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greaterthannine-blog · 6 years

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Roots 06/29/2018 & 07/02/2018 [許]

This longer-than-usual post is the first of two in which I am relaying the experiences I had in my two ancestral villages. This post pertains to my two visits to my Huie 許 village and is thus sectioned into two parts: the first visit on 06/29/2018, and the second visit on 07/02/2018. As visiting this site of my personal heritage was an exceptionally important journey for me, I have included much more content than I have in previous “Roots” posts. Alongside my own photographs, I added photographs shot by our leader Al and our friend Sherry, which I have crafted to look akin to film photographs. I have also written much more than typical, so if you’re one of the kind souls who actually reads the words I write, you might enjoy this post. Anyway, that’s all I have to say about that.

Enjoy.

Isabella

Preface: My Huie/Xu [許] Ancestral Village_____________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________________

IN THIS GRAND EXPEDITION TO CHINA this summer, I visited two of my ancestral villages. This post pertains to my two visits to my Huie 許 (or Xǔ in Mandarin) village in Guangdong province of Southern China, which is the side of my Chinese family whose history I know most about. You might be wondering where this Huie name comes from and what happened to “Xu” surname I use. See, “Xǔ” is the Mandarin pronunciation of my family name, and I use that for my public name because Mandarin is the most widely spoken and recognized Chinese dialect. However, my family are not Mandarin speakers, we are Cantonese, and more specifically we hail from a region of Guangdong province called Toisan (or Táishān in Mandarin) which has it’s own specific dialect itself. We are not known amongst ourselves as Xǔ’s, but rather as Huie’s, which is why in this post I will be hence referring to this aspect of my identity as Huie.

Now, with all this talk of my family name, you might be wondering what my relation to this village is. It was the birthplace and home of my mother’s father’s father (my great-grandfather), and his ancestors before him (that I am aware of anyway). According to the records my great-grandfather left after his passing, our ancestral village goes by what we can best romanize as Sui Bo Huey. Though I say that with a grain of salt, as I don’t know what this name means or even what the correct characters are, but I found that procuring information on our village was uniquely difficult because: 1) My mother, grandfather and grand-uncle have all visited the village, so I knew the information existed, and 2) We still own our ancestral home, and have an active property manager there, and 3) Despite the above factors, no one had, could, or was willing to provide me the information. Difficulties aside, I acquired the info, and made to the village. Twice. ●

第四天: 台山

Day Four: Toisan [Taishan]

06/29/2019

PHOTOGRAPHY: Al Cheng & Sherry

PHOTO POST-PROCESSING & COMMENTARY: Isabella Xu

↑↑ (1) On the balcony of my ancestral home, overlooking the garden and fields. (2) Photo op with an old woman who claims to weed the exterior of my ancestral home

First Visit: What Happened on 06/29/2019 _____________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________________

First! Let me tell you about the first visit to Sui Bo Huey, because there were two. One not-so-spectacular visit (this one), and a more intimate visit (the one later in this post). My actual, official, PRC-approved, scheduled time and day for me to visit Sui Bo Huey was June 29, 2018. (Little bitty tidbit, we were with the gov’t, which was quite the thrill not gonna lie. Our Toisan official/friend, Mr. Yang (Young Yang) was fantastic and overall a very kind man). That morning, I awoke with numb excitement. I couldn’t believe that the day where I’d set foot in a place where part of my family lived for who knows how long had finally come. It was daunting and my thoughts were a maelstrom of discourse. Was I ready for this? Was I too young? I’m only nineteen and I’m already having highly philosophical and existential conversations with myself; did I jump into this prematurely? But at the same time, in my noggin I was bouncing with glee. Today will be an interesting day.

Knowing I’d be the complete center of attention that morning, and fully aware that there would be several cameras aimed at me the whole duration of my visit to Sui Bo Huey, I hopped out of bed to decide what to wear. In my animated yet distressed stupor, my lovely roommate, Kona, helped me choose an outfit for the day. My first thought was to wear a poppy red Athleta tank (similar), a cream vintage silk button-up short sleeve blouse (similar), and off-white linen Aritzia pants (similar-ish). What we found though was that you could see my undies through the pants, so I traded the silk blouse for a mauve Nike long-sleeve (different color), tied yachting style around my shoulders, and swapped the risqué pantaloons for my trusty black Athleta cargos. (Not that it really matters much for this post, since, ya know, I’m not in any of these photos, but for my own posterity’s sake, please! Let me live!). I then strapped on my black & cork Camper sandals, donned my faithful Urban Outfitters cap, slung my Aritzia fanny pack (similar) across my torso, and packed my camera bag. Now ready for adventure, Kona and I closed our hotel room door, waddled to the elevator, and embarked the slow descent to the lobby.

