Object

Christine Wong

MHC Seminar 102

Prof. Constance Rosenblum

In my family’s house back in Hong Kong, there is a spot dedicatedly sanctified (although my family is not religious). Like many traditional Chinese households, we place the “spirit tablets” and the black-and-white photos of our respectable passed relatives on a household altar. It is representative of our lineage. We worship our ancestors with incense sticks, fruits, and in special festivals, roasted meat, a tradition originated from Buddhist practice.

Growing up, the three siblings of us learned to stay away from the altar. It was unavoidable, however, to run into the altar at our apartment in Hong Kong, a city notoriously known for its tight living spaces. The altar is reddish, wooden and basically a “religiously decorated” cupboard without doors. We placed both paternal grandparents and a paternal great-uncle’s photos and spirit tablets on the altar. The blood red light bulbs in the wooden altar add even more eeriness to the black-and-white photos. The copper incense holder is placed in front.

My grandparents passed away before I was born. Their photos are the only impressions I have of them. The burning of incense for them is the only interactions I could have with them. We pray for luck, and tell our ancestors about our wrongdoings and our lives while we worship like they are gods. Most Chinese do that out of tradition and custom, but not of religion. It is the same in our family. We worship, but we do not embrace the beliefs and stories in Buddhism.

Basically, the altar signifies a passing on of family history. For us, it is not of real religious purpose. However, my parents do not talk much about our family history, unless we ask. So, we only know about our grandparents’ deaths and their general dispositions. I was only told that my granddad was a very educated and cultivated man, while my grandma was strict.

We do, more or less, think that our ancestors have some kind of power in our lives. For example, we have to apologize when we “disrespect” the altar. My siblings and I used to toss stuffed animals around the apartment when we were young. For a lot of the times, we knocked the incense holder down to the floor, pouring ashes everywhere. Then we were made to recite two lines of rhyming apologies while pressing both palms together in front of the altar, “有怪莫怪，細路仔唔識世界。” I remember being intimidated by the altar very much.

Now, I have left my country and have abandoned the only interactions with my ancestors. My family members continue the custom in Hong Kong. Perhaps, if my family would later choose to settle in the States with me, they might bring the spirit tablets here, which signifies that we would establish our roots here onward. Since the tablets represent our lineage, moving them here will be testimony to our recognition of immigrating to America and to the shifting of identity as true Americans.

“Lo the devil with seven scarlet cloaks”

Twenty years ago, a young professor of literature and his wife left an uncertain life in Kosovo for a better one in America. That man was my father, and from that day he stepped on U.S. soil, my father has taken on a dual identity. The first was the family man who worked long hours as awaiter to support his family. The second was the stubborn scholar, who felt in his heart an impulse to create. These two forces always balanced each other out, though that of the artist kept my father up late at night, typing away at his manuscript. What was remarkable to me then, as it is still is to me know, is how could he have persisted when the odds looked like they were stacked up against him. Here was a literary man 4000 miles away from his home country, who, far all his talents in his native tongue, could not speak English. This last fact made it very hard for him to apply for teaching positions at the prestigious universities. The scholar that he was, he needed something, a match, to keep the fire in his heart alive.
That match was the “Mountain Wreath,” the Montenegrin epic composed by the Bishop-Prince P. P. Njegoš. Originally, this book was a gift that my mother gave my father on their one-month anniversary—half in love, half in jest. She knew that he had read the book in his youth, as many Yugoslavians were required to, and that he had hated it, but “this time you will forget that you hate it, and love it, because your wife gave it you as a gift.” With that odd logic born from love, it followed that my father actually started to like the book, and see his culture in a different light.
When it was time to leave Kosovo, it was at a particularly unsettling time, and stories about armies preparing to fight were not uncommon. On the day of their flight, as my parents were driving to the airport, having left a village that was nearing violence, my father had just remembered something which caused him to make a painful groan. My mother was frightened that he might have been hurt by someone in the village, but the source of his dread was the “Mountain Wreath” that he had left on the top of his desk at home. Fearing for their safety but unwilling to part with that precious gift, he left his wife by a relative and drove back into the village to retrieve his book. Having escaped with his life and his book, my father and his wife finally left Kosovo.
That book, for all the wisdom it contains, meant as much as it did to my father because it had validated his hard work so that he and his family could prosper.

