(All italicized dialogue denotes an exchange in Mandarin.)
My 2023 kicked off with a magical three-week stint in Taiwan. I biked down the east coast of the small island over multiple days, reveling in its mountainous landscapes and green rice fields, so grateful to be speaking Chinese and to be back in Asia after four long years away. One night, while wandering one of Taiwan's many loud, colorful night markets, I received a message from my mom.
"Yi Po's condition has taken a turn for the worse," the message read.
My stomach dropped. My great aunt--Yi Po in Chinese--was a 94-year-old fireball who spent her formative adolescent years against the backdrop of World War II, witnessing firsthand Mao Zedong's creation of the People's Republic of China. She had lived through the Chinese Communist Party's world-shifting policies like China's Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution, having her aristocratic background sapped dry of its wealth, her familial property repossessed by the government in the name of a people-centered nation.
Sure, Yi Po was old, and we knew that this dreaded day would eventually come--but she had been in hearty health for years. When China closed its borders to non-nationals in March 2020, the thought of not being able to see her again hadn't really crossed my mind. Knowing her determined spirit, I was fully expecting her to make it.
"The nurse messaged me. Yi Po is no longer mentally sound," my mom wrote.
"I'm going to apply for a new visa here in Chicago and go see her. What are you going to do?" she then asked, cognizant that I was still very much in the depths of my fellowship travels.
This was January. Though China had finally loosened its lockdown policies after months of historic protest--a truly rare sight in the country given the life-or-death consequences for large-scale demonstrations in its past--its borders had still not opened to non-Chinese nationals. It didn't matter that my immigrant parents had spent the first three decades of their lives in the mainland or that the vast majority of our family still resided there; we were citizens of the US of A now, and our visas were therefore nullified like everyone else's, rendered useless at the start of the virus outbreak.
There I was in Taiwan, a mere 100 miles from the coast of China, but with no way of entering its borders.
I assessed my options. Alex, my younger brother, was still in school at Vanderbilt and wouldn't be able to travel to the other side of the world. Without enough days left in Taiwan to accommodate the lengthy visa process, I did some quick research and found a Chinese consulate available in Bangkok, Thailand--my next stop. Yes, this could work; I could string together the required documents from afar and apply once I arrived. I'd have to change my travel plans around quite a bit, but nothing seemed more important than being able to say goodbye to a dear family member.
"I'm going to apply for a visa in Thailand. Fingers crossed that they accept me, and then maybe we can meet in Beijing," I sent back. "Unfortunately, they don't have available appointments for another three weeks...but this is the best that I can do."
"Okay, son. Stay in touch," she said. "Love you very much."
***
I don't have many memories from before the age of twelve.
One could easily attribute this gaping hole in my history to the many years that have passed, but if I am honest with myself, I think that some kind of repression is at work here--fuzzy, tangled threads that I continue to unravel under the caring eye of a therapist, connecting weekly on FaceTime even throughout my travels.
Though my experiences as a small boy in Chicago suburbia largely escape me and haze together, my clearest recollections--interestingly enough--are isolated to my summers in Beijing.
There, with the immediate access and support of extended family, my parents were gentler versions of themselves, the jagged edges of their awkward existence in the USA softening alongside laughing relatives and longtime friends. Released from the throes of school, Alex and I made this pilgrimage back to the motherland every summer vacation, spending the months of June, July, and August in the sweltering, humid heat of northern China.
This time of year was synonymous in our young minds with the concepts of family and food. I can remember sitting across a lazy Susan from Yi Po, always a spinning collection of our favorite things to eat: thick, tart black bean noodles, tangy tomato dough knot soup, stir fried eggs with chives, Peking roast duck. "Wow, you guys have gotten so big! Must be from eating all that beef in America," she said, using her chopsticks to skillfully pincer each dish and stuff our plates.
My mom, Alex, and I were all crammed into a cozy one-bedroom apartment alongside a rotating cast of young nannies and visiting family members. I can remember our tiny glass dining table, how my feet were unable to touch the ground when we sat down for a meal. With legs swinging, our thighs sticking to the plastic chairs beneath us, Alex and I obediently waited as Po Po--our grandma and Yi Po's younger sister--served us plates of fresh, steaming red shrimp. We peeled off their soft shells and dipped their red, meaty flesh into sour black vinegar, popping them one by one into our mouths, the hair on our foreheads flat and shiny with sweat.
