these three words herself?
However, there was plenty of love in my upbringing. Love you could feel, love you could see, just not love in words.
On Sunday mornings my sister and I would crawl under Mom’s cotton duvet and plead for stories. From Scheherazade and Sinbad in One Thousand and One Nights to Monkey King and Piggy Monk in Journey to the West, and from Snow White to XiaoBaiCai (“Little Cabbage”, Chinese Cinderella without the fairy godmother and Prince Charming), my mom would recite these stories from memory, books she read when she was our age. She’d embellish with vivid details, and the stories came alive in the minds of two little girls. I began my journey into the literacy world well before I could read. Such books were banned, but I had Mom’s stories to fill the void.
“Genie waved his hand in the air and Voilà! There in his giant hand is a frying pan, three fat sausages lying in the middle, sizzling!” Eyes widened and mouth watered, pan-fried sausage cemented its position on my breakfast favorite list before Mom’s voice trailed off.
Then there was another Sunday ritual – ear wax picking. Yes, gentle ear-picking that tickled and soothed at the same time. We would sit by the French windows on small stools, face to face, my head on Mom’s knees with one side facing upward. Bathed in the warmth of the sun, I sighed with contentment and giggled until drooling.
To me, that is “I love you.”
We didn’t utter the three magical words, not back then, not now, and most likely not ever. I say “I love you” often to my son, my husband, and my friends. But for reasons I have yet to fully understand, I don’t say “I love you” to my mom, my sister, or anyone from whom I had never received these three words when I was a kid. Is this just an old habit formed at a young age that’s hard to break? Is it an “emotional laziness” that I tend to run away from intimacy? Is this going to be the regret I am afraid of having, a primary source of grief when I no longer have the opportunity to say these words to the people I love dearly?
There are never any doubts in my mind though, that I have been loved.
♪ ♪ ♪ Songs Without Words ♪ ♪ ♪
But I can’t help but wonder, does Mom have the “I love you” moments from me? There was a time when I was a kid, when strawberries ripened, Mom would show me how to immerse the bright red berries in silky white milk (and when the budget allowed, we would have ice cream to complement the strawberries, a true luxury). We both agree that those were the most fragrant strawberries and the creamiest milk we have ever tasted – Was it love we are remembering? And there was the time when I was a little girl, she’d take me to “The Red House”, a French-style restaurant in Shanghai, on her payday. She taught me how to properly use a fork and knife, and how to spoon soup away from me. I’d draw “oohs” and “ahhs” from fellow diners. We still talk about these moments. And I know she cherishes them just as much as I do.
When Mom encouraged me to take the opportunity of studying in the States after college, an opportunity she dreamed of but was never able to have, little did both of us know, that would be the beginning of my independence, of forming my own identity and building my own life. That I would no longer be that sweet little girl clenched to Mom’s love.
Now I take her to restaurants when I visit her once every few months. She often waves for me to walk ahead of her because walking anything more than a block has become an effort and she does not want me to wait for her. When we are at the restaurant, I proceed to translate the menu for her as soon as the hostess arrives.
“I can read English!” she protests.
Then she simply smiles at the hostess and can’t wrestle the words out. I take over, ordering what I think is best for her. I may be a daughter she is proud of in many ways but being my mom, she knows well that patience is not one of my virtues. Would she consider that an “I love you” moment from me, her always-in-charge and impatient daughter?
When my son was just a newborn, Mom volunteered to sleep with the baby at night, so I could get some shut-eye. When it was time for nursing, there would be a gentle knock on my door, “Hello Mommy! Time for milk!” She cooed softly while handing me the baby. Some 40 minutes later, I’d hand the baby right back to Mom and sink back into my pillow before Mom closed the door with the baby fast asleep in her arms.
Now my son is a 6-foot-1 twenty-something who loves hard metal and punk music. When he gave me a CD set of Mendelssohn’s piano solo work “Song without Words” as my birthday gift, I was pleasantly surprised by his choice. To that, he simply said, “I heard Grandma playing these growing up and it always brings me comfort listening to them.”
That, was the best gift I had ever received from my son, knowing that my mom’s love for music and her family, has passed down.
I call Mom weekly on the phone to check on her, between my visits. Every so often, I get agitated and raise my voice, because, for the nth time, she has mixed up her medication dosages after we’ve discussed the doctor's instructions. But she refuses to use what I write down for her and vehemently denies that we have had the discussion, just to prove that she does not have a memory issue. I usually cut short the conversation and move on to the next topic. I always send the correct dosages to her caregiver after the call, knowing well she’d simply dismiss the caregiver with self-pride. I pray silently that between my repeated insistence and the caregiver’s reminders, Mom will have a better chance of getting the right dosage. And I pray I did not inherit her obstinacy.
Would she see this as another way of me expressing “I love you” to her?
(Read Part 3 here.)
Extra
The great Polish-American pianist Arthur Rubinstein performing Franz Liszt’s Liebestraum - Love Dream, No.3.
Argentine-born pianist and conductor Daniel Barenboim performs the complete set of Felix Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words( Lieder ohne Worte)
"They believed words were not the warren of love" - I really enjoyed this sentence (and the rest of the piece!).
So many ways we "say" I love you without saying it. What a beautiful relationship that you have with your mother. Love does not necessarily need to be express with words, nor even physical acts like hugs. The Chinese are best with their acts of service as love language!
I've read all the three parts of this story. I must say I also really enjoy the glimpse into the life in China and also Chinese cultures, many which I can relate to, or have heard of, and in some ways also shaped my life.