We exited the elevator and walked over to a set of plush chaises where others in our group were congregating. I set down my bags, kneeled, reached for my backpack, and took out a bottle of sunscreen mixed with insect repellent. Standing up I looked over to the other side of the lobby where I saw our leader Al standing and talking with a seedy looking middle-aged man with sparse slicked-back hair, wearing a red polo, navy trousers, brown Dickies belt, and boat shoes. Once they noticed me observing them, Al enthusiastically beckoned me over for introductions. Now, remember how I mentioned earlier that my family still owns our ancestral village in Sui Bo Huey? And that we have a property manager overseeing and maintaining that property? Well, this is that dude. Did I know he was going to be there? No. Did I know that Roots had successfully contacted him? No. Did I know his name? No. His being there was a complete shock to me as my grand-uncle had hinted that communication with our property caretaker was strained and inconsistent, and that he was unsure that the caretaker would respond to any attempted correspondance. So, with that in mind, I was flabbergasted and unprepared to have Lem Fun Koon 林煥權 accompany my rooting, and my mind was hazy after meeting him, and this fog carried through the rest of the day. (Though, in retrospect, I don’t really know why I was so stupidly impacted by his presence. I mean, he was just there to help! And I just displayed my despicable ice-queen qualities of complete asshattery and fuckbucketry, and seldom interacted with the poor guy! No matter how creepily greasy he looked, I truly regret my treatment of him. I hope to someday remedy that, and repay him for taking the time to show me the property. Maybe I’ll write him a thank you letter or something…). From introductions I learned that not only was he the caretaker of our property, but that he was actually a renowned Chinese calligrapher. I was told that his works can often sell for over $1,500 USD. I simultaneously thought it very snazzy but also a bit odd that we have a famous calligrapher for a property manager, but, I guess, ya know, China. *shrugs.*

Post-introduction to Lem Fun Koon 林煥權 (Whom I’ll now address as Mr. Lem), it was finally time to embark on the short journey to Sui Bo Huey, that is, after we took 15 minutes to load the bus, 15 minutes to collect the day’s government official (and film me being shallowly introspective about family/village info and what I expected to find), 15 minutes to stop outside a convenience store and debate which packaged cookies to use for my bai san ceremony (ritual paying respects to ancestors), and then another 15 minutes minute trundle to the village. So, after enduring what was supposed to be a 15 minute drive, we finally arrived. An hour later.

As we turned off the main road and approached my village, the first thing I saw was the gate marking the entrance. Actually, you know, I take that back. The first thing I actually saw was the MASSIVE pile of trash directly behind the gate! What a great way to start my rooting, no? Trash? Everywhere? Just fucking lovely. I knew my family came from a humble peasantry background, but this was just too comically ironic (I came from literal trash!). But, let’s not be so hasty in my assumptions. I later discovered that a family in the village operated a recycling business, thus justifying the huge pile of trash that-isn’t-quite-trash-but-is-rather-recycling in the area. I felt much better after learning that. Better yet, I felt a smidge of pride. Go ancestral village. Go Sui Bo Huey. Y’all are doing good deeds.

Anyways, Sifu (our hilariously nonchalant bus driver) drove through the gate, into the village, and parked our trusty bus on the long and receding stretch of concrete and alongside the row of homes to our left, and I discovered shortly after that he had parked literally 15 feet away from my ancestral home. To our right, parallel to the concrete was a community garden of sorts, with rows and rows of small crops including eggplant, cabbage, corn, and many other unidentifiable plants. Beyond the garden were expanding rice fields that I want to say were three fourths of a mile in distance until they were cut off by a large factory building. But those were all the observations I could make before the ruckus began.

As soon as Sifu parked, the floodgates (by which I mean the bus doors) opened and everyone began siphoning out on to the pavement. Because I was being filmed, I was the last to exit. By the time I hop out, there were people everywhere: Roots people, government officials, villagers, and who knows who else (I certainly don’t). While I’m dazedly trying to discern what’s happening, Mr. Lem was already at the doors of my family property, hastily undoing the locks on the front entrance (our property was vacant so we weren’t intruding on anybody, though that would have been quite the event), and before I know it, I’m being herded over to the door. With the procession in tow, and no way for me to escape, I proceeded towards my ancestral home while Candace and Diann went to film and photograph the village, Nick began flying our faithful drone Rufus for some aerial shots, and I think Robyn and Carol went to go talk to villagers, but frankly I’m unsure. Along with Mr. Lem, Al, Derek, Long Lǎoshī, Sherry (who was photographing me), Mickey, Jeremy (who was also photographing me), Amanda (who was filming me and translating), two other government officials and a couple village representatives, into the home I went.