Some days, we'd simply lay around and listen to the sounds of the city, enveloped in the arms of midsummer boredom, opening our windows to welcome the inhale and exhale of croaking cicadas. With loose tank tops framing our small, damp bodies, we tried and failed to fall asleep, our futile efforts punctuated by the melodic hollers of watermelon vendors in the distance.
Other days, we were paid a visit by Gong Gong, our grandpa, who still spent most of his days working despite his old age. "My dear grandsons! Oh-kay! Very good!," he always exclaimed in his limited, broken English, to which Alex and I inevitably teased him for.
"Gong Gong," we said, "you don't have to speak in English with us. We know how to speak Chinese!"
"No!" he responded. "I do not-uh speak Chinese."
Though I had a hard time remembering the names of all my supposed aunties and uncles and cousins each time I visited China, Yi Po, Po Po, and Gong Gong were always beloved constants. As kids, they brought us to karate classes and swimming lessons under the piercing rays of a midday sun, taking us to different nooks and corners of Beijing, revealing to us a world that felt alien and familiar all at once. "Taxi!" they called out at the corner of a busy street, arm outstretched. We clambered in and stared out the window at the passing vibrant cityscape--the smoking moped riders, white-collared cyclists, and uniformed students suddenly appearing in framed view, and then fading out just as quickly.
These summer trips were given no special significance in my boyish mind. It was a simple, given fact that our family alternated between these two extremely distinct cultural worlds, spending nine months in Barrington, Illinois, and the rest of the year across the ocean. Looking back, however, they are my most prized--and some of my only--childhood memories: precious moments of when I felt most like a young boy. Cared for and doted on by extended family, I was suddenly no longer the eldest son of Chinese immigrants living in an equestrian suburb of the American Midwest. In Beijing, I settled into the safety of just being a kid.
***
After nearly two weeks in Thailand, I arrived at the consulate in Bangkok half an hour before the office opened to secure an early, guaranteed position in line. To my surprise, about 25 people had already gotten there before me--nearly all individuals and families of Chinese descent who, like me, no longer resided in the country, but desperately needed to return after four long years away. Though travel into the mainland had not fully resumed, every appointment slot was taken. For one reason or another, these people had all decided that there was no longer time to waste.
As the 9 AM opening approached, the space became more and more packed. We watched as each new applicant stepped off the elevator and looked around, unbelieving, eyes wide with the realization that maybe they wouldn't be getting their visas after all.
We were herded into the office and drew number slips before being directed to a large, open waiting area, where we sat facing large screens and a row of booths behind a glass wall. We waited. "49, Booth 16," the screens flashed, and the rest of us looked on as number 49 sauntered across the room.
Finally, my number was called.
"Ni hao," I greeted the young Thai representative, unsure of which language to use.
"Hello, sir," she responded in perfect Mandarin. "How can I help you?"
"I'm hoping to apply for a new visa today. I have my papers and passport with me here."
I pulled out a fraying manila folder, a massive collection of documents weaved together across continents: an invitation letter to China from my grandparents, copies of the fronts and backs of their official forms of identification, a copy of my passport, proof of my legal residence in the USA, proof of my legal stay in Thailand, a copy of my birth certificate, a copy of my previous Chinese visa, and the actual 10-page visa application.
"I'd be happy to help you with that," she said, glancing at my American passport. "Do you speak English? I'm more fluent in English, and it would be easier for me to explain everything to you."
"Yes," I replied.
"Perfect," she said. "It looks like you already have a Chinese visa that's set to expire in 2027. In order to process this new visa, we're going to have to cancel the old one. Is that alright with you?"
"Yes," I said, secretly steaming that I had to apply for a new one in the first place.
"Well then you're all set," she continued. "You'll be able to pick up your passport early next week."
I left the office and passed by a massive horde of new applicants lined out the door, thanking God that I had the foresight to come so early in the day. I was hungry after such a stressful morning, and I walked to the inner city to grab a bite. Surrounded by the orchestra of Bangkok traffic, I pulled out my phone and started a text message to my mom.
"We're all set, I'm going to book the China flights now...they should have no problem accepting me by next week," I sent. "I'm going to spend the weekend at the beach to take my mind off things."
