It took a village

When Hillary Clinton’s book It Takes a Village came out in 1996, there was an uproar from her political opponents as well as concerned citizens. Many, skeptical of outside influences, believed that parents and families were solely responsible in raising children. Personally, not to take sides on the arguments, I need to thank the village that raised me (and my brother).

For the most part, my mother was a stay-at-home mom. Dad, because of the nature of his work, was home often. I and Little Cop didn’t cause too much trouble as we grew up. However, our lives were not be complete without many good people surrounding us.

As many middle-class families at the time, we had part-time help. 歐巴桑 (obasan, おばさん—Japanese for “aunt”) was a skinny middle-age lady. She came over every morning to clean and do laundry. She would sweep and then mop the floor, wipe the tatami and dust all the shelves. There was no washing machine. Obasan would do the laundry by hand in the backyard right outside of our kitchen. She first soaked dirty clothes in a wash basin before applying soap. The one and only 水晶肥皂 (Crystal laundry soap) had the size and shape of a small brick. Taking a good hold of the brick, obasan rubbed it on sleeves, collars and soiled areas. With her strong arms, she rubbed the clothes one piece at a time on the corrugated wooden washboard, like kneading dough, and rinsed them repeatedly. I loved watching her, with athletic efficiency, winging water out of wet clothes and stretching/shaping them on bamboo poles to be hung in the backyard to dry. She worked for us until my brother entered elementary school.

Neither of my parents liked socializing. But we were close to some neighbors. There was a lady living with her husband, both Mainlanders, in the small compound that separated our house from the main street. At night, we could see lights from her rooms through our bamboo fences. For a stranger, her appearance could be lightly startling. With thick hair, her head seemed almost as wide as her shoulder. Her mouth was wide, but her lips were thin. Her eyes, sitting deep in the eye sockets, seemed a little wild. These features made her medium-size body slightly top heavy. Regardless, she did have a big heart. She seemed to know everything about all the neighbors and was eager to tell stories, but never meant any harm. Sharing the same family name, she felt close to us. Childless, she would come over to watch me and my brother. We called her “big sister,” even though she was mom’s age. Whenever mom prepared a special dish, she and her husband, Mr. Chen, would be invited to join us at the table. She was in many of our birthday photos. We lost touch as she moved away after her compound was torn down.

Across the small ally from our back door was another Japanese house. It was set up as a duplex. One side was occupied by a handsome young couple and their daughter. Professor Lee taught chemistry at the university. Both he and Mrs. Lee were from Central Taiwan.

One year younger than me, their daughter Jing-Jing was my only childhood playmate. With round face and big round eyes, she had the facial features of a Japanese doll. I was very envy of her shining eyes and soft long hair.  She addressed my mother with the Japanese word おばちゃん (obachan, [older] auntie). I called her mom “Jing-Jing mama.” We played all the typical girl games and, occasionally, fought over toys. I remember vividly sitting on the tatami in the back of their living area near the backyard. We folded origami cranes and frogs as the sun shining through the glass doors.

Unlike most men of his generation, Professor Lee wouldn’t mind spending time in the kitchen. His rice noodle dish was the best: tasty ingredients, right amount of sauce with perfectly al dente noodles. Every time Mrs. Lee went down to visit her family, we would get to taste Professor’s rice noodles. Then, she would come home with specialty treats: suncakes^[1] and pineapple cakes^[2]. Like my dad, Professor Lee stayed quietly in his study most of the time.

Mom used to say that Mrs. Lee was born too late to have learned to speak Japanese perfectly. Despite their age differences, they were close. Mrs. Lee was a homemaker through and through. A very good cook, she often encouraged mom to try new dishes. For holiday celebrations, she would help mom with floral arrangements. When our new clothes were too big, she would magically make them look good.

Before I entered elementary school, the Lee family moved into their new apartment in the suburb. It would take multiple bus transfers or a costly taxi ride to get to their new home. So, no matter how often I begged to visit them, we only saw them on special occasions.

They moved back to the area a few years later. However, not having gone to the same school, Jing-Jing and I grew apart gradually. Her mom, on the other hand, almost became a second mother to me. She taught me how to use sewing machines. For my home economics class, she helped me choosing fabrics, cutting patterns and making dresses and skirts. When silk-flower-making was trendy, she showed me fancy patterns and materials. On weekends, in between my music lessons, we sat and made flowers.

Sadly, Mrs. Lee died of cancer in mid-1990s. I missed the chance to say good-bye. In early 2000s, during one of my summer visits, I went to see Professor Lee with mom. Living alone, he continued to supervise graduate students after his retirement and to go around the neighborhood on his bike.