My father, the emigré (here shown at 30)

The Lucky Charm

Eight years ago when my mom was packing up my luggage, I was sitting on the bed quietly and rolling my eyes around. For the past eleven years in China, I had been living with my mom. I listened to her on every trivial thing. Sometimes I felt that lost the sense of being myself. Not that I had no say on what to do or what not to do, but the fact was I did not have an opinion for it. As a result, I carried two luggage of daily use articles with me — toothbrushes, toothpaste, books, pens, pillows…… and many other gifts that my aunts wanted me to carry to her. Out of these things, nothing was too special to me except for my lucky charm. It brought me back to my memory of the old days in my country.

As I kid, I learned the habit of praying in the temple from my mom. Growing up just a few blocks away from a temple, my mom and I both developed a sense of superstition. But what else can we do during our free time? We had been living in the same area for our lives, and we had tried every possible entertainment. There was no computer in my house. Life was mostly about going out to the street. When I was tired, I liked to step out of my house and get some fresh air. I liked to walk around the neighborhood and sometimes shopped for groceries. After all these activities, there was nothing else I could do. Going to the temple then became one of my weekly routines.

My first experience going to a temple was at a very young age. It was too long ago that I cannot remember when. The one near my house is called the “Big Buddhist Temple.” Almost every Sunday, my mother would drag me to the temple and asked Buddha for good luck. At the beginning, I had no particular interest in the temple, but I was not too reluctant to go. Everytime we passed the threshold of main entrance, there were always two rolls of homeless people sitting on the ground and begging for money. Some of them had extremely poor appearance and sanitary condition. The ragged homeless, some of them were missing body parts, did not scared the pilgrims away. Most of these people were even apathetic towards the homeless. As we passed through the crowd, we would stop by at a store to get sticks of incense. After that, my mom would kneel down on a pad in front of the giant golden statue of Buddha. I imitated her action and started praying by straightening and facing my two palms to each other. Then, she started saying “My Gautama Buddha please have mercy and bless my family.” She prayed for good health for the family, and wished that her family members far away in the United States could have the best luck and earn more money. After years of this practice, I developed trust in Buddha and believed that there are supernatural existences in the world.

A special amulet that I received from my mom before immigrating to the United States was a lucky charm from the Big Buddhist Temple. It should bless me the best luck in my academic career. It has the traditional Chinese decoration with two knots sewed to a small wooden block. One side of the wooden block contains the picture of Wenchange Emperor, who is the king of knowledge and studies. On the other side, there is a big Chinese character that translated into “good fortune.” The red color of the lucky charm means good luck in the Chinese culture. I hanged this lucky charm on the wall next to my desk. In my deepest heart, I believed that I should respect it anytime because it is the source of my good fortune. I always prayed to it before any important exam. Not only that, it is also gift from my mom that draws back my memory on the love and hope that she has for the family.

Family Watch

In my father’s bedroom, buried within the sock drawer, lies a gold watch that was originally my great grandfather’s. The watch has a silver face with silver hands and scuff marks on the acrylic glass and bracelet from the decades of daily use. Surrounding the face is a fluted bezel and shiny white gold links. Today, this watch is rarely worn and is only taken out on very special occasions. My great grandfather was a poor man working as a waiter in rural China in the restaurant industry. Buying such an expensive item while being barely able to make ends meet would seem like a foolish decision. However, buying this watch was one of the few life goals that my great grandfather wanted to pursue. A watch was an item that was universally recognized. Everyone knew its purpose and having a gold watch represented some sort of wealth. My great grandfather’s goal however wasn’t to boast about his nonexistent wealth but to give himself a sense of accomplishment. It was a reminder of the the hard work he put in order to buy this valuable item.

The watch was later passed down to my grandfather and has served many purposes. It has been worn to formal banquets, weddings, and numerous social gatherings. Its classic design raises many questions about its condition, history, and remains as a stylish accessory today. The watch has been in my family for four generations and has played a major role in shaping my family’s immigration history. My grandfather, after inheriting the watch wanted to fulfill his dream of opening his own restaurant. He took the watch as inspiration to pursue to his lifelong goal. After moving to America and putting his life savings towards running his business, my grandfather named the restaurant “Oriental Pearl”, the model of the watch.