Right off the bat, as soon as I entered the building, my visit was not what I had anticipated. After stepping through the front door I was amazed at how well kept the interior was (and the exterior looked very nice too, so props to him), but also for the entire duration of my visit, Mr. Lem made a point to show me all the fixes he made, improvements he added and told me everything he’s done in upkeep. Frankly, that’s what most of the visit was: rather than permitting me to absorb the moment, learn and reflect, my visit was mostly him showing me and telling me everything he’s done to take care of the house, as well as describing the legal work he’s had to do, and complaining how he was contacted by the government rather than directly by my uncle (and that is quite the juicy drama, but I’m not going to share that with you, sorry, that’s a more private matter). While I was exceptionally bothered by his actions at the time (and not gonna lie, I’m still pretty pissed about that), I can understand why he acted how he did. My presence may have appeared as if my family had sent me to assess the property’s condition and verify Mr. Lem’s work, and even though I and everyone present that day knew that was not what my intentions were, I can understand how it may have seemed like a check up. Still, as he occupied about 75% of the minuscule hour and a half I spent there talking about himself, I felt very cheated of an intimate and private experience I had come so far to have.

On top of that, my time in my ancestral home was very rushed. Before we had even left for China, I had to prioritize one village over the other, and whichever I made my primary village was the one I would have more time in. However, despite how much I wanted this village to be my primary, because I had such difficulty squeezing information out of my family, I was forced to make Sui Bo Huey my secondary village. It wasn’t until quite literally two days before my flight to China that I finally secured the information I needed to identify the place, and promptly asked Roots to make Sui Bo Huey my primary. However, the switch happened a tad too late and the schedule for my time in Sui Bo Huey was set in stone, and the day’s schedule didn’t permit more time, so we had to do and see everything in a hurry.

The moment I entered the central room, where the ancestral altar was housed, it was a scramble to perform my bai san, or the ceremony where I paid respects to my ancestors. But here’s the kicker, I didn’t know what in the fuck this ceremony was. I had never heard the term bai san. Nobody in my family ever performed bai san. I hadn’t witnessed any of the other Rooters’ bai san ceremonies because I was off prancing around the villages we visited photographing everything besides the person whose village it was. I was thrust into the altar room, had a pile of incense shoved into my hands, then everyone stood back, left me in an empty space and told me to do the ceremony. But because I’m a complete noob, and know abso-fucking-nothing, I stood there like a dodo bird for a good moment, then asked Al for help. Mr. Lem lit the incense sticks, Mickey and Long Lǎoshī laid an offering of cookies on a table, and Al directed me in bowing, placing the incense around the house, and praying to my ancestors. Once I finished the ceremony, Mr. Lem put the cookies in his bag.

After bai san, Mr. Lem talked at Al, Long Lǎoshī, Mickey and Mr. Yang in a circle for about twenty minutes about all the legal troubles he went through with the property. In complete confusion, I kept peering over their shoulders at the documents he was referencing, trying to grasp what was happening, and thankfully Amanda translated some of the discussion. After Mr. Lem finished venting, someone announced that we should take a group photo outside, and I was being swept away again. Yet before we could make our way outside, Derek asked me if I had walked around the house. Which I hadn’t. So instead of meandering towards the doorway, I waltzed the opposite direction and went into what used to be the kitchen.

↑↑ Post-bai san, standing in the center room of my ancestral home before our altar. Here I am thanking my Bok Gung (though I think he’s actually my Taai Gung, but don’t quote me on that, the Chinese family tree is about as confusing as quantum mechanics), my Gung Gung, and everyone who came before them.

