Category: Cross-cultural

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Mulberry

This entry is part 5 of 5 in the series Trees

I took a long walk with a friend alongside Hudson River. Every few feet, a fruit-laden mulberry tree was sustaining the wildlife while expanding its own territory. Young shrubs grew near old trees like multi-generation families. Most of them were the common red mulberries. Occasionally, a white one stood among them.

Watching mulberries ripen, fall and perish on the ground every year, I always wonder why the fruits are not harvested and put to better use. In a Chinese folk tale, 蔡順 (Cai Shun),[1] having lost his father at an early age, took on the responsibility of caring for his mother. During the warring period between Western and Eastern Han Dynasties[2], because of food shortage, he collected mulberries for nourishment. One day, he encountered 赤眉軍 (Chìméi, Red-Eyebrowed rebels). They noticed that he divided his small-quantity gathering into two baskets and asked him why. He said, “The black ones, ripe and sweet, are for my mother; the red, unripe, for myself.” The rebels, moved by his filial piety, offered him cows and rice, which he refused. The moral of the story is about filial piety as well as staying true to one’s principles. But, as a child, I was more curious about the taste of mulberries.

I don’t recall ever tasting mulberries in my youth. But I remember fondly of keeping silkworm (Bombyx mori) caterpillars and feeding them mulberry leaves. It was a common practice meant to teach children the importance of sericulture in Chinese history and the life cycle of silkworms.

Legend has it that Leizu (嫘祖, c. 2700 BC, aka Hsi-Ling-Shih 西陵氏),[3] wife of the Yellow Emperor (黃帝) [4].—the instituter of Chinese culture, invented silk farming. She taught people how to raise silkworms, collect the cocoons, dissolve them to obtain the threads. Although the existence of these mythical figures would be difficult to trace, early-twentieth-century archeological researches in Neolithic culture along the Yellow River, known as Yangshao culture (仰韶文化), found evidences of sericulture dated around 3000 BC.[5] Silk grew to be a symbol of power and wealth in China before being introduced to the world through the “silk road.”[6]

Every year, a new class of children will learn of the silk culture and will be encouraged to get a few silkworms in order to observe their life cycles. Even without suggestions from teachers, most children would raise the worms as their seasonal pets in spring time. Mom would take us to neighborhood corner store to pick up baby silkworms (蠶寶寶) in small paper containers. The dark-colored larvae were tiny. But they wiggled and fed on mulberry leaves vigorously. Robert and I made sure to put down new tissues for them daily, keeping them healthy and happy. We wiped fresh mulberry leaves, making sure that they were clean and dry, before placing them in the box. The earthy smell of the leaves would fill up the room. The larvae quickly became grayish-white-colored caterpillars. Every few days, as they grew to a certain size, they would stop feeding and stayed motionless to shed their skins—molting. Their appetite would increase with their size.

Eventually, one by one, after the fourth molting, they began twisting their bodies and wrapping themselves with transparent threads. At first, we could still see them through the threads. Gradually, the cocoons became solid, white and shiny, like little eggs.[7] We understood that the caterpillars would morph into pupae before becoming silk moths and breaking out of the cocoons. Mom explained to us that, in order to harvest the silky thread, one must throw the cocoons in hot water. She also told us that it would take many cocoons to produce beautiful silk fabric. So, year after year, not wanting to kill the pupae, we kept the cocoons intact. Out of curiosity, I often picked them up, listening to see if there might be any motions inside. A few times, we got to see the moths hanging around. Most years, having missed the right moment when the moth came out, we could only send off the empty cocoons with sadness. It was always my secret hope to see a whole cocoon dissolve into an endless thread, stretching out for miles.

Bombyx mori caterpillars are picky eaters. Although they will eat leaves of all varieties of mulberry (and Osage orange), those of white mulberries are preferable. I read that white mulberries were introduced to North America with the plan to establish silk industry here. The plan failed but the trees adapted to the New World and became part of the landscape. My friend and I walked casually, watching birds and squirrels busying themselves with fruits, pink, red, black. . . no matter. The differences between the native and the exotic species also matter very little to me. The sight of mulberry trees, leaves and fruits will always remind me of stories of childhood, of the images of those mysterious caterpillars that had long melted into my childhood dreams, and of my heritage.

[1] The_Twenty-four_Filial_Exemplars_二十四孝_Wiki
[2] In 9AD, 王莽 (Wang Mang), a powerful political figure of the Western Han Dynasty, taking advantage of the internal turmoil of the court, seized power and established 新朝 (New Dynasty). His rule was short-lived (9-23AD) and tumultuous. Farmers rose up and formed rebellion forces. The two major rebel groups were 赤眉軍(Red-Eyebrowed Army) and 綠林軍 (Green Forest Army).
[3] Leizu_Wiki
[4] Yellow_Emperor_Wiki
[5] Yangshao_culture#Archaeological_sites_Wiki
Silk History, Silk Road Foundation
[6] Silkworm-Life-Cycle-YouTube
[7] The “Silk Road” was a network of corridors connecting China, Far East, Middle East and Europe. Started as trade routes, it also played an important role in cultural exchange. Colin Thubron provided in-depth discussions on the history and presence of the Silk Road in Shadow of the Silk Road, first published by Chatto & Windus in Great Britain in 2006; by HarperCollins in U.S. in 2007 and reprinted by Random House in 2012.

