Published by Jaden Magazine, Issue 03
THE ROSEWOOD SOFA
“Whoa, Kayo, how did you get
so fat?” Ama asked in her dramatic, judgemental tone.
This was how Ama, my paternal grandmother, greeted me during my yearly
Chinese New Year pilgrimage to Taichung, Taiwan. Although I hadn’t seen her for
a whole year, she never seemed to have anything nice to say to me—the only grandchild of hers who regularly
visited her during the holidays. I wanted to shrug off her harsh words, but I
couldn’t. She had always made me painfully self-conscious about my body. I
stormed off.
“What’s she so angry about?” Ama asked, knowing I was still within
earshot.
When she was still able to walk, she used to meet my parents and me in
the dining area of her house when we arrived from Taipei. In the center of the dining room was a large
rosewood round table with eight matching chairs. Along the walls, Ama had a
collection of stone paintings depicting classic Chinese motifs – birds, deer,
and flowers made of jade and coral. But in the corners of the room, Ama stored
stacks of stock market magazines dating back to the 80s, next to layers of
flattened shopping bags from famous bakeries and department stores in Japan,
along with folded paper bags made of old magazines, used for discarding pumpkin
shells, a popular teatime snack in Taiwan. The clash of luxury and hoarding
never ceased to amaze me.
If Marie Kondo, the Japanese organizing consultant and author,
came to Ama’s house, she would say, “Keep only those things that speak to your
heart. Then take the plunge and discard all the rest. By doing this, you can
reset your life and embark on a new lifestyle.” In Tidying Up with Marie Kondo, a Netflix’s hit show, Kondo helps
many cluttered and messy Americans organize their homes and make them happier.
“Does it spark joy?” she often asks.
The truth is, Ama has little joy in her heart and no desire to change
her lifestyle.
Ama hasn’t spark joy in my heart for a long time, but I couldn’t just
dispose of her like old, unworn sweaters in my wardrobe. Baba, my father,
justified his mother’s behavior as “the way of the older generation.”
Apparently, her calling me fat was supposed to demonstrate her concern for me. She
was trying to be nice, he said—but the way she expressed her sentiments
didn’t make me feel nice.
“Ama is very old, and she isn’t going to change.” Baba sighed,
“She’s lonely. You should spend more time with her.”
When it comes to matters
regarding Ama, I always obeyed Baba. As with any pilgrimage, I took my
suffering in stride.
Bracing myself for the moment when she would say something mean, I sat
next to her in the living room while she watched a Taiwanese soap opera. Ama’s
living room, like her dining room, reflects her twin sensibilities of having
the best of everything and never parting with any of it. Shortly before my
family left Tokyo and moved in with her, she had renovated her house. Back then, it had brand new,
top-of-the-line everything, but that was over thirty years ago. Now everything
is dated, dusty and depressing.
Ama’s living room is also
cluttered with junk and contains furniture made from polished, dense
rosewood that glistens in the fluorescent light. With
mother-of-pearl inlay in the shape of sparrows and cherry blossoms on the backs
and the armrests, the furniture is grand—reminiscent of Qing Dynasty royalty.
If I could find a more appropriate word for the three-seater ‘sofa,’ I would.
Normally, I associate ‘sofa’ with something to relax on, something soft, padded
with a cozy quilt on top to curl into. Not this one. Like Ama, the sofa felt like
solid steel—unbending, unrelenting, and uncomfortable. Ama had placed thin
Japanese-style cushions as a buffer between the sitter and the hardwood. These
cushions are greenish brown—maybe at one point they were gold, but now they are
the color of a half avocado a few days past its prime.
Throughout the living room,
Ama displays her collection of artwork, statues of Chinese gods, and old
photographs. Between faded bouquets of dried roses, mismatched candles, and
other junky knickknacks, Ama hangs the family photographs. There is a
professional studio portrait of me when I was about twenty-two. I am wearing a
form-fitting red t-shirt and a striped knee-length skirt in pink, red and
white. It cinches in a way that shows off my tiny waist. My long, shiny black
hair is in a high pony, my smile wide and confident.
“See, you used to be so
pretty,” Ama mocked me as she pointed to the photograph. “How did you ever get
so fat?”
I shrank deeper into my uncomfortable seat.
There is also a family portrait of all
of Ama’s children and grandchildren, taken when I was about eight. Ama, all
smiles, sits next to my grandfather, Agon, in the front row. He was an obstetrician and an aspiring artist, who had collected many of
the paintings in Ama’s house. The picture captures a time
when my relationship with Ama was easier. When my family and I moved in with her, she
lived on the third floor of the house, and we lived on the fourth. On weekends,
my younger brother Davis and I used to have sleepovers with her. She would
gently clean our ears with a Q-tip until we fell asleep. The next day, she would
take us to a 7-11 for a Slurpee and a hotdog, which were rare treats. During
the week, I hollered at her door to say hi before I went to school. She
always handed me a few coins to buy candies—I had the best treats in my class.
On the days when Mama yelled at me for misbehaving, I’d go running to Ama.
