Hi there:
Welcome to the inaugural issue of Gushi. Thanks for taking the time to be here.
My impetus for setting up this translation newsletter is quite simple. I want to cast the spotlight on the increasing number of online publications in China that feature extended essays or narratives from the general public.
In monitoring these platforms for the past 18 months, I realized the wide range of stories they run, in spite of censorship—mostly first-person accounts told by non-professionals—offer a rich, nuanced look at life in China often missing in the English press.
My selection will mostly focus on everyday life and daily struggles, away from the political and economic headlines and celebrity newsmakers.
The outbreak of the new strain of coronavirus, COVID-19, that originated in the central city of Wuhan has derailed my agenda somewhat. The epidemic, which as of this writing has infected 66,577 people nationwide and killed 1,524, has grounded the entire country to a virtual halt, not to mention spreading to the rest of the world.
So the first few pieces featured in this periodic newsletter will be inevitably colored by this massive news event, before we return to regular programming, so to speak, further down the road.
We kick off with a story first published by The Livings, a division of Chinese web portal Netease, on Feb. 6. Author Meimeng—who hails from the Jingzhou region, just 220 kilometers west of Wuhan in Hubei Province—describes how her family navigated both strained ties and the disease outbreak as the extended Lunar New Year break got underway.
—ML
Amid Outbreak, Hubei Family Renews Bond at Lunar New Year Gathering
By Meimeng
Credit: Asia Images Group.
1.
August 2019. I told my mother that I didn’t want to spend Lunar New Year in our hometown in late January.
I tried to talk my mother into staying in Hangzhou with me, offering to take her on a tour of China’s eastern coastal cities during the extended Lunar New Year break. My mother was tempted. After a life of backbreaking work, she wanted to see the world when she was still mobile. But the next day she insisted on heading home. She even asked me to bring the entire family.
“You haven’t been home for Lunar New Year in quite a few years since you got married and had a baby, Mengyazi,” she said, referring to me with a term of endearment. “The family misses you. Your aunties and uncles want to see the baby too.”
Traveling with a 2-year-old toddler is a huge hassle. I wanted to wait another few years.
The nagging continued. “Your younger sister and her family went back two years ago. Last year was your turn, but you said the baby was too young. Both of you need to head back this year, so we can throw a 60th birthday banquet for your dad during the first month of the lunar calendar.”
It only dawned on me then the real reason my mother wanted to head home. I had all but forgotten about my father’s 60th birthday, let alone celebrating it. I didn’t have the heart to refuse immediately, so I promised to confer with my sister.
My sister lives in Beijing. The moment she heard the proposition she blurted: “Spending Lunar New Year at home? So we can watch Dad make a scene after getting drunk? And listen to his phony apologies after he sobers up? So we can listen to Mom and Dad argue? Haven’t you gotten your fix after 30 years? Whoever wants to go is more than welcome. Just leave me out of it.”
As the Chinese saying goes, even the most competent judge can’t settle family disputes. The children don’t fare any better.
The biggest source of agony for my sister and I since we were little has been my father’s alcohol-driven tantrums and our parents’ constant bickering. Now that both of us have started our own families, our parents’ relationship remains tense. Family dynamics are colored by a persistent chill and repressed emotions.
My father stopped handing over his monthly salary to my mother a few years ago. He wants to be financially independent by hanging onto his own income, only doling out 300 or 400 yuan to my mother as pocket money on occasion. The two of them have been at loggerheads over the issue. We have held several family meetings, during which my sister and I urged my father to let my mother handle his finances, but he has consistently refused.
My mother thinks that my father’s behavior marks a total betrayal of our whole family.
It’s not that my mother is short on cash. My sister and I have built her a substantial nest egg over the years. Still, she won’t let go of the matter of my father’s paltry salary.
“You’re still too young to understand,” my mother says, constantly repeating the refrain that “we are family, after all.” The fact is my sister and I really don’t get it and refuse to empathize. The idea of throwing a birthday banquet for my father outraged my sister. “Mom still wants to organize a 60th birthday banquet for him? We have tons of relatives at home. It will take at least 10,000 yuan (US$1,435) to cover the meal, booze and cigarettes.”