The watch now belongs to my father and was given to him when he was 18 years old. As a young adult, my father wasn’t able to understand the significance of the watch. He thought of the watch as just a dirty, old, scratched up piece of metal. As my father grew up and learned more about the story behind the watch, he began to appreciate how the watch played a major role in shaping my family’s history. While studying architecture in California, my father kept the watch in his drawer as a motivation to continue with his difficult studies. Today, my father refuses to polish the the watch as the scratches and dirt represent the past endeavors of him and his ancestors. He proudly wears the timepiece on his wrist eager to tell the story of his family to anyone who asks.

Although the watch itself contains some monetary value, the story behind it is what comprises its value. One day, the watch will be passed down to me where I will be able to write my own story. I will proudly be able to wear the watch when I walk down the aisle of my graduation ceremony remembering the long journey it will take to get to that point. The watch will then be passed down to my children where it will be worn on their wedding day. As time progresses and events occur, the watch will continue to build upon its history, inspiring its owner in telling their immigration story.

your stories our stories

Your Stories, Our Stories

Each part of my family immigrated from different parts of Europe many years ago – mostly in the 19^th century. Unfortunately, this is the principle reason I have few artifacts or links to my family roots. My mother’s family came mostly from Ireland, Germany, and England, and I have nothing from them that links me to their past. My father’s family was German and Italian and while I have nothing from the Italian side of the family, I do have a couple of artifacts from my paternal grandfather’s heritage. One interesting item I have is a small wooden whistle carved by my great great grandfather, Franz Kern, who was from the town of Ulm in Bavaria which is located in the southern part of Germany. He immigrated to this country in the 1870’s and got a job working on the railroads in Reading, Pennsylvania. It’s not surprising because the railroad industry was a booming industry in those days – much like the Silicon Valley of today. My great great grandfather Franz brought over to the United States perhaps what is the most interesting artifact from my family’s past, a family tree that was drawn presumably by some unknown relative, sometime in the 19^th century.

The family tree was drawn on all parchment paper. It appears to be a combination of charcoal and watercolors and the tree itself seems quite old with small green growths of life coming out of what appears to be pruned branches. In the upper right hand corner there is a bluebird with a branch of his beak seemingly ready to add new life to the tree. The pruned branches of the tree show where there is death or a particular line of the family ends. There is even a blackbird perched on a small dead limb, symbolizing death. My family believes that this branch was an infant who died in childhood.

Perhaps what is most interesting about the family tree is the information it contains. Looking closely at the tree and its branches you can see parts of my family grow and flourish and eventually die off. The writing on the tree is in German as are of course all of the names in the various parts of the family. There are names that might seem laughable today to our modern ear – there are Wolfgangs, Henrichs, Johans, and Ludwigs. Not exactly names you hear often today. But this is, after all, a tree that reflects German families going back to the 18^th century and maybe even before that. Interestingly, when somebody has died there is often a small cross next to their name, since my German relatives in Bavaria come from the Catholic part of the country.

The tree also reminds you of the passage of time. There is no name on the tree that I recognize or to whom I have any memory or relationship to or with. It chronicles families that have lived a long time ago but for one reason or another is the reason I’m here.

Great Grandma Cake

On a Saturday morning in December, I wake up to the aroma of sweet bread baking and rise to the sound of feet moving around the kitchen. I jump to my feet as soon as possible, get dressed in no time, and run downstairs to join my family working in the kitchen. My mom does not even need to tell me what to do since I have done this for the past 18 years. I do not even need to look at the recipe anymore, but I do because it is a very special paper to our family. Without further ado, I begin kneading dough while my mother starts folding the already made dough into large crescent shaped bread. After about an hour, the first loaf of about eight loaves is finished, and everyone in the house comes to sample the sweet bread, which we call “great grandma cake.” This baking process has been happening every year in my family since before I was born. In fact, this has been happening in my family for over five generations.

My family, usually very Italian oriented in regards to the traditions we practice, always practices this tradition of baking a family recipe directly from our Czechoslovakian heritage. Around two special holidays, Christmas and Easter, my family would always make this sweet bread with various types of fillings ranging from cheese to poppy seed to cherry preserves to cinnamon sugar. Where anyone can make cinnamon bread or sweet bread any day in modern society, this bread is something of value to my family. Though I do not know much about the history behind the bread, I know it was very important to my ancestors; they had to save up most of their sugar and preserves throughout the year to craft this bread, making it a very special treat to eat.