With my diversion, Mr. Lem promptly began giving me a tour of the house. It really was a beautiful house. It was divided into three sections. The first was when you first step through the front door; there was a small entry-room; branching forward was the second section of the house, and branching to the left was a door to another room. From this room you could climb a ladder upstairs to what was likely once a bedroom, and this bedroom connected to another small room (which is directly above the entry-way room below) and possessed a door to a balcony (above the second section) overlooking the village gardens and fields beyond. Back in the entryway again, and leading forward was the second section. This was the largest room in the house and ran from one end of the property to the other. Within this room was the ancestral altar, which had apparently survived a fire and but still in excellent condition. There was also a table, some large old pots to store rice, some decrepit wooden stools, and the foundations for a stone rice pounder set into the floor of the room. The room was lit by the skylight connected to the roof behind the balcony above. Continuing through to the third section of the house was the kitchen and former entryway to the home. I was told that a number of years ago, thieves had broken through the original door and destroyed it so much that it was irreparable and irreplaceable, so Mr. Lem had simply blocked the door with a lovely handcrafted barricade. Leading off the kitchen was another room, which had another ladder leading to the other upstairs portion of the home, but the ladder was broken and we could access the upper floor. I was awestruck by the condition of my ancestral home, and was very proud of all the hard work that Mr. Lem invested in the place (I wish to properly thank him somehow, but am unsure of how to do that; if you have suggestions please comment below!). It was one of the most amazing places I’ve ever been. I really wish I had had the chance to photograph it myself.

And that was the most upsetting aspect of this visit: I wasn’t able to photograph anything, and that really left an impact. In all of the prior rootings we did, I had impeccable experiences within each village simply by padding around and photographing the details of each community. In my debrief later that day, I voiced my dissatisfaction. The day was rushed. I hadn’t had any private time. Mr. Lem made a decent portion of my visit about himself rather than about me. I relayed that I had had more intimate experiences in everyone else’s villages by being able to walk around and see things. I regretted not having any of my own documentation of my own village. If I had been provided the time and opportunity to shoot my own photos of Sui Bo Huey, I know I wouldn’t have been so angry, but because I was prevented from doing the one thing I’m passionate about, in the place I cared for most, my frustration was evident. I toyed with the idea of asking to go back, but because we had such a crammed schedule for our remaining days in Toisan, and because others hadn’t been given the chance to return to their villages, I didn’t think it wise or fair for me to ask to go back.

However, a couple days later, my emotions got the best of me, and in an admittedly dramatic fashion, I asked Al and Derek if I could return to Sui Bo Huey before we left Toisan a few days later. And I am undeniably grateful that they, and the government, let me go back again three days later. ●

↑↑ (1) Group photo of our Roots 2018 family, Lem Fun Koon, Sifu, Long Lǎoshī, Mr. Yang (Young Yang), two other government officials whose names I don’t know, and a village representative inside the alter room of my ancestral home. (2) Group photo outside my ancestral home; you can see the doorway to the house on the left-hand side of the frame.

第六七: 台山

Day Seven: Toisan [Taishan]

07/02/2018

PORTRAIT PHOTOS: Al Cheng

PHOTOGRAPHY, PORTRAIT POST-PROCESSING & COMMENTARY:

Isabella Xu

Second Visit: What happened on 07/02/2018 __________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________________

The day I asked to go back to Sui Bo Huey, we looked over the schedule and finessed a time for me to return on July 2nd, 2018. Accompanied by Al, I would be permitted to return to my Bok Gung’s village, and the day I would go back was the same day as my other village visit. We’d visit my secondary village, my mother’s mother’s mother’s father’s village, in the morning, and after spending a couple hours there, Al and I would peel off from the larger group, return to Sui Bo Huey for a few hours, then would drive back to Toisan city for a late lunch.

The weather that day was overcast, and the sky looked as if I was ready to dump a downpour any second. That morning I awoke, dressed in an almost-monochrome get-up. Along-sleeve Nike running top, Aritzia athletic pants, my camper sandals, and Aritzia fanny pack, I then assembled my camera bag, hell-bent on making sure I secured photographs of my two villages that day.

Skipping past our morning visit to my secondary village (I know, I know, how disappointing! But do not fret, that account will be documented in the next post), with a moderate sprinkle from the heavens, Al and I hop into the car of a driver we hired for the day, and set out for Sui Bo Huey.

I knew that this visit would be wholly different from my previous experience. The only visitors to Sui Bo Huey would be myself and Al. The rest of our group was touring Kona’s second village. Mr. Lem was five hours away doing whatever it is that he does in another province (thereby we couldn’t enter the property, but that was alright). The government official that was supposed to oversee our visit just stopped by for about two minutes, then left. It was just me, Al, my camera and the village (well, and our driver, but he just sat in the car and/or looked at the eggplants or something in the garden). And that was more than I could ask for.