My sister and I are just regular salarywomen. A trip home for Lunar New Year means travel expenses, daily expenses, gifts and cash gifts for various relatives and the bill for my father’s birthday banquet. It adds up.
When members of a family start looking out for themselves, someone is bound to get hurt.
My mother was clear on where we stood, but she never gave up. By early December, she started playing to our guilt. “You know we used to be so poor that when we slaughtered a pig for Lunar New Year, you could down half its head alone. Our finances constantly improved over the years, but it’s also become increasingly difficult to organize a proper family reunion over Lunar New Year. If we don’t host a birthday banquet this time, we have to wait another 10 years when your dad is 70.”
This argument pissed me off. “Do we have to throw a birthday banquet for Dad? Won’t it be just as fun if we throw one for your 60th birthday in a few years?”
“That’s what tradition dictates in our hometown.” My mother was practically begging. “Your dad is the kind of person who loves a spectacle and values face. You and your sister are his only source of pride. If you throw him a big birthday banquet, he’s going to be so happy. My dear daughter, please talk to your sister. Let’s all head back this Lunar New Year and celebrate it with a family reunion.”
“At the end of the day, it’s about not breaking Mom’s heart,” my sister said. We finally agreed. The way we see it, family serves as our armor and a source of affection, but sometimes it’s a burden too.
2.
By December, the festive spirit was in full bloom. I bought my daughter and my mother new clothes, also picking out something for my father as well, and happily stuffed everything into my suitcase. The chatter picked up in our family WeChat group. We started comparing notes on travel bookings and making plans for after the birthday banquet—visiting relatives, a short family trip and getting our kids to spend more time in the wild. My mother gushed with delight. She drafted a shopping list and a guest list for my father’s banquet well in advance, going over it with my father repeatedly via videoconference. Touched by our gesture, my father even made the bold promise of reforming himself and being on his best behavior.
He still knows how to say the right thing when he’s sober.
On New Year’s Day, I came down with a cold and a fever, which forced me to cancel a trip to the northeast to visit my in-laws. I managed to track down a few surgical masks at home and wore them to work. When I got home I quarantined myself in the study. My daughter kept crying for me at the door. I relented, opening the door with my breath held for a quick hug before setting her aside and shutting the door again.
“Are you doing what’s best for your baby or hurting her?” my mother scolded after my daughter’s crying escalated.
My mother was worried my daughter would catch my cold. She was heading home with my daughter first the next day. When I saw them off, I parted with a warning. “Mom, word has it there’s some new virus making the rounds in Wuhan. The train will pass through Wuhan. You better be careful.”
“The train is going to be packed. There’s nothing to be worried about.” My mother wasn’t concerned.
After my mother left with my daughter, I still couldn’t rest easy. I searched a news outlet I follow on WeChat for news about the virus. Only then did I realize the account had posted a story about an unknown infectious disease back in late December. The article said that elderly people were especially vulnerable and suggested they wear masks as a precaution. I started kicking myself for not preparing masks for my daughter and mother.
The next few days I called my mother daily, asking about her and my daughter’s health and anything out of the ordinary in our hometown. My mother briefed me patiently. “The baby is doing just fine. Everything at home is fine. The only thing that stands out is that we don’t have any live pigs this year. Everyone’s pigs have died. We have to buy them at a premium from neighboring Wufeng.”
That piqued my curiosity. How come all the pigs in Jingzhou died and the ones in Wufeng were still alive? My mother broke out in laughter. “How should I know? That’s a question you need to ask the pigs of Wufeng.”
On the evening of Jan. 9, I noticed my daughter had a runny nose when I was videoconferencing with my mother, which set off all sorts of alarm bells. That night I also stumbled on a story that said new virus was very likely to mutate and infect a wide range of animals. On Jan. 18, another report mentioned the possibility of limited human-to-human transmission.
When I read that vague reference, all I could think of was the mighty pigs of Wufeng.