For weeks after the Lee family moved out, I would stand on the engawa looking out from our fence to see if there were any movements. Eventually, a new family moved in. I was very apprehensive of our new neighbors: who they were, and how they might be. It didn’t take long for me to meet the Yang family. Mr. Yang had a white-collar job. Mrs. Yang was a Professor in Chinese. The younger of the two boys turned out to be a classmate of mine.

Yang mama was the first lady professor that I met. Her title and her authoritative look made me a little shy about speaking to her. But she was always kind to me and Little Cop. In those years, television sets were not yet common household items. Most child-friendly programs were aired around dinner time. Yang mama invited us to watch TV in their house. It became almost a daily routine: We would walk over with our dinner piling up high in rice bowls. Yang mama would gently open the door to let us in.

I, always enjoyed food, would inhale my dinner within minutes. Little Cop, to whom eating was always a second thought, would wait for me to feed him as he stared at the TV screen. (This was actually easier than chasing him around the house between bites.) For half an hour, we would watch a few episodes of Popeye, the Sailorman, Bug Bunny, or Donald Duck. With our bellies full and our hearts content, we would go home to finish homework or get ready for bed. Often, Yang mama would praise me for taking care of my brother. Every time, I felt slightly embarrassed, thinking: “She must not know that I fight with my brother all the time.”

The missing part from this picture—my classmate Naichia—and I had reconnected a few years ago on this side of the pond. Growing up, we didn’t really play together. Largely because he was a BOY. . . silly me! These days, he was the person that would call after natural disasters to make sure that I was safe. He was the one that would always send holiday greetings. And, after I started writing about our childhood, he would kindly point out my mistakes and fill in the gap for me. It is interesting how life goes in circles.

On the other side of the duplex was the Wu family whose daughter inspired me to study piano. I didn’t see Mr. Wu much. Mrs. Wu was of very few words, perhaps because of her Japanese roots and because of the language barrier. There were just enough age differences between their children and the rest of kids in the neighborhood for us to play together. Of the entire family, Grandma Wu was the one that really made an impression on me.

With her bound lotus feet^[3], Grandma Wu was never in a hurry. She had a delicate face framed by her silvery hair. The look from her eyes, stern and focused, made her formidable. A devout Buddhist, she was vegetarian. When the younger generations moved to Japan in late 1960s, she stayed behind and rented out the empty rooms. One of her renters was our new fifth-grade teacher!

The summer between my fourth- and fifth-grade years I was struck by some unknown illness and had stubborn high fever for weeks. Multiple visits to the doctor’s office didn’t help. Mom was desperate enough to consider taking me to a shaman. I remembered the summer sun and the long—very long—line outside of the shaman’s house. It was the long wait and the summer heat, which worried mom, that saved me from going through the ritual.

When summer school started, I was barely strong enough to attend class. Mom let me sleep in as much as possible. As a result, I was late arriving to school several days in a roll. Our new teacher, couldn’t figure out why this child was always late, started asking if I lived far away from school. Of course, he quickly found out where I lived.

Teacher Ma was a veteran. He followed the Nationalist army to Taiwan and settled in Central Taiwan. Wanting to set an example for us, he strove to speak perfect Mandarin. However, his Shandong accent would come through from time to time. Discipline and diligence were definitely on the top of his list of “must.” After accepting the position at my school, he brought his eldest daughter up with him. She was in the same grade with us but in another classroom.

When mom found out that Teacher Ma lived only a stone’s throw from us, she sent me to do my homework under his watch. Naichia would join us also. Sometimes, Grandma Wu would open the door and usher us in. We sat around the table writing quietly until all the homework was done. From time to time, Teacher Ma would cite Grandma’s wise words to our class with respects. Eventually, Mrs. Ma and their two sons also moved up to Taipei. And, new renters took over the space at Grandma Wu’s house.

Teacher Ma later became the Principal of our school and continued to influence many young people. Sometimes, mom would run into him at the park during their morning exercises. After retirement, he moved to California joining his children. A few years ago, I spoke briefly with him on the phone. And, that would be my last direct contact with him. When news of his passing reached me last April, memories of years past flooded my mind.

I, as a child, was fortunate to be growing up in a protected environment. The love that I received from friends and neighbors was an added layer of security and enrichment. I missed those who cared for me.

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^[1] Suncake (Taiwan)_Wiki
^[2] Pineapple_cake (Taichung) _Wiki: In recent years, these bite-size treats have become a favorite among tourists from China.
^[3]Foot binding was a century-old practice that finally faded away in the 20^th century: Foot_binding_ Wiki

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