Hopping out of the car, the first thing I do (after taking a photo of Al and the government official) was walk up the same alleyway where the entrance to my ancestral home was located, all the way down to it’s very end (which was only like 50 meters, so nothing extraordinary). Back here were some little shacks, some in nice condition, others not so much. While perusing this little area I spotted an orange chicken (NOT the Panda Express kind, NO) standing on a ledge. It was just existing there, waiting and watching me, and once it noticed me returning it’s gaze, it took a step towards an archway and looked forward. It continued to glance my way, cluck and take another step, as if asking me to follow. As it slowly methodically made its way towards an the arch which led to some little corner of some structure, I decided to follow it. So I hopped up onto the ledge and trailed the chicken through the arch.

Now, I sound like a lunatic when I say this, and I have received nonverbal confirmation of this, but this chicken led me to this little alcove of an abandoned and crumbling structure, with the most beautifully water- and algae-stained walls. On them were large splotches of dirt and vibrant green microorganisms. The bases of the walls were a darkened, soil brownish-black which provided an excellent contrast to the whitish-grey concrete wall. The walls themselves had minuscule cracks and fractures and on one was a yellow and white electrical outlet, with several severed wires dangling from the apparatus. I was really struck by this bitty alcove and really it doesn’t seem that spectacular when you think about it. But I guess I’ve developed a few characteristics of a hopeless romantic over the past year, so cut me a little slack people. It was a really beautiful space. Just take my word for it. Or look at the photographs I shot of it below.

After parting ways with the chicken and the alcove, I found myself face-to-face with exactly the one person in the village I didn’t want to see: an old woman who supposedly weeds around my ancestral home, hates Mr. Lem, and was exceptionally bitter overall my last visit. I had hopped down from the ledge and looked to my right when she spotted me. She was perched on the ledge picking at some weeds and as soon as she laid eyes on me, she beckoned me over. I slowly and hesitantly walked over to stand before where she crouches, when she began blabbing away at me. Of course, I have no fucking idea exactly what she’s saying, but I intuitively knew what she was ranting about (which I had been told a bit about during my first visit): Mr. Lem, me, weeding, and money. After about ten minutes of my only responses to her jabbering being smiles and nods, she stood from her perch and had me follow her to her home, which was the house directly behind my ancestral home. As she disappeared into her home, I panicked a bit and yelled, “HEY AL!! CAN YOU COME OVER

(1) The Al & I ↑↑ (2) The Al & I & a Dog

HERE??!” He sauntered over from somewhere just as she reemerged, scrawling some characters on the back of an old tear-off calendar. She saw Al and began agitatedly mumbling again and motioned for us to follow her inside her home. She showed us into her altar room all the while talking at Al. She’d motion at him, at me, at herself, and in the direction of my family’s home, and even though I can’t understand a single word of what she said, I still knew precisely what she was angry about, and Al confirmed, though with more detail than what I could have inferred. The old woman apparently was asked by Mr. Lem to maintain the exterior of the house by uprooting little weeds that pop up every now and then. The woman claimed that she received no compensation for her weeding from Mr. Lem and that she disliked him very much. From myself and Al (as she believed Al was my grandfather) she demanded three red envelopes of money: one for each time of the year that she weeds. Al told her no, we promptly left her house and her dog followed us.

After that, I decided to go explore deeper into the village and pointed to Al the direction I’d be heading. He told me to be wary of some wild dogs over that direction as he had just been over that way and had seen some nasty specimens of rabidness. Because I’m a naïve piece of crap, and felt brave when

accompanied by the old woman’s dog, despite his warning, I trundled over in the “danger” direction. You would think I’d have been much more discretionary and cautious given my past history with dogs, but I threw that rationality out the window. As soon as my dog companion and I made our way to that side of the village, we were promptly bombarded by two wild dogs. I had hoped the old woman’s dog would have stood its ground against them, but he just scampered off back the way we came. Abandoned, I eventually edged my way around the dogs and tiptoed back to safety, but I was scared shitless.

