My childhood home was the Japanese-style official residence on Nanjing East Road in Taipei. Vaguely, I remember the spacious courtyard, sparsely covered with green moss, and a lone short pine tree with a few scattered stones in its corner. This was my grandfather's old mansion, and I lived there until my parents immigrated to the United States. When I turned eighteen, I moved back to Taipei for a while. During the period when the new residence in Taipei was not yet settled, I stayed with my grandmother on Nanjing East Road for over a month. Through her storytelling, she commemorated my grandfather, who had passed away many years ago, and my feelings for this former residence gradually shifted from resentment to nostalgia.
This street was originally not called Nanjing East Road. It was only renamed in 1947, replacing the Japanese colonial government, carrying a sense of self-consolation for the failures of the Republic of China government. Until the age of five, I grew up in the mist of this failure, as if touching something musty, but my older brother didn't have that. He was born with a faint purple color on his body, and my mom always said it was an auspicious sign, a symbol of freedom and good fortune. As for my younger brother, Kai, he was born in the United States and did not have the influence of this murky atmosphere. We had no choice; after the war, military officers and their dependents who withdrew from the mainland were settled on this street. The remaining military officer residences from the Japanese colonial period became our homes. Sometimes walking on this broad street, the black roofs seemed to be about to collapse. It wasn't until later, with the introduction of the MRT (Mass Rapid Transit), that this street acquired a modern vitality. Today, it is bustling and noisy with modern life.
My older brother is three years older than me. Even when I can't remember, he has always been quieter and more focused than me. However, Grandpa was still more fond of me. Sometimes, he would secretly ask Aunt Chen to buy grass jelly for me to eat without telling my parents. I would place the grass jelly on the rosewood coffee table with mother-of-pearl inlay and savor it, making a mess with the black juice on the tatami mats in the main hall. Grandma would sometimes scold me a bit, wiping away the soup I spilled while speaking. After finishing, I would bounce around on the tatami mats, singing Liu Wen-zheng's songs. It made Grandma laugh so much that she couldn't close her mouth, and Grandpa would sometimes sternly scold me, which only made me happier.
The Christmas before my parents and I left Taipei, my mother hosted a Christmas party at home. The living room was crowded with adults and children, and the dark Japanese-style house was adorned with vibrant red and green decorations. Although such a combination seemed discordant, the rich Christmas atmosphere in the music of the Christmas Quartet overwhelmed the coolness of the Japanese-style living room. Grandpa's war buddies were there, along with my parents' friends, Uncle Long, Auntie Lijuan, and several buddies from the White Mansion. Uncle Bai even dressed up as Santa Claus. That night, we all received many gifts. In the courtyard, there was a huge Christmas tree on the grass, adorned with red boot-shaped cloth bags, each filled with candies I had never seen before. Mother wore a black satin qipao with peony embroidery, elegant and magnificent, the most beautiful image of her in my memory, but one that I rarely saw afterward.
The dinner featured a variety of Western-style cold dishes, Taiwanese snacks, and hot dishes such as roasted turkey, scallion-cooked yellow croaker, and a hot pot of beef. The housekeeper told me that the beef hot pot recipe originated from the mainland. This was the first time I learned that our hometown was on the mainland, and the taste of this beef hot pot was a blend of Sichuan, Shanghai, and Fujian flavors. People from the mainland also said that this taste was similar to the delicacies of the Hakka people.
As I looked at the array of delicious food, unable to contain my excitement, I grabbed a slice of ham with my bare hands.
"That's rude. You should use public chopsticks or tongs," she said in a slightly disdainful tone, as if the words were coming from her nose.
"Who are you?" I replied, looking at her with the same disdain.
"I'm Uncle Bai's daughter, Bai Jingrui."
"Oh, Miss Bai," I laughed, tinged with a hint of sarcasm.
"What's wrong? Eating like a caveman and talking like a gossip queen." She stared at me hard, picked up the public chopsticks, and started taking food.
"Don't judge others if you don't want to be judged," I shook my head and said, reciting a passage from the Bible.
"Hmph, you can quote the Bible. Today is Christmas Day, show some respect for Jesus," she laughed and said.
My brother signaled to me from a distance, then slowly approached, leaned close to my ear, and whispered, "Be polite to Miss Bai."
My older brother has always shown a more comprehensive excellence than me, including his reminders. His early wisdom and maturity became a weight my mom used to criticize me. However, I never disliked or envied my brother because I admitted my own shortcomings. I recognized my dullness, especially towards the Bai family. Later, I found out that during the period when Taiwan implemented martial law, thanks to the Bai family, my grandfather retained his military rank. It was also because of martial law that my parents immigrated with me and my brother when I was five. So, many times, I exhibited a nonchalant attitude, with a hint of recklessness. This attitude intensified after Kai was born because my younger brother was also outstanding. However, my parents never gave up on me. I kept oscillating between passive resistance and active pursuit.
"Oh, okay. I always listen to my brother."
"Sorry for being a bit harsh earlier. Here, have a slice of ham." Reluctantly, I apologized to Bai Jingrui.
"It's okay, thank you." She turned sideways, stretched her neck, and took the ham from me. Then she turned around and continued chatting with my brother.
"I heard you guys are going to the United States next year?"
"Yes, we have to start packing after this party."
"It's a bit regretful. The martial law has been lifted, and you still have to leave?"
"It's our parents' decision, and Grandpa also supports it. Actually, my parents mentioned that your family is also considering this."