"Perfect, my visa is also almost ready to go here in Chicago," she quickly replied despite our 12-hour time difference. "I'll see you in Beijing. Have fun. Love you very much."
I closed iMessages and opened an app called WeChat, China's primary messaging service, and navigated to my conversation with Yi Po: a series of unread texts updating her on our efforts to come back and see her. I scrolled up to the last thing she had sent me on January 1, 2023.
"Happy new year, wishing my dear Matthew a year of peace and health, of safety and wellbeing!"
I stared at my screen.
"Hi Yi Po...I just applied for a Chinese visa here in Bangkok," I finally wrote.
"We're on our way. Please wait for us just a little while longer."
***
In the early childrearing years of an immigrant family, it's common for grandparents and elderly relatives to fly across the world to help raise the young children, staying for long seasons at a time. Like in the Academy Award-winning film, Minari--in which a Korean family moves to an Arkansas farm in search of its own American dream--my young life in the suburbs of Chicago was also punctuated by the occasional presence of my grandma and her sister. It's hard for me to imagine what they got up to during those days, unable to speak English or even leave the house without a driver's license; they had arrived purely to support my tired parents in caring for Alex and me. Though I don't have many specific memories from that time, my body is left with a feeling of contentment. Our modest house felt fuller and richer with them around, constantly filled with the herbal, peppered aromas of their cooking.
Our family fell into a sort of annual rhythm, spending summers in Beijing and pockets of the school year alongside visiting family members like Yi Po, who could still sit through a 13-hour international flight and chef up multiple gourmet meals per day back then. But as the years passed and my brother and I grew into young adolescence, Yi Po's body shrank, downsized, became more childlike. Suddenly, there were no more two-way cross-continental visits; our only chance to see extended family became limited to our trips to Asia, once a year.
We entered high school. The schedules of Alex and I became more and more demanding, our trips to China less and less frequent. Without as many opportunities to speak in Mandarin on a regular basis, I could feel myself losing command of the language, the faults in my fluency made glaringly obvious when I stepped off the plane and opened my mouth to speak. Though I couldn't identify it back then, I felt a certain sense of confusing melancholy, of growing displacement. With each passing year, my family and I seemed to grow further and further apart: in language, in culture, and in the time we were able to share together.
Still, I loved visiting Yi Po when I could, sitting at her bedside in the elderly home she had spent the past three decades of her life. Never married, the majority of Yi Po's social interactions came from familial visits like ours, and the arrival of my mom, Alex, and I was a special annual event. "Wow, you guys have gotten so big," she said, smiling ear to ear, with even more of her teeth missing.
Many years passed in this way. I went to college; Alex graduated from high school. But whenever all of our schedules aligned and a pocket of time presented itself, we made the voyage back to Beijing. Yi Po was no longer able to walk or get around easily, so our visitations were rather uneventful--we said hello, chatted for a couple of hours, and said our goodbyes, looking forward to the next time we'd be able to see each other. Though old age had slowly eroded many of her physical capacities, my great aunt was still sharp as a tack, her mind focused and clear during our conversations. Yes, she was approaching a whopping ninety years alive on earth, but showed no signs of mentally slowing down any time soon.
Even when China closed its borders in March 2020, we maintained a weekly--sometimes daily--communication with Yi Po over video chat, especially in the early days of quarantine. With the CCP's zero-tolerance playbook to quell outbreaks of COVID and its subsequently stringent lockdown measures, we needed to make sure that our family members overseas were doing OK. Though none of us knew when we'd be able to hold each other in person again, our regular face-to-face calls over WeChat provided a temporary solace.
Harnessing its reach and surveillance power as an authoritarian state, life in China returned to something approaching normal before anywhere else in the world--all within a bubble created to shield its 1.4 billion people from a raging pandemic that had claimed millions of lives across the globe. The emergency protocols were strict---suspension of public transportation, 30-day quarantine periods, confinement of Chinese citizens to their homes for months at a time--but surely, this careful approach was better than the overwhelmed, sorry situation that many countries found themselves in.
But then an entire year passed. And then two.
While society roared back to life in other nations, things had still not eased up in China. After literal years spent staring at the walls of their homes, people were restless and eager to return to the normalcy of their lives, pandemic or not. They found the government's COVID guidelines increasingly arbitrary and exploitative. Anger brewed across the country, but with the CCP's heavily censored digital environment, this rage had no proper outlet, no way to assemble or converge, as social media accounts criticizing the official handling of the virus were suspended, deleted, and erased from existence.