Arriving in the safe zone, I made my way back towards my ancestral home, the car and Al. I popped out of the alleyway, and whipped my head around in all directions in attempt to spot Al, yet instead of our fearless leader, I instead spotted a kitten perched inside a barred window of the house next to mine. Because I love cats and hadn’t had a chance to interact with any that far in the trip, I padded over to the window to take a closer look. It was an adorable little thing, but clearly looked malnourished and miserable. I placed my hand on the edge of the window sill, and slowly inched my fingers forward so that it could sniff my hand. It reproached my hand a smidge and that movement revealed the reason why it looked so unhappy. There was a clear zip-tie strapped around it’s neck, with a metal chain hooked on the loop: it was shackled to the inside of this house, and it was an abandoned house that. I heard all talking with the driver a ways away, and

Kind Chicken, Lead Me Where? ↑↑ (A kind chicken in a water-stained alcove that it led me to in my Huie [許] ancestral village)

called him over to the window. Al and I spent the next hour or so with that cat (though it was mostly me, Al just stood by shooting photos as always). I was concerned that she would be rabid, hostile and that she would bite and scratch, but the cat found me docile enough to let me pet and photograph her without flinching. After about twenty minutes, she jumped down from the window ledge and disappeared into the abandoned house. The doorway to the house was on the side directly across from my ancestral home’s entryway, and was only blocked by wooden bars bridging the space between the doorframe sides. That being said, I couldn’t enter the property to unchain her, so I spent the next fifteen minutes coaxing the cat towards the door in an effort to unhook her. While doing so, I discovered that she had a sibling, though this cat was unchained, running about and whining all the while. Eventually, my cat and her brother came over to the door, where I had been squatting for far too long, and stepped out between the two lowest wooden bars. I reached down to see if she’d let me touch her, and after a few pets, I unlatched the chain and she was free. After that, she didn’t leave my side (well actually it was more like she didn’t leave my feet; she just stayed under my legs for the next twenty minutes), but that was also because the old woman’s dog wanted to play with my cats, and they didn’t want to play with him.

After another twenty minutes or so with the cat, Al and I decided it was time to leave. I bid goodbye to my kind chicken, my rambunctious dog, my scrawny cat and her ornery sibling, and to the old woman who weeds (who at that point had given up on grabbing my cash and just accompanied us around the village). Al already in the car, I gazed around my periphery a moment longer, then I hopped in the car, and the driver turned the engine. Setting my camera on the seat beside me, I turned and looked out the back window. I waved to the old woman, waved to her dog, and waved to my cats through the glass pane. The car inched forward and gradually accelerated as the framed image of my village receded into the distance. We passed by the row of homes, past the huge pile of trash, past the village gate, past the bright yellow restaurant which marked road to the village, and wheeled onto the main road. As the distance grew greater, I turned back to face forward in my seat. And before I knew it, Sui Bo Huey was gone. ●

(1) Last Vestiges; (2) A Blazing Yellow Roadmarker of More Than Just a Drink; (3) Asymmetric Symmetry ↑↑

(Abandoned restaurant outside the road and gateway to my Huie [許] ancestral village)

#Roots #Roots 2018 #China #Travel China #Guangdong #Taishan #Toisan #Nikon #Nikon D750 #Nikon Photographer #Sui Bo Huey #Huie #Xu

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greaterthannine-blog · 6 years

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Sai Bu Shan: Another China Story

Roots 07/02/2018

BEHOLD, MY GOOD PEOPLE! The second of my two abnormally long and wordy “Roots” posts! Isn’t this thrilling? (Yes, yes it is. Agree with me). Here in Sai Bu Shan: Another China Story I discuss my time spent in my Tom 譚 village in Toisan. This post is long, though not as lengthy and drawling as the last one (Sui Bo Huey: A China Story), yet that’s because I only visited my Tom village once, rather than twice like I did for Sui Bo Huey. Which, I might add, is a good thing. Because it means my visit to Sai Bu Shan was more than satisfactory and didn’t warrant a revisit. Overall: Snazzy.

Anywhosen, in addition to couple images I managed to shoot myself during this visit (Thank they universe they let me shoot my own photographs!), I also included images shot by our leader Al, which I have again crafted to look like film photographs (because differentiation is key). And while not as lengthy as my last Roots post, there’s still a decent amount of verbiage on this page, so if you actually read my wordy brain vomit, and somewhat begrudgingly enjoy reading it, you might (just might) like this post. Anyway, I have nothing else to add in this little intro-bit, so please continue to the paragraphs directly to the right of this page.

你們謝謝 & Merci

Isabella | Abe | 許綺芳 | Huie Yee-Fong | Xǔ Qǐ-Fāng

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My Tom/Tan [譚] Village ______________________________________ ___________________________________________________________

YOU WOULD THINK THAT because I am much closer with this side of my Chinese family, that I would know much more information about our heritage, but I didn’t and don’t. In Sui Bo Huey: A China Story I discussed my ancestral village on my maternal grandfather’s side of the family for which we have the paper name Chin (which is actually my legal middle name) but the real surname of Huie/Xu. On my maternal grandmother’s side of the family, we hold the paper name Low, but with a real surname of Tom (Cantonese)/Tan (Mandarin). Now I’ve mentioned the term “paper name” twice; I will explain that later.

