酷我-北美枫

[ericcoliu]

Reading, Writing, and Life on the Page


Life Sketches: Stories about My Mother and Me

(This piece is dedicated to my mother, with love and thanks for all she has done for me throughout my life)


I believe the great majority of people will not challenge my claim: "Mommy" is the first word a little boy will say, the very word which initiates the beginning of a lifelong relationship of a mother to a son. In between childhood and adulthood many stories will take place, some growing out of love and expectation and others entailing joy and sorrow. The bond between my mother and I has lasted for more than four decades, and so many stories have unfolded through my recollections:


I. My “Autobiographical” Memory

When I was three years old, it was the first time my family brought me to tour Mount Yangming, Taipei, where well-maintained walkways and trails lead visitors to scenic spots such as waterfalls, volcanic craters, lakes, and hot springs. While my family immersed themselves in the tremendous view, I focused my attention excitedly on a little stone by the side road. “Look at this pretty pebble!” I exclaimed or I was later told that I said so. My mother repeated this story to me in varied versions on many occasions, particularly when she wished to make a point about how easily amused I was, or to remark on my ability to find joy in small things. When I think back on this incident, I cannot remember any of it. I have no means of verifying whether or not this story is factually true, except through my faith in the eyewitness account of my mother -- whom I absolutely have no reason to doubt.

I have heard this story so many times that the experience has become an inseparable chapter of my personal history, which experts refer to as “autobiographical” memory. I don’t even need to hear the story to remember what it recalls. For me, it is no longer important what actually happened, what the details of that moment were, or if my actions as a three-year-old were misconstrued or reinterpreted through years of hindsight and recurrent recollection. My sense of self incorporates this story as if it were true. Its factual content is far less important than the identity shaping from the story’s recollection; it forms a common point of reference between me and my mother, and those with whom we share this story. The circumstances of its re-telling cultivate, reshape, and eventually consolidate the bond among us.


II My First Experience of Schooling

I was so excited about the first day of going to kindergarten because that would really be my first experience of schooling. My mother, excited as well, took good care to prepare me about everything related to school activities weeks ahead . Even the day before school officially started, my mother took me to the school, and helped me get familiarized with the surrounding environment.

Finally, the big day came. Upon hearing the honk of the school bus, I was so eager and ready that I rushed into the bus, and forgot to say goodbye to my mother. Back home that afternoon, I could barely stop talking about my day while my mother kept nodding her head with a big smile.

The next morning, my mother woke me, and said “It’s time for school.”

I stared at her in a cheerful mood, “Does it happen again?”

Pausing for a moment with tears welling up the edges of her eyes, my mother replied, “Yes, you’ll have another happy day in school.”


III My Mother’s Chicken and Egg Question

My mother never got much schooling and so lived her life as many women of her time did -- as a housewife managing the household. Family affairs were the sole focus of her life, and the goings on of the world held little interest. But everyone knew that my mother had a big heart for people around her, and that it was agonizing for her when she read the headlines about human atrocities occurring around the world.

One October morning twenty-six years ago, I was one of a myriad of tortured Taiwanese high school students preparing for the National Entrance Examination. I got up early and entered the kitchen. I pushed aside the newspaper on the dining room table, and buried my head in my notes while awaiting my mother’s breakfast preparation.

"Mother, where is my breakfast?" I impatiently spoke out loud.

My mother, standing still in front of the stove, didn’t answer my question.

"Mother, I need to go to school earlier today. Can you do the cooking quickly?" I shouted loudly, and then immersed myself again in my notes.

After a while, a bizarre question was uttered from my mother’s mouth, “If chickens knew what they were out for, they’d rather stay in their eggs.” She was scrambling eggs at the time.

"What are you talking about -- the chicken and egg thing?" I raised my head and turned towards my mother; I was surprised to see tears rolling down her face.

After years of schooling, I have had no clue about how my mother came up with this chicken and egg question. More importantly, I can’t figure out why I still think of this question.


IV My Mother's Dream

(The following piece was accepted and published in the No. 65, 2009 issue of CANADIAN STORIES, a literary magazine featuring family stories, personal experiences and memories of the past)

I remember the night before I immigrated to Canada. My mother was helping me to pack my luggage, and she began to tell me about the dream she had had the night before.

