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Red Pockets

Red Pockets An Offering

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For my family

Prologue

‘Are you going to sweep the tombs?’ my dad asked me. He rarely mentioned anything about China, and his question took me by surprise.

‘Why would I do that?’ I had never heard about tomb-sweeping.

‘Because that’s what you are supposed to do when you go back to the village. You sweep the tombs of your ancestors.’ He said this with such a casual air of authority that I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.

Really? Why hadn’t he mentioned this before?

It was the summer of 2017, one of the worst wildfire seasons on record in British Columbia, although worse years were yet to come, and I was visiting my parents on Vancouver Island. I planned to go to China the following spring to research toxic polluted cities. I had always wanted to go and finally found the opportunity through my work, as part of a sociological research project on the global petrochemical industry and environmental justice.1 This would be my second trip to China. My first was a short visit to Beijing in 2015 at the beginning of the project, though I did not manage to see much. This time, I wanted to search for our ancestral clan village in the south.

‘You know, your cousin Amanda went to China earlier this year, and she claims that she found the village,’

my dad added. ‘I don’t know if she swept the tombs, though.’

I pressed for more, but that was all he would say. My dad had no interest in visiting China. As a thick ash cloud began to settle over the town, we stayed inside drinking weak coffee.

In retrospect, I probably should have attached more significance to my dad’s question.

In 1924, my great-grandmother Woo Doke Yee developed a malignant growth in her neck and inner ear that would not respond to treatment. She wanted to go back to China to see her ageing mother and introduce her to the children. The next year, my great-grandfather Mah Gee Su arranged for the family to make the long journey from the railway town of Cranbrook in British Columbia back to their village in South China. My grandfather Mah Yue Gee wrote about this journey in his unpublished ‘Memoirs of a Chinese Canadian’ . 2 His childhood recollections of the voyage were punctuated by his mother’s illness. When they arrived in Vancouver to await the steamship to Hong Kong, they were refused admission to the Hotel Vancouver because they were not ‘High Class’ Chinese merchants or diplomats. Through clan networks, my great-grandfather managed to find a large house where they could stay in the Shaughnessy Heights area, named after the first president of the Canadian Pacific Railway, with servants to care for his ailing wife. Aboard the steamship, nurses attended to her, and the family stopped at a hospital in Hong Kong before carrying on to Canton (Guangzhou).

They took a rickety train to their clan village of South Uplands and were met by relatives with sedan chairs, who carried them along the muddy path through the flooded rice fields to their family home. Shortly after arriving, my great-grandmother died in her sleep. My grandfather recalled that ‘we three children were somewhat elated that Mother had gone peacefully to heaven after such a long period of painful illness’.3 They had received Christian teachings in Gim Shan (Gold Mountain),4 the overseas Chinese name for North America, named after the promised land of the Gold Rush, that heaven was a reward for death.

My great- grandmother was given both a Christian and a Buddhist funeral, with a Christian minister from Canton and a Buddhist priest from the local temple to honour the ancestors. Clan relatives came to the burial ceremony all dressed in white, weeping and wailing, as was customary in Chinese burial rites. 5 My grandfather wrote somewhat ruefully that he and his brother and sister were not able to cry at their mother’s funeral, and, for years afterwards, they were known as ‘the barbaric foreign- devil Mah children who would not grieve at their mother’s funeral’. 6

I have a strange affinity with those foreign-devil Mah children. I was one of four Mah children who grew up in a majority white Christian town in Canada on the unceded land of the Indigenous Wet’suwet’en people. We had no religion. Close in age, with long dark hair, we were often mistaken by the townspeople for one another, and for members of the Wet’suwet’en. When I was in

high school, a local boy once asked me where I ‘really’ came from. He could trace his family history to the Netherlands and was a member of the Dutch Reformed Church, the dominant Church in our town. When I responded that my dad was Chinese and my mom was white, he said, ‘So you have no home then.’ I recognized the ignorance in this comment, but, still, it got under my skin. Wasn’t our town my home?

Twenty years later, after living and working in many different cities, from Vancouver, Montreal and Ottawa, to London, Oxford and Berlin, to Coventry, where I had stayed the longest, I returned to my grandfather’s ancestral rice village in China.

It was a homecoming of sorts, an unsettling kind, showing up nearly a century too late. I did not expect to be confronted so startlingly with my own rootlessness. I did not heed my dad’s warning, either. I failed to sweep the tombs. At the time, it did not seem so important.