Refocus! Despite how I see my Low/Tom family two to three times a year, village and family information was much sparser, so I went to China with very low expectations. Through research I had several photographs of distant family members visiting the village; I had images of the village gate, and entryway to our ancestral home. However, while I knew that the house where my ancestors lived still existed, I didn’t know the address or of anyone who remembered it’s exact whereabouts. I also knew that the entire Tom family immigrated to the United States, so there wouldn’t be any relatives there to greet me like many of my fellow Rooters had. That being said, this visit to Sai Bu Shan was a shocking but pleasant surprise.

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第六七: 台山

Day Seven: Toisan [Taishan]

07/02/2018

PORTRAIT PHOTOS: Al Cheng

PHOTOGRAPHY, PORTRAIT POST-PROCESSING & COMMENTARY:

Isabella Xu

FIRST OFF, I MAY OR MAY NOT have lied to you. Contrary to every title heading on this page, I’ve lied to you in that this story does not quite begin on July 2nd, 2018. Rather the beginning of my Sai Bu Shan story begins three days prior, during our first day in Toisan. Assembled in the bus that morning, we began driving to another rooter’s village. Only around five minutes from the hotel, alongside the road, we passed by an elementary school completely encompassed by walls. Running along this wall and adjacent to the road was a sidewalk. As we slowly puttered by, at the end of the wall and the correspondingly ending sidewalk, there was an old woman squatting and peeling fruit from an enormous blue basket. Directly left of where the sidewalk ended, and set twenty feet back was a tall structure of some sort, but with my gaze so intently set on the woman peeling fruit, I only noticed her immediate vicinity with detail. Still watching her, Sifu continues forth and the bus turns a corner, and the structure, the sidewalk, and the woman peeling fruit disappear. I turn to face forward in my seat and the image I just observed dissipates from my mind.

Three days later, the morning of my rooting, I hopped onto the bus with the lowest of low expectations for my Tom village that day. As mentioned in the beginning of this post, my knowledge of this family line was so limited (and still is limited) that I envisioned this visit to be exceptionally brief and wholly uneventful. My prediction: We’d step off the bus, waddle around for a bit, point at the greater community and exclaim, “Hooray, that’s my village!” shoot a few photographs (because I was finally allowed and given ample time to photograph my own goddamn village) then we’d clamber back on the bus then leave. Well, that prediction was wrong.

As I sat beside Al on the bus, trundling along Toisan city roads, I peered out the window watching passersby and Toisan residents milling about their day. It was a sleepy Monday morning; kids were walking to school, business owners were opening shop, elder folks were chatting in gossip circles, and everything in between. I was so engrossed with examining peoples’ behavior that I was struck when we suddenly came to a halt, the bus doors beeped and squeaked, gaping open to a grey sky.

While everyone streamed off the bus, heavily surprised by our brief five-minute bus journey, I looked out the window again to see where we were, and my brain realized our location. Through the window pane my line of sight instantly laid upon the same wall and sidewalk where the old woman peeling fruit perched just three days prior. That scene with the old woman wasn’t even notably striking (that sounds insensitive lol), but despite that, I instantaneously recognized the area. I turned my gaze to the left and saw that the structure I hazily remembered was actually a village gate, and better yet, I identified it as the village gate in photographs I found in my research. Excited about the trivial connection I made, I turned to Al and exclaimed, “I saw this place the other day! There was an old woman peeling fruit right there, and I remember watching her as we drove by when going to Jeremy’s village! I can’t believe I didn’t recognize it then!” to which I received a grumble equivalent to a, “Oh, neat.” But reveling in my irrelevant realization, I slid off my seat, camera slung around my neck and head over to begin my insignificant rooting.

After jumping off the bus, we assembled to take a group photo with the Sai Bu Shan village gate, and almost immediately afterwards the grey heavens released the floodgates and a downpour ensues. We took shelter underneath the huge awning of a convenience/knick knack store at the front of the village to wait out the rain; hopefully. Al took the documents I had and along with our young whippersnapper government official Ray, began talking with village representatives and residents to see if they could uncover anything that might be useful in our rooting. They sat at a table during these discussions, and I padded around awkwardly until Al waved me over and said,

“You need to be a part of this. There are some important things happening.”

