Yellow

To reach a destination, we drive - a simple and mundane act. We always want to find the quickest and shortest route that oftentimes we drive so fast that we miss where we are going. We find ourselves frustrated when we’re stopped at a light. We just want to keep going, blasting through green lights and only stopping where we need to be. Yellow lights are just as bad as reds. Do we stop or do we go? One winter night, I suffered a series of yellow lights. First yellow … I went. Second yellow … I gassed. Third yellow … it nearly turned red. As I sped through the intersection, I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the rearview mirror. I saw a child in my own reflection.

When I was 8 years old, there were three specific things that I wanted for lunch: pizza, lasagna and sandwiches. Yes, to many this may be the most typical lunch you could think of. Instead, I had soggy dumplings, stinky fried rice and mysterious foods that I didn't even know how to describe to my friends. I was different and I knew it. My grandparents often took care of me. They packed my lunch, picked me up from school and were my baby sitters for the evenings. They loved it, yet I dreaded it. I hated my oriental lunches and our conversations by the playground. Their language of home became my language of resentment. I hated that they couldn’t speak English and I hated being the odd one out at school. I was embarrassed by me and certainly embarrassed by them.

After the series of yellow lights, a red one finally confronted me. I saw the blaring red from afar in the middle of a pitch black road telling me to slow down, to stop. I waited for an eternity at the light, stuck and frozen in time. I sat there listening to the rhythm of my car and the buzz of the cars passing by. The stubborn hum of my engine reminded me of a conversation I had with my friend earlier - persistent. Before I realized it, the reflection in the mirror had tears falling down its face. I couldn’t help but start crying.

The murmur of the car engines faded in the background when she told me. It had already been two days since it happened. Two days since my world would have fallen apart if it was me. But, my friend still had it together. Her voice was calm and steady and she looked just fine. How did she do it? I tried to look for the sorrow in her eyes but couldn’t find it anywhere except on her lips. I quickly realized that she had a very different relationship with her grandparents than I did. Her grandparents lived 10 hours away and they interacted mostly through video calls. Mine lived with me when I was a child. They walked me to school, played with me, cooked for me and bought me whatever I wanted. I got to see them everyday and she didn’t. I suddenly missed my four healthy grandparents. I could picture their warm wrinkly smiles, their silly laughs and I could even hear their obnoxious snores. Suddenly, I was brought back to reality, my cell phone rang. The chimes filled the melancholy parking lot as I picked up and I answered, “Gung Gung?”.

At last, the red light turned green. The wait was over, it was time to press the gas, but my foot was solely fixed on the brake. What I wanted had finally come, but it didn’t seem right anymore. The tears in my eyes blurred my vision. Where was I? Did I take the wrong road? I was driving like a bee without a flower. I felt like I had to turn; it seemed right. So, I signalled, checked my mirrors and turned the wheel.

It was a typical phone call from my Gung Gung. He asked if I have eaten yet and if would I like to come over for dinner. Although his first language is Cantonese, he was eager to practise his English. With his best English accent, he said, “Mui Mui, drive to my house for dinner. We cook for you”. Typically, I would have been so flustered over my school work, band practice and job that I would have rather cooked up a 2 minute ramen over spending 2-hours at dinner with them. But, this time without a doubt, I said, “Yes, of course!”. I could hear the excitement in his voice while he told me what was for dinner. The thought of my Poh Poh’s rich Chinese soup, her famous steamed fish and my Gung Gung’s signature ginger scallion chicken instantly made me hungry. My mouth was watering and I could almost taste it through the phone.

The signs and stores on this new road were becoming increasingly familiar. Green lights appeared one after the other. Tears were still rolling down my cheeks as I grasped the steering wheel even harder. I had trusted my gut feeling that this was the right turn. It must’ve been because when looked at my reflection, the child began to fade and I never looked back.

Every time I left my grandparent’s house, my hands were full. They would pack me lunch, dinner and snacks for the next few days. They never insisted on keeping me for long because they knew that I had homework to do. So that night after dinner, they hurried me out the door to get home. Despite the cold winter air and icy driveway, my 80-year-old Gung Gung still wanted to walk me to my car. He helped me put everything in the trunk, gave me a hug, told me to drive safe and to call him when I get home. He waved goodbye to me with his warm wrinkly smile and stood there until I was completely out of his sight. As I drove away, I realized how lucky I am to have a wonderful relationship with my grandparents. How blessed am I to have four healthy grandparents, who loved me even when I didn’t understand how to love them. I used to be so naive and closed minded that I was embarrassed by who they were. I learned to appreciate the things that they do for me and be deeply grateful that they chose to sacrifice the comfort of their own country to create a home for me. I wanted to cherish the limited years that I have with these strong, loving, encouraging people that I call my grandparents. At that moment, I realized they were tears of happiness and love that streamed down my face.

Finally, I could see my destination. I did not take the quickest or the shortest route, but I made it there. I found my way back home.