In her dream, she stood holding me in her arms firmly and helplessly, unable to see anything ahead of her, for she was enveloped by darkness. I, on the other hand, was resting in her arms, completely unaware of her situation. She felt alone and her face was sweating. With the passage of time, she found my body becoming heavier and heavier, and she began to panic, not knowing how long she could stand firmly and hold me tightly. At this terrible moment in her life, the only thing occupying her mind was how catastrophic it would be if she fainted and let go of me. A pain rose gradually from her feet and finally up to her shoulders and arms. She gritted her teeth and endured her pain, praying to her Goddess for help.

At the moment when my mother reached the point of almost total despair, suddenly, a spot of bright, clean space appeared by her side. The space was completely flat and big enough to accommodate me. Full of gratitude to her Goddess, she used her last ounce of strength to put me down gently while I remained sound asleep. As soon as I was laid on the ground, the earth unexpectedly began to tilt. My place of rest was now a slope. I started to slide down very quickly. While careening down, I suddenly grew up, and within few minutes was no larger than a speck of dust. My mother cried out in unspeakable desperation.

Still helping me to pack, my mother looked gently at me for a moment with tears welling up in the edges of her eyes, and said, "Take good care of you while you are away from home."


V Reigning in My Memory

(What follows is an edited version of Raining in My Memory, which was accepted and published in the Winter 2007-2008 Issue (print and online) of The Stellar Showcase Journal, a literary journal affiliated with the Canada Cuba Literary Alliance and The Ontario Poetry Society)

The rain is coming down heavily, splashing against the window and pounding the pavement. I sit by the window in my warm house, watching it fall in buckets. It is falling so forcefully that it is making the delicate branches of the rose flowers in my front yard bow low to the ground, many of their petals now lying scattered.

The rain reminds me of how, as a child, I would sit by the front screen door that faced the main street and stare out into the rain. I enjoyed seeing people rushing along the sidewalk and pulling their coats over their heads in an attempt to avoid the forceful downpour, and watching the rainwater splashing back up in a dense spray as they trod over the puddled road; particularly, I enjoyed listening to the rhythmic, pata pata sound of the rain’s bombarding the road's surface. While I was sitting inside my warm house and watching these sights and sounds, it somehow made me feel safe and secure.

The rain also puts into my mind the smell of my mother. She always had her eye watchfully on the weather, ready at the first sign of rain to rush out and fetch the washing off the clothes lines. I can remember the way she smelled when she came in through the door way with two handfuls of clothes, damp and cold. It seemed to me that the rain had penetrated into her skin, her muscles, and her bones, depleting them of life and warmth.

The rain keeps falling down, without the slightest hint of letting up. The rhythmic, pata pata sound is reigning in my memory.


To be continued …
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul

[[ericcoliu]]

Reading, Writing, and Life on the Page


Life Sketches: Stories about My Mother and Me

(This piece is dedicated to my mother, with love and thanks for all she has done for me throughout my life)


I believe the great majority of people will not challenge my claim: "Mommy" is the first word a little boy will say, the very word which initiates the beginning of a lifelong relationship of a mother to a son. In between childhood and adulthood many stories will take place, some growing out of love and expectation and others entailing joy and sorrow. The bond between my mother and I has lasted for more than four decades, and so many stories have unfolded through my recollections:


I. My “Autobiographical” Memory

When I was three years old, it was the first time my family brought me to tour Mount Yangming, Taipei, where well-maintained walkways and trails lead visitors to scenic spots such as waterfalls, volcanic craters, lakes, and hot springs. While my family immersed themselves in the tremendous view, I focused my attention excitedly on a little stone by the side road. “Look at this pretty pebble!” I exclaimed or I was later told that I said so. My mother repeated this story to me in varied versions on many occasions, particularly when she wished to make a point about how easily amused I was, or to remark on my ability to find joy in small things. When I think back on this incident, I cannot remember any of it. I have no means of verifying whether or not this story is factually true, except through my faith in the eyewitness account of my mother -- whom I absolutely have no reason to doubt.

I have heard this story so many times that the experience has become an inseparable chapter of my personal history, which experts refer to as “autobiographical” memory. I don’t even need to hear the story to remember what it recalls. For me, it is no longer important what actually happened, what the details of that moment were, or if my actions as a three-year-old were misconstrued or reinterpreted through years of hindsight and recurrent recollection. My sense of self incorporates this story as if it were true. Its factual content is far less important than the identity shaping from the story’s recollection; it forms a common point of reference between me and my mother, and those with whom we share this story. The circumstances of its re-telling cultivate, reshape, and eventually consolidate the bond among us.