“Your mama is so mean,” Ama said, standing between Mama and me. There
was nothing Mama could do when I used Ama as a shield. As a child, I noticed
that Mama and Ama had an uneasy relationship. I exploited it to my advantage.
Ama was my favorite
person for a long time, until we moved to Vancouver when I was 10 years old.
Two summers later, my perception of Ama changed forever. I was 12 when Baba
introduced Davis and me to our ‘cousins’ visiting from California, Frankie,
Tommy, and Michael. Baba said they were children of his brother, my Uncle
Steven. We hit it off right away. Baba took all of us around the tourist
attractions in Vancouver, like the aquarium and the suspension bridge. We went
to Stanley Park, and Baba bought us ice cream cones. We had a great day.
Despite the fun, I harbored a nagging question: If they are our cousins, why didn’t we meet them sooner? I decided
to talk with Tommy, also 12. We established that we had the same last name,
Chang. When we started to share our memories of Agonand Ama, I realized
that we call different women ‘Ama.’
How could this be? Even as a child, I knew my burning question pointed to something bigger
than me. There was an air of taboo about it. Before the age of 12, I didn’t
realize there was another branch of the Chang family. However, I always knew
something was amiss. When we still lived in Taiwan, I wondered why Agon didn’t
live with us. On Sundays, he would come by the house and take all of us—Ama, Baba, Mama,
Davis and me out for lunch. We would spend the afternoon in a department store
or a park. My favorite was when he took us to Baskin-Robbins. To this day, when
I taste the tangy sweetness of Rainbow Sherbet, I think of Agon.
I have fond memories of those Sunday afternoons. But I noticed he never
stayed for dinner, let alone spent the night with Ama. When I was about eight
or nine, I asked Baba why Agon always left.
“Agon is a very busy doctor. He needs to go back to his clinic to see
his patients,” Baba said, eyes downcast.
When I made my discovery at age 12, instead of confronting my parents, I
talked to my Aunt Christine, who also happened to be visiting us from Taiwan.
She is Mama’s brother’s wife,
my favorite aunt, and an adult I trusted.
“Why do Tommy and I have different Amas?” I asked her in private.
“You are too observant and smart for your own good,” she said.
“You are right. You and Tommy do have different Amas.”
She didn’t explain why we have different grandmothers, but I
pieced together a partial story of the open secret: For most of her adult life,
Ama was Agon’s mistress. They met
at the Taichung Hospital where he was an accomplished obstetrician,
and she was his young, pretty nurse. Despite the 13-year age gap, and the
fact that he was already married with children, they fell in love. Over the years, Ama bore him three children. Baba is the middle child—he has an
older sister and a younger brother.
When Ama and Agon were young, it wasn’t uncommon for accomplished men to
have mistresses. Though he couldn’t give her the legal status of a wife, Agon took care of Ama bygiving her stocks,
jewelry, and property. Ama
became a wealthy woman. In the upper society of
Taichung, people gossiped. Back then, Ama was known as a beautiful,
cunning man-stealer.
Despite her reputation, she
raised her three children with the best of everything. When Baba
finished college, he moved to Japan for his master’s degree—where affluent
Taiwanese people sent their children to be educated. There, he met Mama. Soon after, I was born in
Tokyo. When I was six, we moved in with Ama in Taiwan. To prepare, she renovated
her house, furnishing it with the best of everything—she bought many expensive
things that sparked joy for her at the time, like the opulent rosewood
furniture.
In many ways, Ama did
well for herself—she had a house, money in the bank and three successful
children. Though I have spotty knowledge of Ama’s upbringing, I know that as a
baby she, along with a few of her older sisters, was left in Taiwan while her
parents took the younger children and moved to Vietnam. A kind, childless
widow, a friend of her parents, adopted Ama and raised her. It couldn’t have
been easy for Ama to grow up knowing her parents had left her. I don’t know
what kind of resources her adopted mother had, but it couldn’t have been easy
for a single woman to raise a child. And I can’t help but wonder why Ama chose a married man over other
eligible bachelors. She was pretty, educated, and clever—she probably had
a lot of suitors. When Agon presented Ama with the prospect of a more
comfortable life, she took it in order to better take care of her aging adopted
mother—at least that was what I was told. Or maybe she was desperately in love.
Either way, it must have been agony to be with a man and watch him leave for
the arms of another woman. What did she tell herself to live this way? I think
there was genuine love between Agon
and Ama, but at the end of the
day, Ama chose financial
security over love. It’s something unthinkable for me as an educated 21st-century
woman.
A couple of years after I unearthed the secret, Agon passed away.
Shortly after, Baba moved to Taiwan for work, and Mama soon followed. They
visited us regularly in Vancouver, but Davis and I hardly ever went to Taiwan.
I only visited Ama once or twice through my teenage years. When I was a senior
in high school, she came to visit us—the only time I saw her in Canada. When I
was a sophomore in college, I flew to Taiwan when Baba told me that Ama was
dying of colon cancer. The doctor snipped a big chunk of her intestines, and
she survived. The following summer, I was told to visit again because she was
dying of breast cancer. The doctor removed both her breasts, and she survived.
