A Woman I Called Po-po

A Woman I called Po-po

Loathe, it seems that that is the only word strong enough in the English language to express how I felt at that moment.  The white Batman T-shirt I was wearing mimicked a heat compress as it stuck to my body.  Everything was quiet, and everything was blurry.  At the glorious age of five, naps were never a joyous occasion; neither was it waking up from one.  Silently, I contemplated whether or not to make another effort to fall asleep.  Oh how deceitful pillows can be at 2pm; on the surface they are delicate hosts to a restful paradise, but deep within its cushy exterior is a molten core.  Deciding to forego the struggle to sleep in the heat, I climbed down my warm bed and navigated to the door.  As I stepped out of the door way and into kitchen, a waft of salty savory goodness greeted me.  Grandma had been crafting lunch as I napped.  A woman roughly 5'0 tall, she was the stereotypical size of a Chinese grandmother.  Grandma was a very humble person, and her attire spoke of it loudly.  She must have had it for years, her matching purple top and pants were thin from the many encounters with the washing machine.  She turned to me with a smile and said "look at your hair, it's like you woke up from the sidewalk."  It was true, I did look as though I had spent a night under a bridge somewhere; but at that moment, all I could focus on was how thin Grandmas' hair was.  Diagnosed with lung cancer, and having undergone chemo therapy, my Grandmother was barely a phantom of her former self.

As I sat down to lunch, still trying to mentally awaken, my Grandmother presented me with a steaming hot bowl of rice.  The menu my Grandmother had prepared was very simple, and yet robust with flavor.  Lunch that afternoon consisted of sautéed skirt steak slices on a bed of steamed broccoli.  The first bite of the steak sent me into nirvana; it was as if the beef was marinated with an anti-groggy serum, and the gravy that accompanied it carried the same active ingredients you would find in energy drinks.  My Grandmother must have been amused watching my sudden Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde like transformation.  As with all five year olds with a fully charged battery, I talked...and talked.  Conversations with my Grandmother that day were as sporadic as a movie trailer.  I would reveal my disbeliefs at how she was my father's mother, I confessed saying how my sisters were secretly robots, I tried to gain sympathy from the loss of my snack sized pack of Doritos, and how I had miraculously discovered the secret to self propelled flight.  As I went on ranting about the drama that was my five year old life; Grandma just sat there with her legs folded neatly humoring me. 

Sometime between revealing my sisters dual identities and explaining how I distinctly left my chips on the dinner table, my Grandmother decided that it was time I broadened my taste horizons.  She brought out a flat metal dish, not much larger than a typical saimin bowl; it had a very reflective surface and was dusted with a healthy portion of black ground pepper.  My Grandma offered it to me to use as a condiment for my beef; needless to say, I declined her offer for fear of the intense prolonging effects spicy things had on my tongue.  After a persistent nudging, I reluctantly took up my fork, sank a piece of my beef into the pepper, and took a bite.  Sure, it sounds like all of that hoopla happened in a matter of seconds, but for me it was as if time slowed down.  I could feel a nervous sweat drip down the back of my neck, my eyes widened and all that could come into focus was the piece of beef careening towards my mouth.  To my surprise, the pepper was not spicy at all; in fact, save for a slightly tingly sensation dancing on my taste buds, it was mild.  I'll always remember that day, for it was the events of that day that I attribute my love of spicy foods. 

During the first few years of consciousness, my Grandmother was my primary caregiver and educator, second only to my parents.  I would often spend entire days in her care, these days that were once routine are now some of my most treasured memories.  

My Grandmother enjoyed many things, one of them was gardening.  It was typical that after lunch, I would accompany my Grandmother into the garden to water the plants.  She always looked so proud and happy in the garden.  Grandma would take the time to manually search her plants for slugs; and when she found them, she would excitedly call for me to watch her execute them with her pair of stainless steel scissors.  My Grandmother was a hard worker, and her garden showcased it.  My Grandmother grew many things, but if there was anything to be truly proud of, it would be of the squash that she cultivated.  The squash that my Grandmother grew were enormous; they resembled green torpedoes covered in a fine armor of translucent spike like hair.  When it came time to harvest the squash, she would often bid a request for my father to take a picture of it.  In order to showcase the sheer size of her squash, she would recruit me to model next to them.  

My Grandma was the absolute best.  Whenever she bought me treats, she would spare no expense; I was allowed to have anything my heart desired out of 7-11's ice cream freezer.  There was only one time in my life in which I can remember not being happy with my Grandmother.  One summer, my cousins from San Francisco came to visit.  My Grandmother took them to Ala Moana and bought each of them a toy of their choosing.  I was obviously jealous and slightly resentful; I had never received a toy of any kind from my Grandmother…well, none that I can remember.  

I’ll never forget that life changing night.  It was late into the evening when I found out about my Grandmothers' debilitating prognosis.  I found my distraught father pouring over his bible, searching for any inkling of good news to soothe his soul.  When my Father noticed my presence, he explained my Grandmothers' dire situation to me as best as he could.  I did not fully grasp the situation, but I do remember praying intensely alongside my Father for my Grandmother's health.  As her condition worsened, my Grandmother and I no longer scoured the garden for slugs, and her once vivacious garden began to wither.  Visually, there was a direct correlation between my Grandmothers’ health and her garden.  As I grew older, I began to reflect upon the memories I had of my Grandmother; I had come to realize that I had received so much more than grand garden adventures, or the introduction of spicy food.  I may not have received fancy toys; but amongst all of her grandchildren, I had received the exclusive privilege of spending the most time with my remarkable Grandmother. 

-Timothy Lum; 4^th Grandchild

Ps.  If you look closely at the pictures, you will see that my body language suggests I am trying to avoid the squash’s “pokey’s”… and you may also notice that I am emoting my true feelings for bitter melon. =D