Bai Jingrui was a bit surprised, hesitated for a moment, and said, "Oh? Is that so? Then maybe we can meet in the United States?"
"It should be possible. Well, it's not that serious. Transportation is convenient now, and we can come back anytime."
"Yeah, you're right. We're not American soldiers; Taipei is our home. My grandpa said they suffered defeat in the Vietnam War, and the entire Asia-Pacific region spiraled out of control. Like a family with a lost dog, many U.S. troops in Taipei withdrew. Just a few years ago, the Taipei American Club also relocated. Qingguang Market and Nongan Street have become extremely desolate."
"Family with a lost dog, hahaha. You're killing me, please. Their hometown isn't even in Taiwan."
"If you put it that way, our hometown isn't in Taiwan either."
After Bai Jingrui said this, the three of us fell into silence. Indeed, our hometown is not in Taiwan. For me, that hometown is distant and unfamiliar, heard only from the mouths of my grandparents and parents. It doesn't even have a concrete appearance, although in language, it is described as beautiful, with all the praises typical of a mainland water town—graceful, rich, and vast. In a few months, I'll be heading to another distant and unfamiliar place, described in language as developed, open, free, and democratic. It seems that since birth, I have always lived in the distant vistas of the past and the future depicted by language, and obviously, the happiness of the present moment is not important.
Christmas came to an end, and my brother and I showed the typical dejection that follows every holiday. We had no enthusiasm for the overseas move scheduled for January. This is where my brother's strengths came into play. He wouldn't allow himself to linger in a state for too long, whether it be joy or sorrow. Emotions were his slaves; he was an absolute rationalist. He efficiently packed his books, even included my favorite toys, and the several aunts and uncles in the house helped carry the boxes. Within an hour, more than ten boxes piled up on the tatami mats in the living room. My mom stood in the center of the living room, overseeing the luggage, directing a few aunts and uncles to rearrange some of the boxes. Grandpa and Grandma sat on the sofa, looking on with a restless and anxious expression.
"Ah Ling, you always buy too many clothes. Look at all these boxes; what are we going to do with them?" Grandma complained to my mom.
"Mom, it's not that bad. Several of these are Yan's things; he has too many books. They're all medical books he brought back from the U.S. when he studied there. I told him to buy them again in Taiwan, but he refused, saying there are many notes inside," my mom replied while sorting through my dad's books.
"Mom, it's already so late. Can you just say a few less words?" My dad poked his head out from the bedroom.
"Ah, you have so much stuff. It feels like you're never coming back," Grandma sighed heavily.
"No, Mom, we come back every Christmas, staying until the end of the Chinese New Year," my mom walked back and forth, checking if anything was forgotten, and told the aunties, "Ah Chun, go call Yan Feng. His things might not be packed yet."
"Mom, we've already packed everything," my brother hurried into the living room and whispered to my mom.
"You're the sensible one. Take care of your brother; he's still throwing tantrums." My mom patted my brother's head and turned to sit next to Grandma, whispering, "Mom, while we're away, be kind to Ah Chun and the others. We'll have to rely on them more now. Don't worry; Yan has already talked to the White Mansion, and they'll take care of our home."
"Hmph, the White Mansion. I heard they're going to the United States too," Grandma grumbled loudly.
My mom quickly placed both hands on Grandma's shoulders. "The situation has improved a lot now; everything is lifted. It's okay. If needed, you can come to the U.S. next year. That would be fine."
Grandma was on the verge of tears, stirring a silk handkerchief in her hands, saying, "Forget it, I've been drifting my whole life—from Zhejiang to Taipei, and now I have to go to the foreigners. Who knows, I might die there, and in the next life, I'll end up becoming a foreign devil. Don't be fooled by those on top; even if they seem carefree in the United States, ultimately, they're just walking corpses of a lost country."
"Liu Hong, please say a little less," Grandpa said forcefully.
After Grandma finished speaking, she choked up a bit. I had been standing in the entrance watching, then walked over to Grandma and sat on the tatami mat, resting my hands on her thighs without saying anything. Grandma looked at me, wiped away her tears, and lifted me up, saying, "Feng, listen to your parents and brother. Over there, you must continue learning Tang and Song poetry. Grandma won't be able to teach you anymore." After saying this, she choked up again.
"Mom, don't cry. We'll be back soon," my dad came over, packing his books and rolling up his sleeves.
"Okay, okay," Grandpa placed his hands on his knees. These three words seemed to come from deep within him. "Liu Hong, let's go to church more on weekends. Chat with the Song family and the White family. Our children and grandchildren will have their own blessings."
After Grandpa said these words, Grandma stopped crying and nodded.
The packing took an entire week, and some luggage couldn't be checked in, so my mom arranged for sea shipping, which would take about three months to reach New York. Before departure, our family took a group photo. Although Taipei's winter wasn't cold, we all wore red sweaters, forcing big smiles on our sentimental faces, creating a harmonious scene. Later, Grandpa, Grandma, and several aunts and uncles saw us off at the airport for our journey to Rochester, New York.
When we arrived in this city after transferring from Los Angeles, large snowflakes were falling from the sky. The accumulated snow was almost taller than me. My dad held my mom's hand, my brother held mine, and we, as a family, walked unsteadily to the 7-seater shuttle. As the vehicle left the airport, the entire city was blanketed in white, with only rows of dark, barren trees lining the roadsides. It felt like the silent bodies of the city, all uniformly pointing towards an unknown future.