She was one tough lady. While Ama was sick, Mama took care of her—cleaning her
surgery wounds, bathing her, feeding her. In Mama’s eyes, it was her filial
duty as a daughter-in-law to take care of her husband’s mother. She made no
complaints, though Ama wasn’t always kind to her.
It wasn’t until I
finished graduate school and started working abroad as a librarian that I began
to visit my parents and Ama regularly. By then, my relationship with Ama had
been changed by years of neglect. I started to see a side of her I hadn’t when
I was a child, and how unkindly she
treated Mama. After Ama had recovered from her second cancer, and was well
enough to eat with us during Chinese New Year Eve dinner, Ama always held her
nose and grumbled about Mama’s cooking.
“How does she expect me to eat this overly salty fish?” she complained,
while Mama sat next to her. “Does she want my cancer to return?” Mama never
said anything at the table, but her face was distorted with anger.
One year, I happened to be in
Taiwan during Mother’s Day and we all went out for dinner.
“Your mother’s father didn’t like to study and he only became an anaesthesiologist,”
Ama said to me while I sat with her in the backseat on the way to dinner, “unlike
your Agon, who was a famous doctor.”
I didn’t reply and she continued her monologue, “Just because her family
has money, doesn’t make him a good man.”
The dinner was ruined before we even started.
Around this time Ama started to be hostile towards me — I am
my mother’s daughter, and I look like her. Calling me fat was her favorite
insult, and it was effective in ruining whatever tender feelings I had towards
her. If it weren’t for the fact that she was Baba’s mother, I would have had nothing
to do with her. There were times I wish I could have used the Marie Kondo
method on Ama—I wanted to abandon her. Not only did she not spark joy, she was
hurting me. I resented having to visit her year after year, but I continued my
pilgrimage. If Mama stuck around Ama after all the years of emotional abuse,
surely I could too.
Lately, as I get older, I have begun to see Ama in a more humane light,
and try to see the world from her point of view. Maybe she called me fat and
complained about Mama’s efforts to take care of her because she had spent her
youth vying for the attention of another woman’s husband. In that situation, I
suppose I would have become bitter too.
In more recent years, instead of suffering in silence, I have started to
pipe up when she calls me fat.
“Ama, if you are so
mean to me every time I see you,” I said with a forced smile, “I won’t come to
visit you anymore.”
She pretended she didn’t hear me, and started to fuss about how much
luggage we had brought.
The closest I’ve come to having an open conversation with Ama was years
ago, when she still had her wits. I don’t remember what prompted her, but she
brought out a box of old photographs, containing pictures dating back all the
way to her childhood.
“My Mama and Baba.” Ama pointed to a black and white photograph of a
couple. I don’t remember what they look like now, but I remember feeling a
little connection with Ama—she was, after all, somebody’s daughter.
There were images of the young and beautiful Ama, smiling with other
young women in nursing school—the Ama with whom Agon had fallen in love. I love
the pictures of Baba and his siblings when they were young, dressed in fancy
western-style clothing that must have cost an arm and a leg. Baba and his
siblings look like any other happy children playing together. There were
pictures of me, Davis and our cousins as babies—her grandchildren. All of her
memories were inside that box. She didn’t speak much as she shared its
contents, just who’s who. I was transfixed. Touching the fading yellow-hued
photographs, I didn’t ask any questions. I wish I had.
The photos were a contrast to the rosewood sofa of the latter part of
Ama’s life, captured in endless awkward family portraits taken over the years.
Each year now, after Chinese New Year Eve dinner, Ama, Mama, Baba, my Uncle and
Aunt gather to share pleasantries and force a smile for another portrait, under
the gaze of our younger selves,
forever frozen in time. I have a loving relationship with my parents and
younger brother, but Baba never shared a close bond with his siblings and
neither of them took care of their mother. Except for the
fact that they look like each other, there is little evidence that they are
related —just forced smiles and visible distance. The Changs are an extended family by blood, yet our
relations are as rigid and uncomfortable as the very sofa on which we sit.
Time has been unkind to Ama. From a strong-willed matriarch, she has
been reduced to a feeble 90-year-old woman who can no longer take care of
herself. Her body has shrunk and confined to a wheelchair. She has lost all her
teeth and has trouble eating. Her razor-sharp tongue has dulled. She hasn’t
called me fat for a couple of years now. I do my best to see her through a lens
of compassion. Part of me feels sorry for her. After all, if she hadn’t done
what she did, I wouldn’t exist.
Now, instead of greeting us in the dining area of the third floor when
we arrive in Taichung, she lies in bed. Last year, I went to see her at her
bedside and held her weathered but soft, cool hand. When I turned her hand
around to look at her thumb, it was like seeing my own. She is family, I know.
I wish I could put aside my childish resentment and ask her: Why did she choose
to be with Agon? Does she regret her choices? If she could do it all over
again, would she choose differently? I have no idea if my questions would upset
her. I don’t know if my shame—for her and for myself for wanting to know—should
even be vocalized. Maybe next year I will work up the courage to ask Ama for
her stories—but I probably won’t. I can only try to be at peace with what
little I know.