Things came to a head in late November 2022 when 10 people died (according to an formal tally, that is) in a high-rise fire in Urumqi, the regional capital of Xinjiang, in western China. It was widely believed that COVID restrictions prevented the victims from escaping, and bottled fury spilled into the streets, first in Urumqi and then across cities like Chengdu, Wuhan, Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou. It was the boldest display of dissent against Chinese authorities since tanks marched into Tiananmen Square in 1989, massacring thousands of students demanding political reform.
Mesmerizing videos began to circulate the Internet. At a vigil in Shanghai, mourners held up blank sheets of paper, illuminated by the shifting flicker of candlelight. Another viral clip showed a young woman marching among pedestrians holding a sheet of paper, her mouth covered with black tape, her wrists bound with chains. To protest in the face of censorship required creative, symbolic methods of defiance. In the words of Judy Rosen, "[The blank paper's] power rested in a shared understanding, by both the public and the authorities, of the unwritten message; it rested also in the awareness that to say anything at all was to run afoul of a government that brooked no opposition, suppressing even the suggestion of an intention to speak."
In an effort to save face internationally and in a rare bowing of its head to the Chinese people, the CCP eased its pandemic restrictions in early December 2022, but in an abrupt, all-or-nothing manner. The exacting systems of contact tracing and mandatory tests every 48 hours were suddenly gone; without warning, Chinese society became a free for all, and cases of the virus exploded everywhere, all at once. China had achieved over 90% coverage of vaccination in its population, but without gradually acquired herd immunity, COVID ripped through its 1.4 billion people, with some experts estimating at least 60-80% of people in major cities that were infected during the outbreak's peak.
Official numbers reported relatively low numbers of cases, but anecdotally, the situation could not have felt more different. WeChat social circles were flooded with stories of diagnoses and untimely deaths. Much like other countries around the world, Chinese hospital infrastructure was overwhelmed, and society's most vulnerable communities--the elderly and the weak--were hit the hardest.
***
Newly reunited with my mom in Beijing, we knocked on the door of my grandparents, Po Po and Gong Gong. The last time I saw them, they were still living on their own in a small apartment near the Beijing Olympic Stadium, but during our four long years apart, they had moved into an elderly home. This was February, meaning that the worst of China's infectious climax had passed, but people were still on high alert--and so we masked up before entering the building.
The door opened. "Gou Gou!" Po Po exclaimed, calling me by my childhood nickname in Chinese, which literally translates to "dog dog."
I embraced her. She had lost at least twenty to thirty pounds since my last visit to China and felt frail in my arms. My Po Po, who was always known to look much younger than her actual age, seemed to have aged fifteen years in the last four.
I turned the corner. "Gong Gong, hello," I said, giving him a hug as well.
"My dear grandson," he replied in his signature stilted English.
They showed us around their new assisted living space: a spacious, light-filled two bedroom apartment with rows of books and photos of my mom, Alex, and I lining the walls. I was so happy for them and their new home, clearly a space marked by attention and care in contrast to the dreary, miserable image of some retirement communities.
Our overdue reunion was joyous and bittersweet--I was beyond ecstatic to see them again, and at the same time, I lamented everything that had changed. The tiny apartment in which I grew up visiting them no longer existed. I grieved the years during lockdown that we lost out on together.
Po Po sniffled.
"Yi Po..." she started.
"Yes," my mom said. "Yes, Ma, we know."
***
It was a gray, overcast day when my mom and I arrived at the cremation center. Groups of mourning people dressed in black and masked in white N-95's rushed about, moving to and fro. Still mired in the depths of China's national virus outbreak, it was clear that the short-staffed center was running on a tight schedule. Though they approached each death and grieving family with the utmost respect, they still operated with an underlying sense of urgency, guiding us through each step of the process with a direct, reverent haste.
Yi Po passed away on February 4, 2023. I received my Chinese visa in Bangkok on the 7th and arrived in Beijing on the 8th.
We didn't make it in time to say goodbye.
I found out one early afternoon in a Thai beachside town called Hua Hin, located about three hours driving from Bangkok. I received a WeChat message from someone who introduced herself as my Da Yi Ma--which literally translates to "big aunt," but whose English equivalent is most nearly "second cousin"--notifying me that Yi Po's heart had stopped beating.
