Strange Tribe, Part 2
An unlikely but true family history continues
They say that Nature has rigged our memories to soften the pain and unpleasant parts; we recall only the best. Memories of first love tragedies become bittersweet. (Ah, we were so young and innocent.) An old marathoner doesn’t remember the drudgery, continual discomforts, and sacrifices. Instead, he recalls the joys of solitude, the pleasures of being in good physical condition, the camaraderie with other runners, and the brief moments of finish line elation. Likewise, soldiers who survive the horrors of combat, will, years later, recall the brotherhood, the shared experiences, and the harmless idiosyncrasies of comrades.
So it is, also, with recalling our personal experiences of parenthood. We overlook the sleep deprivation, continual feelings of inadequacy, and conflicting parental expectations and recall only the moments of satisfaction when that little bundle of joy does something especially cute or passes another developmental hurdle. But, as I say, my own family history has some rather unique features. Welcome to come with me as I resume telling the true story of our strange tribe.
Strange Tribe, Part 2
CS was born in my wife’s hometown because her aunt was a doctor at a local hospital and could make all the necessary arrangements. Also, the new mother and baby could stay with the grandmother in her home for several weeks. One month of bed rest is traditional. I was left out of the loop. I remained in our home on the campus where I continued to teach my classes although my students may have noticed an increased tendency to lapse into contemplative silence in mid-lecture. After one month, I was able to finally hold my new son, a strange, wonderful, transforming sensation. True, he carried my name and my DNA and he was perfectly adorable but he was also about to provide irrefutable proof to my argument about babies being incompatible with a clean, quiet, and orderly life.
On that Sunday afternoon, when my wife and month-old son arrived at our home on the campus, grandmother also trooped up the stairs. I said to my wife, “That’s nice. Your mother will help you and the baby get settled.” I asked my wife how long her mother would be staying with us to help with the baby and she replied, “Until he is old enough to start school.” To say I was stunned would be an understatement. This was another aspect of the traditional Chinese family which my Missouri upbringing had not prepared me for. But, upon examination, I had to admit it had practical origins and benefits. In agrarian societies, education – even about parenting – was largely an oral tradition of transmitting information and culture between generations. This was effective when families tended to live in clusters, often in the same building. Over time, it had become a tradition for grandparents to largely raise the new babies.
Imagine a beaming grandmother saying to the new parents, “You two are idiots. You know nothing about caring for a child. I’m going to teach you how to be parents. In the meantime, I will take care of the child.” This meant grandmother selected what the baby ate, saw, and wore - and learned. It thus placed grandmother firmly in charge of the socialization process. In what had been for centuries, a low-tech, agrarian society with little social mobility, this was a stable, successful system. Grandmother was the undisputed boss. Even urbane, Western-educated Lin Yutang advised, “A gentleman stays out of the kitchen.” But, in recent years, this increasingly meant a traditional grandmother, when confronted by the modern world, was out of her depth. A grandmother who became confused by a bank’s ATM and was utterly defeated by the options on a dropdown menu was now responsible for preparing a child to live in a modern, urbanized, digital society.
The traditional system was severely strained. So was I. Thus began the longest 12 months of my life. At the age of 62, I felt no need to be reeducated by a woman only a few years older than me. Furthermore, some of her choices were unpalatable: no Western foods, no air conditioner or heater (body comfort is adjusted by adding or removing layers of clothing), and lots of fresh air - even removing window screens to get even more “fresh air”. In traditional grandmother’s world, mosquitoes were a part of daily life, not a hazard to be minimized by screens in the windows. For grandmother’s generation, mornings began with daily treatment of fresh mosquito bites. “A few mosquito bites won’t hurt a baby!”
It was during a visit by one of baby Chester’s cousins that an incident occurred which began my transition from sinking in a slow downward spiral to rising up again. Cousin HuiHui saved Chester’s life from a bumbling father. While engaged in conversation with HuiHui, age 9 or 10, whose English was adequate for conversation with her new foreign uncle, we moved into the living room to sit on the couch. However, just as I was about to sit on a big, comfortable-looking pillow, Hui suddenly pushed me aside. That pillow was my infant son! He was so wrapped and bundled against the cold that all I could see was his eyes. I had almost sat on my son because I had yielded to the norms of grandmother’s generation despite living in a world where warm, healthy rooms were readily available. And warm, healthy rooms were just the tip of the modern iceberg. There was no valid reason to deny CS the whole spectrum of the benefits, diversity, and pleasures of his Western heritage merely to comply with grandmother’s pronouncements from her generation.
Truly life-changing events rarely begin with one perfectly discrete moment but you could say the pillow-with-eyes incident was the day when I began to fight for my son. The opening salvo of the War of Parental Liberation was my purchase of a lovely, Western-music-playing Bose stereo which would sit on top of the now-utilized wall heater. Neither the choice of music nor the purchase of the stereo was the main issue, however; it was the defiance of grandmother’s dominance that was my declaration of independence.
The benefits of having grandmother living with us were indisputable. She was a good cook, she truly loved and watched over that infant grandchild, she helped my wife with the household routines, and she was company for the new stay-at-home mother. But, after the revolution began, she was no longer the undisputed boss. Grandmother was not the final judge on how this little boy was raised and what he would learn. Sadly, my poor wife was caught in the middle between two battling egos, each espousing lifestyles that were fundamentally incompatible and mutually exclusive. However, in the end, my persistence (Missouri stubbornness) and parental obligations to my young son triumphed over previous generations’ traditions. Besides, living on a university campus, we were battling on my turf.
Thus, a few months later, grandmother returned home, as Hemingway would say, defeated but not destroyed. The mantra of the new nuclear family was, “Baba, Mama, Qiao Qiao. We are family.” (Qiao Qiao or Qiao, pronounced Chow to rhyme with now, was Chester’s family nickname.) Grandmother would continue to play an important role in this child’s life, teaching him the values and worldview she had learned from her long and interesting life - but not on a daily basis and not as the unchallenged boss. She would continue as a contributor but not as the socialization editor.
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Thus we prepared to enter a new segment in our family’s history. Stay tuned for the next installment as the world begins to expand for this infant with his rather unique background. And, while you are waiting with bated breath for Part 3, please stop by my Buy Me A Coffee page and buy me a coffee. That, and the occasional approving digital comment are the only way I know anyone is reading this drivel/saga.