II My First Experience of Schooling

I was so excited about the first day of going to kindergarten because that would really be my first experience of schooling. My mother, excited as well, took good care to prepare me about everything related to school activities weeks ahead . Even the day before school officially started, my mother took me to the school, and helped me get familiarized with the surrounding environment.

Finally, the big day came. Upon hearing the honk of the school bus, I was so eager and ready that I rushed into the bus, and forgot to say goodbye to my mother. Back home that afternoon, I could barely stop talking about my day while my mother kept nodding her head with a big smile.

The next morning, my mother woke me, and said “It’s time for school.”

I stared at her in a cheerful mood, “Does it happen again?”

Pausing for a moment with tears welling up the edges of her eyes, my mother replied, “Yes, you’ll have another happy day in school.”


III My Mother’s Chicken and Egg Question

My mother never got much schooling and so lived her life as many women of her time did -- as a housewife managing the household. Family affairs were the sole focus of her life, and the goings on of the world held little interest. But everyone knew that my mother had a big heart for people around her, and that it was agonizing for her when she read the headlines about human atrocities occurring around the world.

One October morning twenty-six years ago, I was one of a myriad of tortured Taiwanese high school students preparing for the National Entrance Examination. I got up early and entered the kitchen. I pushed aside the newspaper on the dining room table, and buried my head in my notes while awaiting my mother’s breakfast preparation.

"Mother, where is my breakfast?" I impatiently spoke out loud.

My mother, standing still in front of the stove, didn’t answer my question.

"Mother, I need to go to school earlier today. Can you do the cooking quickly?" I shouted loudly, and then immersed myself again in my notes.

After a while, a bizarre question was uttered from my mother’s mouth, “If chickens knew what they were out for, they’d rather stay in their eggs.” She was scrambling eggs at the time.

"What are you talking about -- the chicken and egg thing?" I raised my head and turned towards my mother; I was surprised to see tears rolling down her face.

After years of schooling, I have had no clue about how my mother came up with this chicken and egg question. More importantly, I can’t figure out why I still think of this question.


IV My Mother's Dream

(The following piece was accepted and published in the No. 65, 2009 issue of CANADIAN STORIES, a literary magazine featuring family stories, personal experiences and memories of the past)

I remember the night before I immigrated to Canada. My mother was helping me to pack my luggage, and she began to tell me about the dream she had had the night before.

In her dream, she stood holding me in her arms firmly and helplessly, unable to see anything ahead of her, for she was enveloped by darkness. I, on the other hand, was resting in her arms, completely unaware of her situation. She felt alone and her face was sweating. With the passage of time, she found my body becoming heavier and heavier, and she began to panic, not knowing how long she could stand firmly and hold me tightly. At this terrible moment in her life, the only thing occupying her mind was how catastrophic it would be if she fainted and let go of me. A pain rose gradually from her feet and finally up to her shoulders and arms. She gritted her teeth and endured her pain, praying to her Goddess for help.

At the moment when my mother reached the point of almost total despair, suddenly, a spot of bright, clean space appeared by her side. The space was completely flat and big enough to accommodate me. Full of gratitude to her Goddess, she used her last ounce of strength to put me down gently while I remained sound asleep. As soon as I was laid on the ground, the earth unexpectedly began to tilt. My place of rest was now a slope. I started to slide down very quickly. While careening down, I suddenly grew up, and within few minutes was no larger than a speck of dust. My mother cried out in unspeakable desperation.

Still helping me to pack, my mother looked gently at me for a moment with tears welling up in the edges of her eyes, and said, "Take good care of you while you are away from home."


V Reigning in My Memory

(What follows is an edited version of Raining in My Memory, which was accepted and published in the Winter 2007-2008 Issue (print and online) of The Stellar Showcase Journal, a literary journal affiliated with the Canada Cuba Literary Alliance and The Ontario Poetry Society)

The rain is coming down heavily, splashing against the window and pounding the pavement. I sit by the window in my warm house, watching it fall in buckets. It is falling so forcefully that it is making the delicate branches of the rose flowers in my front yard bow low to the ground, many of their petals now lying scattered.

The rain reminds me of how, as a child, I would sit by the front screen door that faced the main street and stare out into the rain. I enjoyed seeing people rushing along the sidewalk and pulling their coats over their heads in an attempt to avoid the forceful downpour, and watching the rainwater splashing back up in a dense spray as they trod over the puddled road; particularly, I enjoyed listening to the rhythmic, pata pata sound of the rain’s bombarding the road's surface. While I was sitting inside my warm house and watching these sights and sounds, it somehow made me feel safe and secure.