During China's COVID peak, Yi Po's elderly home was hit hard; many of its especially susceptible residents and employees passed away, their immune systems unprepared for the sudden onslaught of infections all across the country. Yi Po and her fiery vitality put up an impressive fight--she was one of the few to contract the virus and make it to the other side of a 102°F fever. She returned to a miraculous state of full health for a couple of weeks, but in the end, the lingering effects of the illness got to her after all.
I grabbed my towel and walked to the sea, plopping myself down onto the grainy sand. I watched as the waves rhythmically crashed into the shore, my mind lulled into a state of stunned hypnosis.
Under a pair of dark shades, the tears fell.
I felt helpless and frustrated and absolutely furious that the arbitrary measures of a government apparatus restricted my ability to see Yi Po for years, and then--in a sudden, irresponsible, laissez-faire reversal of policy--essentially took her away from me.
"I'm sorry, ma," I sent to my mom, knowing that she wouldn't see the news for a few more hours until she woke up on the other side of the world.
With our flights already booked and travel preparations made, we flew to Beijing anyways. Even though we weren't able to hold Yi Po's hand as she passed, we could still make it in time to coordinate the funeral.
We were ushered from room to room, picking out flowers, writing farewell inscriptions, and choosing the urn we wanted her ashes to be stored in. Occasionally, my gaze wandered to the other many individuals at the center, curious about who and what had brought them there, wondering how our experiences overlapped and where they diverged. This was my first time ever witnessing such a place, an institution purely dedicated to the end of life, and my attention kept getting drawn away.
From afar, I stared at a young woman sitting on a stone bench, clutching a large, framed portrait to her chest. "MA! MA!" she howled over and over with her head thrown back, yelling at the sky. A silent, older woman sat next to her and rested a consoling hand in the cradle of her arm.
"Gou Gou," my mom snapped, sensing my distraction and pulling me back to the present."Please help me."
Suddenly, it was time for the actual funeral. We had a thirty-minute slot to get in and get out, so our ceremony needed to be swift and orderly. Outside the ritual room, we exchanged hugs with a small group of relatives and friends who had gathered for Yi Po's passing: a combination of vaguely familiar faces and other alleged family members who were all but strangers to me. Following the orders of the cremation center representative--a short-statured, middle-aged woman wearing glasses who ushered us along with a gentle, firm respect--we lined up in rows of two and entered the funeral space.
The room was tight. Wreaths of white and yellow chrysanthemums lined the walls, adorned with vertical scrolls of Chinese proverbs. Yi Po's flower-covered body laid in the middle of the room, her raised coffin encased by transparent glass. We stood around the glass as Chinese folk music played from a nearby speaker.
Yi Po never married and never had children of her own, so my mom--her niece--was effectively a daughter to her, and by proxy, I her stand-in grandson. I was handed a miniature portrait of Yi Po to hold on to during the service: a sacred responsibility reserved to those considered next of kin. In my other hand, I held an iPhone, a virtual portal to the other side of the world where my younger brother, Alex, sat and watched from Nashville, 7000 miles away. Seeing his pixelated visage and holding up my phone camera to get the best angle possible of the funeral space, I couldn't imagine a more poignant portrayal of what it meant to live unmoored from one's native land.
My mom began to push through her eulogy. Even though I typically consider myself to be natively fluent in Chinese, the gaps in my knowledge were made immediately evident outside the vocabulary of ordinary life, as her poetic, academic language left me lost. I cursed myself for not being able to fully understand the tongue of my motherland, the nuances and intricacies of my own family's language. God damn it, we were saying goodbye to Yi Po, and I couldn't even understand what was being said.
I tuned out and thought back to the many tender summers we spent together, to all of the meals we shared. Children may not have been in the picture of Yi Po's life, but she sure treated us like gold, like her own kids, caring for us at every stage, greeting us every time with a loving, toothless grin. Though I can't remember a lot from my own childhood, many of the cherished moments that have stayed with me are infused with her attentive, adoring spirit. In saying goodbye to her, it felt like a protected piece of my existence was also disappearing forever.
Through the iPhone screen, Alex wiped at his red cheeks. The rest of us quietly allowed our tears to stream, soaking our masks, making solemn space for my mom's words of farewell.