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Punch lines

This entry is part 12 of 17 in the series Guiding Hands

Walking into the small office of the musicologist, one would have seen the contrast between Dr. Shindle’s desk, with documents piled high, and Dr. Terry Miller’s desk, organized, with everything in plain sight. Other than both being alumni of Indiana University, they didn’t have much else in common. Dr. Miller led the ethnomusicology division, specializing in Asian musics. He plays kaen (also spelled khaen, khene), a free-reed mouth organ of Thailand[1] among other things. He founded the Chinese ensemble, the Thai ensemble and the gamelan ensemble—things one would not expect to find in a small Midwestern college town. In addition to subjects in ethnomusicology, Dr. Miller taught twentieth-century music history and the bibliography/research class that all graduate students had to take.

He was feared, at least among international students, for his strict rules and high expectations. Entering the program in the spring semester, I had half a year to get to know him personally first. Tall and skinny, with his curly hair, big eyes and glasses, Dr. Miller looked more like a mad scientist than a musician. He conducted his classes with the precision of scientific projects. His syllabuses were clearly laid out with detailed instructions for reading and written assignments and deadlines.

In the bibliography class, each week we learned different types of reference book, e.g., “catalog,” “index,” “bibliography.” Dr. Miller would give general information on the particular kinds of books. Students would then use items from our library to demonstrate the usefulness of these books. In my four years at NTNU, I never stepped into the library. I did know how to use library index cards—something I learned in high school. Terms like “bibliography of bibliographies” sounded more like a tongue twister to me than actual things. But I learned the existence of some important reference sources. A few of them were crucial to my dissertation.

Dr. Miller has a dry sense of humor and he delivers his punch line without any facial expressions. I remembered him saying that whoever tried to “read” and/or memorize the books we examined in class should be institutionalized. I giggled. Whenever I caught on with his funny tales, I would laugh. One day he said, in front of the class, that I was the first Asian student ever to laugh at his jokes. He asked if I knew what I was laughing about. I said, “Yes.” He obviously didn’t believe me. Several years later he asked me the same question at a party.

One objective of the class was to prepare us for academic writing, both in structure and style. We were to practice writing essay, using Turabian[2] as our style guide. Before taking the class, I didn’t know it was necessary to provide reference citations. (I cannot recall ever writing any formal reports in my undergraduate years. My essay for Dr. Quereau wasn’t supposed to be a real “paper.”) I don’t remember the subject of my paper for the class. I do remember flipping through Turabian to find the right format for each note. Proper application of punctuation was another area that I had to take caution since there were minor differences in punctuation between Chinese and English. Oh, and the spaces. . ..

I didn’t know then that I would become a musicology student. Nor was I thinking about writing scholar publications. But I learned the importance of respecting intellectual properties. I also learned, from studying the sources that I quoted, these citations would be helpful to other scholars and researchers interested in the same subject. I thank Dr. Miller for his thoroughness in preparing us.

In my final year of class work I took “Introduction of Ethnomusicology.” Other than learning the history and development of ethnomusicology, we had to practice transcribing field recordings. We also had to find a subject, do some “field research”—interviews and recording, submit our finding along with a paper. [3] The workload was so heavy that it became a tradition that all students would take an “incomplete.” I refused to do so at first. I ran into Dr. Miller several times during finals week. He continued to persuade me. Eventually, I realized that rushing through things just to get done really didn’t make sense. (Of course, by then, I was too exhausted to push forward.) I learned the important lesson of acknowledging my limit. This might seem inconsequential to many. But, for me, pride has always been a hindrance.

Dr. Miller has always kept a busy agenda: traveling extensively for researches and conferences. In addition to musical studies, he is also an expert in covered bridges. He has written about them.[4] Recently, he appeared in an episode of PBS’s NOVA series: “Operation Bridge Rescue”[5]

I remain in touch with Dr. Miller. Every year, I would send holiday greetings to him and Sara, his wife who is also a scholar. And, in return, I would receive a long letter about their extended family, their international travels, and publications. It doesn’t seem that they will slow down anytime soon.

[1] Khene_Wiki
[2] Kate L. Turabian, A Manual for Writers of Research Papers, Theses, and Dissertations, 4th ed. (Chicago: University Chicago Press, 1973).
[3] My report was on bandura, a Ukrainian plucked-string instrument. Bandura_Wiki
A choral conducting student of Ukrainian ancestry helped me completing the project. Here’s an introduction to the instrument and Ukrainian Bandurist Chorus: Ukrainian Bandurist Chorus
[4] Terry E. Miller and Ronald G. Knapp, America’s Covered Bridges: Practical Crossings—Nostalgic Icons (Clarendon: Tuttle Publishing, 2014). Reissued August 2017.
[5] operation-bridge-rescue-PBS-NOVA