Since that journey, I have been haunted by my ancestors’ neglected graves. In Chinese folk religious beliefs, ancestors who are abandoned by their descendants become hungry ghosts, unleashing illnesses, misfortunes and crop failures.7 The Buddhist figure of the hungry ghost inhabits one of the lower realms of hell, akin to purgatory, and suffers from endless cravings. Ancient Buddhist texts describe thirty- six types of hungry ghost, such as the Burning-Mouth ghost, whose food bursts into flames when it touches its lips; the NeedleMouth ghost, who can only eat tiny amounts of food through a mouth the size of the eye of a needle; and the

Vomit-Eaters, Excrement-Eaters and Spittle-Eaters, who are forced to subsist on repulsive substances.8

I have felt the anguish of hungry ghosts in our fractured times, unmoored feelings of grief and despair shared across cultures, generations and species. Ecological collapse, life out of balance, hungry ghosts: it is difficult to deny, whatever we call it, but almost impossible to face. Slowly, I am beginning to recognize the debts that I owe and the impossibility of returning to past worlds. Some obligations have been lost in time and translation, but others endure and cry out to be honoured. As pollution exceeds safe planetary limits, rare moths, ground-nesting birds and countless other species die out, and communities around the world face deadly wildfires and floods, I have come to understand that these obligations are both material and spiritual, a fragile balance of give and take. So, I set out in search of an acceptable offering, imperfect though it may be.

part one

Qingming

1. Western Peaceful Place

‘Ah,’ Amanda said, smiling out of the car window as we passed flooded rice fields and soft green mountains. ‘We are coming home.’

I looked out at the banana trees tied together along the edge of the dusty road to protect them against the monsoon season. Home? Nothing could feel further from home.

I was filled with all the anticipation of a first visit, but I should have known better. My cousin Amanda had made the first only months before, breaking a ninetyyear spell of clan separation since our grandfather’s last visit. Once she had found our ancestral village, there was no going back.

Our grandfather Mah Yue Gee (Henry was his English name) described this rural landscape in his memoirs and recounted catching malaria during his stay in the village as a child. Yet, somehow, I hadn’t imagined such a tropical place. This was more how I pictured Vietnam, from films about the war. Even the mountains of Taishan (Exalted Hills),1 the region where our village was located, were nothing like the sloping mountains of my hometown in northern British Columbia (BC ). The Exalted Hills were short and covered in shrubby trees.

We followed the road past miles of rice paddies, their

new green shoots glinting in the sun. We passed villages with faded brick and stone buildings, resembling British and Spanish architecture from previous centuries. Farmers appeared in the water scattering rice shoots by hand. Narrow roads jutted across the rice fields from the main road into the villages, each with its own arched gateway inscribed with Chinese characters. At last, we turned onto one such road, towards the gateway of South Uplands.

‘This is like the downtown of our village,’ Amanda said, in tour guide mode. ‘It looks different when it’s not raining.’

‘I hope there will be less mosquitoes this time,’ said Lily, our driver and translator, who had accompanied Amanda on the first trip. This time the car was full, with Amanda’s husband Matt, my research assistant Ying and me sitting in the back.

The tension that was simmering throughout the day eased. We were arriving late, but we were here.

We met up the evening before our trip at a hotel in the old town in Guangzhou. Ying and I were researching petrochemical areas on the outskirts of the city, and Amanda and Matt were travelling. The plan was to leave from the hotel early the next morning, following our grandfather’s journey of 1925, from Canton through Sun Ning Sang, the regional capital of Taishan, where his family would have taken the local train to the Mah village. Each of us carried different expectations of the trip.

When I had first emailed Amanda, all I wanted to know was the village’s location. She replied that it would

be easier for her to come to China and show me in person.

‘There’s plenty to see in the village,’ Amanda told me. ‘It’s almost just as Grandpa described it. Of course, some things have been destroyed, like the interiors of the clan halls. But the people and the mountains are still there. And they remember and have stories about our greatgrandmother, great-grandfather and his second wife.’

In 1901, our great-grandfather Mah Gee Su built a joint house in the new subdivision called Western Peaceful Place in their clan village with his brother Mah Gee Sing.

According to our grandfather, the original subdivision included ‘about ten houses in two rows all alike with the entrances facing each other across a paved stone laneway’, all for overseas or Hong Kong families.2 After making money during the BC Gold Rush and the railway boom in Canada, our great-grandfather returned to the village to start a family. The matchmakers found him a bride from a small clan in Taishan, our great-grandmother Woo Doke Yee, who could write letters and would accept an overseas husband. In 1914, our great-grandfather arranged for his wife and first daughter to join him in Cranbrook, BC, where his business, Hep Chong General Merchants, in Chinatown was flourishing.

‘So, you said Uncle is back home, or is he playing mahjong?’ Amanda asked Lily. In fact, we had no real uncle in the village. The village elder who had direct memories of our family’s history had become, for Amanda, our Uncle Mah. We had no other connections, although nearly everyone in the village, of course, was a Mah.

‘He’s playing mahjong over on that side now.’ Lily waved off into the distance. ‘Remember, this is also your house,’ she added, pointing to a dilapidated two-storey white brick building with arched colonnades on the balconies. ‘The bricks are from your house.’