Perhaps what is more special than the actual bread is the recipe. The recipe has been passed down from generation to generation not just in practice, but the actual paper on which the recipe was originally written on has been preserved and handed down as well. The recipe is written in my great-great grandmother’s Czechoslovakian handwriting and has been translated by my grandmother on the reverse side. This piece of paper is beyond sacred to our family; it contains the history of my family, and it tells a story of a family from a country that no longer exists. Currently, my mother has the recipe paper which was passed down from her mother. Since my brother and sister are not as adamant about crafting the bread, it seems that I will be the next in line to receive the recipe and continue the tradition.

The recipe from my great-great grandmother is not merely special to me in physical means. When I look at the recipe, I see a young girl in Czechoslovakia learning a bread recipe and grabbing the nearest pen and paper to write it down so she does not forget. I also see the same young woman taking her family to America in hopes of escaping a collapsing country on the brink of war. If only she knew how cherished her work was and still is, I am sure she would be very proud to know that twice a year, every year, we  still continue the tradition. I am also sure she would also be proud to know that her sacrifice has created a very strong and loving American family that pays homage to our Czechoslovakian heritage.

Stuffed Grape Leaves

When I visit Egypt, whichever part of my family I would be staying with would greet me with smiles and stuffed grape leaves. Stuffed grape leaves is a food item that has been prepared for special occasions in my family for many generations.  A large family gathering at my grandparent’s home in Egypt was incomplete if we were not served grape leaves. During the month of Ramadan, grape leaves were the main course of our feast after a long day of fasting. To me, this traditional dish represents togetherness. It was not a meal you could eat alone, it was one that required family to prepare and enjoy. Even though almost all of my family is still in Egypt, I feel connected to them when my mom prepares grape leaves in my home.

Preparing grape leaves for a large family is at least a whole day’s work. It was not uncommon for me to walk into my grandparent’s kitchen to find a small army of my aunts or cousins working to feed the whole family. Like an assembly line, some would prepare stuffing, others would roll the leaves into their proper shape, and others would prepare the rolled leaves to be cooked. The stuffing consists of rice, chopped onions, parsley, dill, tomato sauce, salt & pepper, and cumin. The grape leaves are coated with this mixture and rolled using a special technique. Afterwards, the raw wrapped leaves are lightly soaked in chicken stock then heated in a pot for about one hour. Once the aroma of the heating leaves hit the air, our ragtag kitchen staff was ready to reap the fruit of their labor and the celebrating could begin.

Every young woman in my family learns the recipe for stuffed grape leaves and the intricate techniques required to prepare the dish from their mother. Being first generation Americans, my sister and I learned how to make grape leaves to be able to share the tradition with our own families when we grow up. I think serving stuffed grape leaves to my family will help to preserve my roots as an Egyptian and help reaffirm my identity as a child of an immigrant family.

Having the recipe of stuffed grape leaves in my immediate family has helped us make an impact as an immigrant family in New York. Whenever we have guests over we have the opportunity to share a piece of our culture with them when we have dinner. In this sense, we can show other New York families a little part of Egypt. It is incredibly satisfying to watch people who are not native to your home nation enjoy its culture with enthusiasm and curiosity. It delights me whenever one of our guests insists on having the recipe so they can prepare grape leaves for their family. As well as upholding my native culture, it helps Egyptian-American culture grow and have a larger influence on the lives of other Americans.

Hanafuda

Growing up, I enjoyed many afternoons at my grandparents’ house. While my mom worked, they would take me to the indoor playgrounds at Burger King and McDonald’s or watched as I rode my bike up and down the street. My grandfather always seemed busy with work, so my grandma would occupy me by playing games with me, such as Scrabble or my favorite, her Japanese card game. As a child, I didn’t know much about this game, such as its name or what the cards are called, but I knew it was something unique none of my friends got to play. The playing cards, called “hanafuda”, are small tile-like cards that originate from Japan. There are 48 cards to a deck and twelve “suits”, although these cards are very different than the ones we’re used to in the United States. Each suit is represented by a different type of flower or plant, and there are not numbers. There are always two cards in each suit that are exact matches for one another. Additionally, each suit has two special cards. These cards typically feature either a red or blue ribbon with Japanese characters, or an animal, such as a deer or crane. The special cards may have other images, but they will always contain the flower of the particular suit it belongs to and something that distinguishes it as being more ornate or “special”.