3.
With my daughter sick with the flu, my mother’s hands were even fuller. “I couldn’t get any sleep last night. I had to keep an eye on her fever. We can’t let Yaer lose her health,” my mother said, using my daughter’s nickname. She went on to recall how a female relative who was younger than me has lost her sight at age 6 after developing a high fever.
But the somber moment was quickly replaced by a cheerful account of her preparations for Lunar New Year. She has washed all our bedsheets, mopped the floor and cleaned our windows. She complained about the price of pork, even though she still bought some. Our aunts and uncles had already made multiple food deliveries. “For a non-farming family, our fridge is extremely well-stocked. We’re just waiting on you and your sister to start binging when you get home after your vacation starts.”
Seeing my frail, elderly mother awash with anticipation for the upcoming family reunion left me near tears. On Jan. 19, I eagerly boarded a high-speed train bound for Jingzhou—located southwest of Wuhan—with my firstborn.
No one was wearing a mask on the train. Neither was I. The two young men sitting next to me chatted about how difficult it was for them to land train tickets. There was no talk of the new virus that surfaced in Wuhan. After arriving in Jingzhou, I switched to a bus for the remainder of my journey. Among the 20-odd passengers on the bus, girl sitting next to me was the only one who wore a mask. She didn’t say anything during the 90-minute ride.
Ten p.m. in my small hometown was marked by dead quiet, an empty highway flanked by bright road lamps.
My father got home two hours after I arrived. He complained about his friend getting lost on the way while moving various items into our home—three big bags of rice and two cases of yellow rice wine. “My boss prepared these gifts after learning that I was heading home to throw a birthday banquet.”
“How generous of your boss!” my mother said, in a subtle jab to my father’s lack thereof.
“There’s nothing wrong about bringing home some basic cooking necessities. We’ll get stated on the feast tomorrow. You’ve had a long day, Dad. Why don’t you get some rest?” I was keen to snuff out any semblance of a spark that might set off a fight.
In stark contrast to his usual temper, my father cheerfully consoled my mother. “Boss, don’t get pissed off the moment you see me. I just got an annual bonus of several thousand yuan. I’m handing it all over to you.”
“What’s a few thousand yuan? Nothing to write home about.” My mother wouldn’t back down, adding that given the number of people returning for Lunar New Year my father naturally had to help cover expenses. “It’s called going Dutch. You know what that means, right?”
“I’ll start helping out tomorrow. Your wish is my command. I defer to the boss entirely. I’m not going to get into trouble or talk back. I promise you a happy Lunar New Year for the entire family,” my father said. He then turned to me and added: “Mengyazi, thank you for coming home for a family reunion. I’m really touched that you and your sister took the initiative to organize a birthday banquet for me.”
My father has always been a mean man, which is why we were quite distant at one point. To hear him utter words of gratitude at an advanced age, delivered with a bit of tenderness, caught me by surprise.
My mother’s frown finally disappeared. “The hotel has called multiple times about finalizing the menu for the birthday banquet. Let’s head over first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, sir!” my father responded with a salute.
Heartwarming moments like this come few and far in between in our family. Meanwhile, I also received good news from my husband. My in-laws missed their grandkids and they wanted to attend my father’s birthday banquet. They had already flown to Hangzhou and would set off for Jingzhou with my husband when his vacation started on the 23rd.
Thus we were due for a super family reunion. My parents were ecstatic. In the wee hours of the 20th, they started drafting a new shopping list.
“What dishes do your in-laws like? I wonder if they can handle the spiciness in our local cuisine.”
“Our winters are damp and cold. Let’s leave a heater in their room.”
4.
My hometown is a township that falls under the jurisdiction of Jingzhou. The first month of the lunar calendar is peak season for the local hotel industry. Staging a banquet on the sixth or eighth day of the Lunar New Year—considered auspicious because of their pronunciation—requires a booking at least six months in advance.
I called all the more presentable hotels in town, landing a reservation only after a last-minute cancellation for a banquet on the third day of the new year.