The rain also puts into my mind the smell of my mother. She always had her eye watchfully on the weather, ready at the first sign of rain to rush out and fetch the washing off the clothes lines. I can remember the way she smelled when she came in through the door way with two handfuls of clothes, damp and cold. It seemed to me that the rain had penetrated into her skin, her muscles, and her bones, depleting them of life and warmth.

The rain keeps falling down, without the slightest hint of letting up. The rhythmic, pata pata sound is reigning in my memory.


To be continued …
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul

[ericcoliu]

The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother's side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from the mother and to become fully independent.

-- Erich Fromm

Well said. I like his observation about the mother-child relationship.
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul

[[ericcoliu]]

The mother-child relationship is paradoxical and, in a sense, tragic. It requires the most intense love on the mother's side, yet this very love must help the child grow away from the mother and to become fully independent.

-- Erich Fromm

Well said. I like his observation about the mother-child relationship.
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul

[christine]

[[christine]]

[浴恩福]

[[浴恩福]]

[ericcoliu]

[[ericcoliu]]

[ericcoliu]

What follows is an edited version of a reply from my friend Florence to my original piece, Raining in My Memory, posted at http://www.stellarshowcasejournal.com/winter2007/chen-ou.liu-2.htm :


I enjoyed the lightness of the writing but the emotional weight of the images...nice effect.

Could there be firstly a play on words: Raining In my Memory and "Reigning in my memory”??? Memories are the means by which we all time travel and doing so sometimes brings us to heart-breaking corners of our history.

You describe the rain as a destructive, violent entity, along with the wind -- ripping apart the rose and scattering on the ground. And the sun offers no protection as in Taipei -- it hardly appears during the rainy season and in Ajax – it appears in insufficient force to provide any relief. Only being safely inside watching out is one safe -- now and back then. Knowing that you are safe enables you to enjoy the power of the rain to make people run for cover. I guess in a way, memories are a 'safe' way to time travel -- we are protected for the most part. We can be both the actor and the audience in our own movie for which we know the ending...

But the rain doesn't always stay outside. It has a stay factor -- "sticks" -- and it finds its way inside by attacking the unsuspecting laundry and the vigilante mom who's washed and hung it to dry.

The cold and damp appears once again to have washed out life as it did with the rose branches and flowers and the mom. But this time, it may have done the opposite. The heart refuses to die as it pounds with life, exertion, challenge against the elements, even as it gets pounded by the rush of rain and memories.
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul

[[ericcoliu]]

What follows is an edited version of a reply from my friend Florence to my original piece, Raining in My Memory, posted at http://www.stellarshowcasejournal.com/winter2007/chen-ou.liu-2.htm :


I enjoyed the lightness of the writing but the emotional weight of the images...nice effect.

Could there be firstly a play on words: Raining In my Memory and "Reigning in my memory”??? Memories are the means by which we all time travel and doing so sometimes brings us to heart-breaking corners of our history.

You describe the rain as a destructive, violent entity, along with the wind -- ripping apart the rose and scattering on the ground. And the sun offers no protection as in Taipei -- it hardly appears during the rainy season and in Ajax – it appears in insufficient force to provide any relief. Only being safely inside watching out is one safe -- now and back then. Knowing that you are safe enables you to enjoy the power of the rain to make people run for cover. I guess in a way, memories are a 'safe' way to time travel -- we are protected for the most part. We can be both the actor and the audience in our own movie for which we know the ending...

But the rain doesn't always stay outside. It has a stay factor -- "sticks" -- and it finds its way inside by attacking the unsuspecting laundry and the vigilante mom who's washed and hung it to dry.

The cold and damp appears once again to have washed out life as it did with the rose branches and flowers and the mom. But this time, it may have done the opposite. The heart refuses to die as it pounds with life, exertion, challenge against the elements, even as it gets pounded by the rush of rain and memories.
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul

[clair]

[[clair]]

[ericcoliu]

[[ericcoliu]]

[robarts]

[[robarts]]

[ericcoliu]

[[ericcoliu]]

[ericcoliu]

I've revised my piece.
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul

[[ericcoliu]]

I've revised my piece.
_________________
Time is nothing but a disquiet of the soul