When my grandma first taught me this game, I remember being confused with how to remember what each special card meant and how to describe the images on the cards when I had questions. The game, called “Koi-Koi”, was essentially a matching game between the cards in your hand and those on the table, but without numbers, it was harder to play than it sounds! Nevertheless, my grandma was always helpful and kind when she was teaching me; she has always been a loving teacher at heart. I would jump at any opportunity to play with the hanafuda cards when I was spending time at her house. Her teaching me how to play with these cards made me feel exceptional, as if no one else in the world had ever played with them before. I remember once asking if she played with the cards as a girl herself, and when she confirmed, I remember feeling a strong connection to her and my Japanese ancestry. I could imagine my grandma as a girl my age, possibly five or six, sitting with her own grandmother playing this game.

It’s now been over a decade since I first played with the hanafuda cards, and over time, I have eventually stopped spending as much time at my grandma’s house. I haven’t played the game with her in several years, but whenever I go to her house, I see the small deck of cards within the cabinet her living room TV sits next to. Reminiscing about this game and the cherished time I enjoyed playing it with my grandmother makes me think that the next time I’m there, I will definitely try to spark up another round of Koi-Koi.

The Thing on the Wall – Adam Wolfson 3/19/16

The Thing on the Wall:

In my parent’s apartment (my apartment too for the time being) there is a room rather unjustifiably called ‘the gallery’. A couple steps down from the living room, it contains a horizontal file, some shelves, and two closets. When we don’t mind blocking off one of the closets, it has at various time contained a stationary bike, a small trampoline, and the occasional Christmas tree. There is a thing hanging on the wall above the horizontal file. Evidently it’s a piece of art, and I suppose it must be a painting, although it looks very different from any other painting I’ve ever seen. First, it’s divided up like a comic book into two dozen square sections, each displaying a different scene, presumably in sequential order. Secondly, the thing is enormous, especially for a painting. It’s nearly a four feet wide; if we took it down and laid it out flat it would be noticeably bigger than the dining room table. Each ‘panel’ is captioned by a line of text in an unfamiliar language using unknown symbols. Neither my parents nor I know exactly what they say.

I make the painting sound interesting and mysterious here, but for me it was always just part of life. To the extent I thought about it at all, I assumed it was written in Hebrew. My family is largely agnostic now, but a couple generations back were were Jewish. That it was a holdover from those days, like the dusty and unused menorah in the back of the linen closet, did not seem unlikely. More often I didn’t think about it at all. I looked past it, in the way we do to things we see every day. Still, it was the first thing I thought of when I was asked if I had an object that “reflected my family’s immigrant history.”

Sadly, after inquiring to various relatives, the most recent immigrant to America in my family tree first set foot in Boston more than a century ago. Although I can listen to the stories of my immigrant ancestors, I do not have access to anything they possessed while making their journeys to the United States. What I do have, in some abundance, is relatives who travelled to other parts of the world, lived abroad for several years, and then returned here. The painting is a product of one of those journeys.

As it turns out, the writing on the painting is not in Hebrew but Ethiopian. This is not surprising, since it apparently comes from Ethiopia. My great grandfather Harold “Geep” Courlander was stationed there during World War II, working as a journalist  for the United States Intelligence Agency. Geep loved the folk tales and legends of other cultures; so much so, in fact, that he published a book of Ethiopian folktales later in life. It’s not hard to see why he would have been attracted to the painting, which I have learned depicts the legend of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. Precisely where Geep bought the painting is unknown, although my grandmother hinted that he might not have been its first owner. Regardless of where he bought it, he brought it with him when he returned to the United States at the end of the war. When he divorced his wife (my great grandmother) years later she kept the painting, and, in the fullness of time, passed it down to my grandmother, Ricky Courlander. When Geep died he bequeathed his art collection to Ricky who, now owning entirely too many paintings, decided to gift it to my father. It still belongs to him today, hanging in our ‘gallery’ above the horizontal file. It’s entirely possible that it will be passed  on to me someday. If it is, I suppose I’ll do my best to treat it with the respect deserved by a piece of my family legacy, assuming I can find a large enough wall to hang it on.