Amanda had already told me about the house over a drink in the empty hotel bar the night before. Our ancestral house had been expropriated during the Cultural Revolution in the late 1960s, when many overseas families were deemed ‘disloyal Nationalists’, and the bricks had been used to make a new clan hall.

We continued along the road past more banana trees and then turned left into Western Peaceful Place. At the entrance, opposite a modern red and white brick house, there was a small grove of trees with thick surface roots, each surrounded by concrete benches.

‘That’s kind of the main gathering junction point,’ Amanda said. ‘If they weren’t all in mahjong right now, they’d be sitting out on that corner.’ We were expecting to meet the clan at the gathering place upon our arrival, but nobody was there, so we kept driving. Lily’s phone rang, attached to the dashboard of her car. She tapped to answer. It was Uncle Mah. His voice was full of animated rising tones, and she responded with soft lilting tones. They were speaking Taishanese, the language of Chinatowns across North America, a dialect of the Yue branch of Chinese. It was familiar-sounding, so unlike the Mandarin that I had been trying to learn. Uncle Mah was at home now, and he was waiting for us.

As we continued along the road, the buildings became more regular, aligned in rows. An elderly man stood in the middle of the road hanging clothes on a washing line, and chickens strutted about. The afternoon sun cast a pleasant glow.

‘And this is the pond,’ Amanda announced. We all looked to our left at the calm green water by the side of the road, with more brick houses beyond it. As a child, our grandfather had helped to harvest the pond, standing barefoot in the muddy bottom to catch the catfish and eels, which burrowed in the mud to escape.

I found it difficult to hear my own thoughts with the running commentary, and yet I was grateful to have a guide. If I had come on my own, I wouldn’t have come this far. I would have been happy just to find the main village gateway and stop for a few moments to take in the view of the rice fields and the Exalted Hills.

‘This, to the left, is Uncle Mah’s new house,’ Amanda said as the road opened out onto a square, gesturing towards a building that resembled the one at the junction. ‘It’s his new house with modern amenities that his children built for him. But they prefer to live in the old house.’

With that, Lily turned off the engine, and we stepped out towards the original houses of Western Peaceful Place, where Uncle Mah lived with his wife. Amanda supposed we should call her Auntie. Married women in China traditionally keep their surnames, but we never asked Auntie hers. Of all the people we were to

meet in the village, she was the one who showed us the gentle kindness of an Auntie, an understanding of what we might be looking for. Uncle Mah had another agenda.

As the car doors opened, I fumbled in the bag full of gifts at my feet. I’d brought a dozen mini-tins of English tea shaped like Big Ben and British telephone boxes, and three Scottie dog shortbread tins.

‘You should be aware of the cultural expectation that we arrive with gifts for the clan,’ Amanda advised me prior to our trip. Gifts from your home country were especially welcome.

‘Should I bring all of the gifts?’ I asked Ying, who was gathering her own bag with sweets from Macau.

‘Why not?’ Ying said. ‘What else are you going to do with them?’ We had carefully portioned out gifts for the people we planned to meet during the rest of our journey in China, and we wanted to travel light.

We followed Amanda into a lane between two dark grey brick houses. If it was just the four of us, Amanda had said, we could ask to stay at Uncle Mah’s house. I made the case for the hotel.

Uncle Mah and Auntie welcomed us inside, and Auntie set about making the tea. This felt strangely familiar, reminding me of trips to Toronto as a child when we met my dad’s relatives. At eighty-six, Uncle Mah was the oldest man in the village, with watchful eyes and a quiet air of tenacity. Auntie had a gentle face and a warm yet weary smile. I took a seat on the sofa, poking in my bag

to arrange the gifts while the tea was served. The interior of the house had been modernized. It had plain white walls with simple stone counters, clean and functional, and an open common room.

Amanda had travelled alone on the first visit, with Lily as her guide. Uncle Mah seemed confused by the rest of us. He stared at Matt, looking him up and down. ‘Very handsome,’ Lily translated for Uncle Mah after they were introduced. Matt was over six feet tall and white. When the introductions came to Ying and me, Uncle Mah just nodded.

‘Uncle Mah wants to know, have you received his letter?’ Lily asked.

‘Yes, I received it.’ Amanda pulled it out of her bag and handed it to Lily. This was the first time I heard of the letter.

Lily carefully unfolded the pages of neatly written Chinese characters in black ink on white lined paper, dated December 2017, three months before. As Lily glanced through the contents, she suddenly looked very uncomfortable. ‘Can anyone read this?’

‘I think so, yes,’ Amanda said.

‘Oh,’ Lily said uneasily. Uncle Mah hovered beside her and began to speak energetically, waving his hands in different directions.

‘My friend tried to help me read it, but we didn’t get too far,’ Amanda said. ‘What does it say?’

‘So,’ Lily began. ‘After our visit last time, he wrote a summary of all that we found and what he remembered.’ The first page, she said, was addressed to all the