But the festive mood was pierced by a call I made on the morning of the 20th.
I was on the phone with my aunt inviting her to my father’s banquet. Always the lively and straightforward character, she was unusually reticent. Out of the blue she asked: “How many face masks do you have at home? I said none. She pressed: “Does your neighborhood pharmacy still have masks in stock?”
My father, who was listening in on the call, got upset at her younger sister instantly. “What the hell? Do we need to prepare a dish of steamed masks for you at the banquet?”
My aunt said her youngest daughter Yaoyao, a nurse, had been stuck with Lunar New Year duty for many years. This year, she was finally off the hook. But just hours after getting home last night, she was summoned back to her hospital in Wuhan in the morning, before she even had the chance to unpack. “I think something big is happening.” My aunt started choking up. Only then did my father’s tone mellow out. “What’s there to cry about? The medical profession is like serving in the army. It’s a wartime mindset. If you’re stuck with young children at home, we’ll come over to visit after New Year’s Day.”
Paying someone a visit during Lunar New Year signifies tremendous respect in our region. Little did my father expect his gesture to be rejected by my aunt outright. “I’m not going out. You shouldn’t visit either. Yaoyao told me to lock the door and hole up inside.”
“What? I’m already not demanding that you visit me. Who likes making the trek to your house?” My father was furious. My gut told me that things weren’t right. I started browsing the headlines again. Soon I became unsettled. First, I called my sister. She said she saw the news and had already decided to transit via Yichang instead of Wuhan. Then I called my husband to ask him whether we should cancel my in-laws’ visit. My husband said he would confer with his parents.
By the time my sister and her family arrived, it was already dinner time. As the kids fooled around and my parents smiled broadly amid an entire table full of steaming dishes, the entire family was in great spirits. I was the only one bogged down by worry.
Then on Jan. 21, we saw on the news that the new virus could spread from person to person. The entire family agreed to stay home and reconsider the birthday banquet.
That night my husband sent me a video message to say that a suspected case of the new type of pneumonia had popped up in a Hangzhou residential complex. I told him to stock up on masks. He responded that he was already queueing up at a pharmacy and had been in line for nearly an hour. The store was packed. My in-laws also decided to cancel their trip. I breathed a sigh of relief, also wondering if he should also hold off on travel. “Why don’t you stay in Hangzhou too. Don’t come.”
“What are you talking about? It’s my father-in-law’s 60th birthday. How can I not show up? Don’t worry. I’ll wear a mask the entire journey and no talk to anyone. I’m sure I will arrive safely,” my husband said.
I glanced at my father, who was standing nearby, and saw a smile flash across his face.
I decided to venture out the next day. With the lunar new year around the corner, the town was all hustle and bustle, filled with people shopping for food and snacks. I stood out as the lone person wearing a mask as I weaved through the crowd. I visited three pharmacies in a row. They were all out of masks.
I ended up in a clinic, where I rested briefly on a bench. A couple of patients strolled in. One complained of a headache, another that he was feeling weak in the limbs. Donning a mask, the doctor calmly and confidently offered his diagnosis and wrote prescriptions.
I wasn’t fully recovered from my cold, so I asked for a checkup as well. The doctor examined my throat and said without emotion: “You have a sore throat. It’s just the regular flu. All you need is a few bottles of medication.” I wasn’t convinced. “It isn’t that new type of pneumonia, is it?”
The doctor laughed. “It’s not that easy to catch that strain of pneumonia, as long as you’re not returning from Wuhan.” “I passed through Wuhan by train a few days ago,” I added. The doctor stopped laughing and started taking my temperature with a somber look on his face. My temperature was normal. He ordered me to take my temperature daily and to head to a major hospital if I started developing a fever.
The clinic was out of masks too. I headed home with two bottles of flu medication and a thermometer. When I got home, I quarantined myself in a room. My mother kept muttering outside. “You holed yourself up after coming down with a cold in Hangzhou. Now you’re isolating yourself again. You don’t expect me to head back to Hangzhou with the baby, do you?”