"Dear family members and friends," the cremation representative finally said. "Today, Yi Po has received our well-wishes and blessings in her passage to the afterlife. Please join me in sending her off with three final bows."
I coughed and tried to get it together, my throat tight with emotion.
This was it.
"One," she said.
We all bowed from our waists and lowered our heads.
I stared at the brown, tiled floor.
"Two."
We bowed again.
Goodbye, Yi Po, I thought. I love you.
"Three."
***
After the service and cremation process, we returned to the elderly home of Po Po and Gong Gong to share a meal as a family, a tribe united in the face of tragedy. Seated around a massive lazy Susan and glistening plates of braised meats, stir-fried vegetables, and herbal broths, we celebrated Yi Po's life, filling our stomachs to stuffed satisfaction.
Unable to bear the image of her sister's passing, Po Po decided to stay home with Gong Gong, abstaining from attending the ceremony. Her eyes were teary, but she was equally as joyous about gathering so many of us in one place.
"How rare a thing it is," she said, sucking her teeth, "to have everyone seated together like this."
I was surrounded by faces young and old that I couldn't quite place, but transported me back in time to different childhood memories: summer fishing trips, spicy lamb skewers, long strolls along the Olympic Boardwalk in Beijing. I sat and ate next to Guai Guai, a young woman in her early thirties. My mom introduced her to me as my alleged second cousin; judging by the look on Guai Guai's face, she was equally as surprised to know of my American existence.
"Wow, you're really pretty good at using chopsticks, huh," she remarked, watching me pinch at the rotating table of plates. I shot back an amused, incredulous head cock.
"I mean, yeah...," I replied, smiling, unsure of what else to say.
I glanced at my mom across the way, who spoke with theatrical fervor to cousins she grew up with, regaling them with tales of Alex and I and our foreign lives. With Yi Po's passing, Po Po and Gong Gong were suddenly the oldest, active members of the family, and I watched as people fussed over them, serving them food, attuned to their every need. I marveled at the sight of these supposed relatives and listened attentively as they spoke, describing their days, occasionally dishing in on family drama. I have family drama? I thought, my excitement surprising me.
Over the past year, I've had the opportunity to experience life with different families around the world. As someone whose peers are lucky to see their families more than a few times per year in the USA, I've been truly wowed by the emphasis on connectedness and community across the globe, how central of a role family plays in the day to day of so many people. From India to Rwanda, I witnessed the close ties--admittedly, sometimes to a fault--that threaded generations together, each clan marked by an alternating troupe of interesting characters, the brightness and vibrancy their presences brought to the mundane. I recognized how, when they banded together, difficult times suddenly seemed simpler, less daunting. I imagined how their solidarity brought safety and hope through the highs and lows, the years and decades.
Growing up as a child of immigrants, it was me and my small immediate family against the world. If we ever got into real trouble, we implicitly understood that no relatives were going to be around to help us. We learned how to be completely self-sufficient, allying ourselves with other Chinese-American families in our local community, bounded by a shared sense of familiarity and the necessity to live on. I had long ago accepted this uprooted fate as a trade-off for my parents' decision to build a courageous, new life on the other side of the planet. But my travels held an honest mirror up to these budding years, casting my memories with a new, reflective light.
I wondered what growing up might have looked like with cousins and aunties and grandparents around, how different our childhoods might have been if they could have easily popped in and out of our home. I wondered what might have become of my parents' marriage, whether their relationship would have collapsed under the stresses of immigration if they had their siblings and parents there alongside them. Was their fractured connection a doomed mismatch from the start? Or did it gradually erode during the years and years focused on survival?
Thankfully, I had the privilege of making annual summer visits to Beijing as a kid, granting me a rare opportunity to connect with my roots and ancestors that many children of immigrants don't have access to. But I still don't think I realized just how much I--along with my dad, mom, and younger brother--was missing out on until observing the lives of others firsthand.
So to return to China after four long years away in the wake of Yi Po's passing, to be reminded that my family is actually huge and ready to band together at a moment's notice, God, I have never felt so held by my own blood. Though I live 7000 miles away, I can rest in the knowledge that our connection exists on a dimension beyond time and distance. My weeks in Beijing were charged and painful, but they granted me a glowing warmth that I carry with me to this day. I can now move through the world knowing everyone stands just behind me, their palms pressed flat against my back--pushing, reaching, longing.