“But I don’t even know what they’re saying.”

“Well, still. You must be here. It’s your rooting.”

He made an excellently fair point, so I sat beside him as phone calls and discussions continued. This whole time, Ray was on the phone, chatting with who knows who, when his face lit up like a full moon. He said something to Al, then hands to phone over. Al and whomever was on the phone have an animated talk, and after it ended he looked apprehensive yet thrilled at the same time; he now knew something I didn’t and didn’t seem inclined to tell me. He then said we must wait for the rain to stop, so I stood to take a few photographs under the cover of the storefront awning.

After ten minutes or so, Al flagged me down again. I walked over to the table and noticed that there was a new face at the table. On Al’s left was a reserved-looking, small old man wearing a thin-striped polo. His hands were clasped together and resting on the table as Al rifled through my documents to show him. I had no idea who this man was, but apparently he was a village historian of sorts and was knowledgeable of the village heritage. I was told that when Al spoke on the phone with him, the man was exceptionally excited by our visit, and came from fifteen minutes away just to meet us. From what I could see, he didn’t look thrilled at all, but suppose the fact he showed up so soon was testament to his excitement.

Anyways, Al handed the man copies of my handwritten ancestral Tom family tree. He explained to the man that my last family member to reside in the village was my mother’s mother’s mother’s father, my great great grandfather Kun Foo 泮盛. The man (I feel bad that I keep calling this guy “the man” but I never learned his name) examined the tree and pointed to Kun Foo’s name on the page. The man explained that he knew this family name, and told us that ages ago, Sai Bu Shan was home to my ancestral line, but in the past few decades the original families which inhabited the area had relocated when the village was absorbed by Toisan city. But furthermore, not only did he tell us that he knew the Tom 譚 name and detailed village information, he claimed something quite shocking. He said he descended from the same family line. He claimed to be the grandson of Kun Foo’s brother. We were from the same family line.

Yes. Outrageous. I know. I was there.

That being said, while this man seemed quite credible, there was still overhanging skepticism of his truthfulness, but to prove his claims he took us to my ancestral home, where he believed the family alter was still intact (and he just, ya know, knows these things). Because my family no longer has ties to the village, and the community was reclaimed by Toisan city, he said the home was divided into two residences and was being rented to families. He told us we would visit both. Winding through the village alleys, with water from the recent deluge streaming from rooftops, our posse arrived at the door of what the man says is the section of the house that holds the altar. Fortunately, the inhabitants of the house graciously permit us to look around, and all twenty of us file through the entryway, past the kitchen and toilet, and into the altar room, and placed high above the floor, on the raised platform common within these houses was the altar, with a vibrantly orange paper family tree shining down.

The man toddled over to a wooden ladder at the base of the altar, and climbed up to examine it while Al and I held the ladder steady. The man read the document, pointed at some characters and beckoned Al to take a peek himself, and lo and behold the characters 泮盛 for Kun Foo were painted there. The man was telling the truth.

After performing the bai san ceremony (I knew what to do this time; failure redeemed!) and having a quiet moment to myself (which in retrospect was kind of bizarre; here I am, standing in some stranger’s home, thanking my ancestors for their hard work), I rejoined the group outside. The man led us to the other side of the building so we could look inside the other half. It was at this point that the man dropped another bomb: I was the first person in my family to return to China and visit this second half of the house. Other family members (whom I actually knew of and had received family/village info from) had visited the altar side of the home, but I was the first of my family to enter the place where Kun Foo was actually born.

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Well, how about those for some bucket list items?

Visit ancestral village when you had almost no helpful information: Check.

Visit long lost ancestral altar: Check.

Visit site of my great great grandfather’s birth: Check.

Believe you have no surviving relatives in China, but meet a small old man who just happens to be just that: Check.

China is full of surprises.

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(1) Sitting around a table examining documents with Al, the man, Long Lǎoshī, and two village representatives ↑↑

(2) Group photo in the altar side of my Tom ancestral home 譚. Top row from left: village representative, the man, Al, Carol, me, Derek, Jeremy, Diann, another village representative, Robyn. Bottom row from left: Nick, Kona, Candace, Amanda, and Ray (our young-whippersnapper PRC official)

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(1) Having a quiet moment after my bai san ceremony, completely unaware Al was photographing me.

(2) A posed photograph inside the altar side of my ancestral home.

#China #China 2018 #Travel China #Southern China #Guangdong #Toisan #Taishan #Sai Bu Shan #Roots #Roots 2018 #Friends of Roots

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