My grandfather arrived in America in 1982 with only 60 dollars in his pocket, as he would often tell others—yet he was able to bring all my family members to America after settling down.
Born in an intellectually engaged family, he saw the downsides of China at a very young age. He decided that if ten people were to fight over one bowl of noodles in China, while in America there would only be two people fighting over a bowl, then his chances of succeeding would be much higher. He didn’t like the competition and economic status of China early on, and when his older sister, famous painter Lalan, moved to France, he took his chances and fled to America. His friend asked him if he wanted to come, offering to make arrangements for him to get an identity in San Francisco.
It first started off with my grandpa working as a temporary chef for restaurants. He would go to a restaurant and ask if they could hire him. Some did—for one day, then a week, then thirty days, until finally he was able to work with a restaurant long term, making 3,000 dollars cash every month.
Grandpa was a lifelong resident of Chinatown. He lived in the Bush Hotel for many years before moving to Rainier after he became elderly, receiving government housing. When I first moved to Seattle, the five of us, my sister, mother, grandparents and I, crammed into a one-bedroom apartment in the Bush Hotel.
My grandfather majored in biology at university in China, and he’s very keen. He would talk about physics theories that went over my head when I was a kid, and he also had a pet seagull that would fly to our apartment outside the window. The only way to recognize it as his seagull was that part of its webbed foot was sliced off probably during a fight with another seagull.
My grandfather told me many things when he was alive—amongst them, one of his greatest pieces of advice was that as humans we depended on three powers: physical power, endurance power, and willpower. First, we depend on our physical strength, and when that goes away, we depend on our endurance. Finally, we depended on our willpower when everything has run out.
My grandfather followed his grand advice—he was in excellent physical condition all the way into his 80’s. He passed away last year in 2025, when the family members were all away from the hospital. I guess he wanted to die quietly—he didn’t wish to be disturbed.
He was also a poet. He wrote hundreds of poems. This is one of his poems:
Buried within the grave is not a human being—for humans are hypocritical, cruel, and base; they live lives of ceaseless toil.
Buried within the grave is an animal—for animals are guileless, content, and true to their nature; they live lives of effortless ease.
He lived his life with perfect equanimity, never counting the wins or losses.
Even though I may not have agreed with the way he did things, he was always my grandfather, the one who raised me. I remember going to a community garden with him and stealing a tomato together. I was in tears by his hospital bed, telling him we would go steal another tomato together, and he promised me we would, holding my hands tightly and smiling.
My grandfather lived a full life. He was stubborn, or maybe some may say, resilient, in the way he approached life. One thing that never escaped my mind was how tough he was. He never complained, never cried until the last days of his life, and he never asked for help unless it was absolutely needed. He took everything into his own hands. He built a family with only 60 dollars in his pocket, immigrating to an unknown world and having not spoken a word of English.
I often dream about my grandfather now, after his passing— a majority of my dreams being very pleasant. He would come visit him and treat me with extreme tenderness and care. His spirit lives on forever.
I dedicate this essay to the memory of my maternal grandfather. May his soul find rest in Heaven.