The comment gave me the shivers. I whispered to my sister: “If we cancel dad’s birthday banquet and leave Jingzhou early, will he lose it?”
“Let’s wait another day,” my sister said.
5.
On Jan. 23, my sister summoned my parents, who were already up and busy with chores, to the living room.
“Let’s have a chat,” she said. “Wuhan is in lockdown.” My mother nodded absentmindedly while keeping an eye a pot sitting on the kitchen stove. My father had a puzzled look on this face. “Who’s been locked up?”
“Wuhan the city has been locked down. All traffic has been halted—buses, subways, trains and flights. Do you think we could cancel your 60th birthday dinner and reschedule it after we see how the situation unfolds?’
Stunned, my mother stared at us.
“The news anchors are urging people to stay put repeatedly. What do you think, Dad?” my sister explained.
“Safety first. I completely agree.” My father got on board right away and started messaging our relatives. “Birthday banquet canceled to reduce chance of infection. Support fight against new virus,” he wrote.
My astonished mother started staring at my dad. “It’s off? But we’ve booked all these tables and invited so many people. What are we going to do about that?”
“This virus is no kidding matter. Let’s notify everyone that needs to be notified and cancel all the plans that need to be canceled,” my father said.
My sister and I got to it, making calls and looking up information, while my mother turned around to turn the stove down. She then stormed back into the living room. “So the birthday banquet on the third day of the new year is off, but what about Lunar New Year? We should still have our family reunion, no?”
After the comment, my mother broke down in tears, saying: “I know you don’t like coming home for Lunar New Year because you’re fed up with watching your dad and I fight. But how I’ve looked forward to this day for years—the entire family celebrating under one roof, my kids and grandkids out in full force. You’ve only been back for a few days and now you’re getting ready to leave again.”
Absolute silence.
Over the years, our family has ended up scattered around the country because of school and work. Ever since my sister and I started our own families, we’ve rarely ventured home. We take turns taking occasional trip back to Hubei to keep up appearances. Come to think of it, the last time the entire family sat around the same table ushering in Lunar New Year while listening to the sound of firecrackers outside was some seven or eight years ago.
My sister turned to face the window. I also started crying. The kids soon followed suit. In the blink of an eye, the entire room was awash in tears.
“What are you saying these things for? You’ve made the kids cry,” my father said, himself near tears.
But my mother couldn’t help herself. She pointed at the kitchen, which was teeming with dishes. “I’ve prepared so many dishes, enough to last for two weeks. Are you just going to walk away? What about the food?”
“Our children need to go back to work after Lunar New Year. What if they end up stuck here and jeopardizing their jobs? They should leave in a hurry, with their kids, when the situation is still fluid,” my father said. “I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll spend the entire Lunar New Year with you at home. I guarantee I’ll finish all your dishes.”
“You wish! You’ll have to double your contribution to our living expenses,” my mother said petulantly, in a mix of anger and affection.
“Double isn’t enough. I’m thinking a five-figure sum!” my stingy father said as he spread his arms. This made us all laugh, which lightened the mood somewhat.
I called my husband. He also caught on to the severity of the situation and started booking our flights. While we were talking, seats were still available on the second day of the lunar new year, but they were snatched as I droned on. Looking at my parents, I thought to myself that no matter what, I should spend Lunar New Year’s Eve—which was the next day—with them, have dinner and ring in the new year together. My heart began thumping. “Let’s book our flights for New Year’s Day. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
Lo and behold, the flights on Lunar New Year’s Day were soon all fully booked. The only flights left were on New Year’s Eve.
“What’s the plan?” my husband asked in a voice message.
Standing nearby when I played the message, my father said firmly. “Leave tomorrow. As long as we have each other in our hearts, every day is a family reunion.”
6.
After we booked our tickets, it seemed that time stopped. Everything that was happening felt surreal, like a dream. Our home, which we felt distant to, resisted and avoided, had gradually become a big reunion everyone was looking forward to. As we cried and laughed during our brief get-together, our hearts were drawn together.
On New Year’s Eve, my parents got up early and worked non-stop in the kitchen. Stewed chicken, cold fish, fatty pork, meat loaf, fried bamboo shoots, Chinese sausages, sticky rice steamed with pumpkin—they prepared a table full of local delicacies.
In China, parental love burns most brightly in the kitchen.
“Let’s get ready for our reunion meal,” my dad said as we arranged our chairs and glasses under his guidance and lined our chopsticks horizontally on our empty bowls.
My mother poured liquor into the glasses as she whispered: “All our ancestors and spirits that have wandered by, come join us and drink some alcohol. Enjoy this simple meal and celebrate a down-to-earth Lunar New Year. Please bless our children and their children with health and safety.”
My father started burning fake paper money under the dining table and joined in the whispering. “Here’s a bit of pocket money for you. Have some fun at the card table and may you win big.”
These lines have been repeated since my memory started. They have stayed the same for the past 30-odd years. Listening to them on this Lunar New Year Eve, when we were due to part, evoked tremendous warmth and nostalgia.
In an unprecedented move, my alcohol-loving father actually didn’t drink during the meal. He wanted to drive us to the airport. As the entire family waited in the departure hall, we were at a loss, unsure how to handle our emotions.
Wearing a mask, my mother looked at us with tender eyes. She wasn’t crying anymore. Her gaze was just brimming with love and affection. My father was also wearing a mask. He said with a laugh, “Thanks for coming back. Even though it was a short stay, the two of us are really happy and content. Take good care of yourselves.”
“Mom, Dad, let’s hug.” My sister tried to play it cool, but her broad smile seemed out of place. The moment she hugged our parents her tears broke through. The kids were too young to understand what was going on, but they joined in the group hug and yelled, “Happy new year, grandma and grandpa!”
My parents fondled their heads gently and said to us: “Go ahead.”
They had to rush back to our hometown to “light up” for their parents before dusk. It’s tradition in Jingzhou to make sure the lights at home and by your ancestral graves burn brightly on the night of Lunar New Year’s Eve.
I suddenly remembered that I loved “lighting up” with my parents when I was a kid. As darkness gradually set in, people flocked to their ancestors’ graves to kowtow. Worshippers young and old made wishes for the new year. Soon the dark fields and hills was littered with candles and the sound of firecrackers. The usually spooky grave plots looked gorgeous that night.
With family by your side, darkness is no longer scary. The new year was about to begin in a few hours.
Postscript
After my sister and I got home, we reported our recent travel history and health condition to our companies and stayed at home.
My in-laws prepared a sumptuous dinner to welcome me and the kids back. I was still worried about infecting others, so I ate alone in the study. The next day my flu symptoms had tapered off significantly.
My cousin Yaoyao braved the frontlines of the epidemic. She promised to take care of herself and told us not to worry.
To minimize outdoor activity, my husband stocked up at a neighboring supermarket, returning with several large bags of rice and flour, several cans of cooking oil, as well as meat, veggies and fruit. He reported: “Service at the supermarket is very organized. The store is well-stocked with a variety of goods, just like it usually is. The entrance and exit are manned with dedicated staffers who take your temperature and hand out masks. Maskless customers are gently reminded to wear protection.”
In our hometown, my parents were left with each other. I asked my mother how she was coping with cabin fever and whether my father tried to sneak out. She laughed. “In past years, your dad acted like his ass was on fire. He visited friends and had fun with no regard for time. This year he refuses to leave because he isn’t welcome anywhere!”
I asked my mother how she felt about that. She said the last time they spent so much time together was when they were dating. After they had my sister and I, my parents moved to bigger cities for better-paying work. They toiled together without respite for some 30-odd years.
This Lunar New Year, my parents can finally relax. They spent every minute together, sleeping in, browsing their phones, watching TV and playing huapai, a Chinese card game that originated in Hubei.
“This is by the most comfortable and carefree time of my life,” my mother said. “All my basic needs are taken care of. As for the future, we can decide later. Don’t be afraid. Even the most difficult challenges will pass.”