I’ve been thinking about finding a vague idea to start my next poem. It won’t be about my grandpa in particular although maybe some time from now I’ll tackle a poem about him. In some ways, I hardly know my grandparents. My paternal grandfather died when I was three, and my only memories of him are V8, going to the hospital with my mom, and wandering lost at the funeral. My father and uncles were all wearing white robes, and I didn’t know who was my father when I was looking for him. I went up to everyone wearing a robe, but when I looked at his face, it wouldn’t be my father’s. It’s a strange memory. I haven’t thought about it for a long time.

I don’t know my maternal grandfather very well either, which isn’t a very accurate statement. I know him and his personality, but I don’t know very much about his past. There was one time we were going to a restaurant with some of his neighbors, and he was talking and talking in Mandarin about his life in the military. I had never heard this story, and I still don’t know what he said exactly only vague words about knowing English and the British. I probably won’t ever really know.

From what I gather from other people’s lives, it’s very common for a grandpa to grow old. Well we’re all getting older. It’s also very common to hear stories about your grandpa and his life or he’ll sit there and tell stories like, “I remember when I was young lad…” I don’t think my family is strange, but even though I never really identify myself with a Chinese culture, it is still a part of my life. It appears in moments like these when I think about my family, which I’ve been thinking about a lot the past couple of days. It started when I was sitting before class trying to think of something with a sort of narrative I could write about, and the only thing I could think about was the first and only time I went to see my great grandpa. I just remember small crystal dishes filled with Sunkist Fruit Gems. I think that’s why I like them so much. It’s the only attachment I have with my great grandpa. I don’t remember what he looks like, if he said anything to me. I only have a vague inkling of the person he might  be.

Anyways, I never had story time with my grandpa. He never sat me on his lap and told me about his life growing up, what he did when he was young, stuff like that. I remember my grandparents wedding picture, listening to my grandpa shuffle cards in the morning, his obsession with those Sacagawea dollar coins that no one likes.

It’s strange. I wish I knew more, and the logical thing would be for me to talk to my grandparents about their lives — how they grew up, how they met, stuff like that, but it’s not that easy. I think that unknown unsaid distance prevents me from really thinking about it or asking about it. My grandpa just turned 90. I wonder if I’m running out of time to ask. I wonder if someone will tell me one day.

Within my immediate family, there’s this personal disconnect for me that happened in two stages. One was my parent’s initial separation. I don’t really remember the time period very well. I was seven, but I remember details about the fights and the arguments. It’s something I don’t talk about very much. In fact, most people don’t know my parents are divorced. I don’t think it’s really relevant, but then again, I don’t really think it’s their business. It’s the internet’s business though.  I remember calling my neighbors from my parent’s bedroom. Boiling water. Riding in the passenger  seat as my parent, I don’t remember which maybe my father, drove down Stansfield turned into Dumhart and then drove back home. It was raining. I think that was one of the only times I ever prayed in my life. I was in the family room, and I was wondering if this were a moment when you prayed.

These memories don’t really formulate a picture, and I don’t really remember everything. Somewhere before all of that, there was some sort of semblance of a happy family. I know because there are family pictures and there are vague possible memories floating around but you can see that disconnect in the pictures. Maybe it’s because I know now. There is one picture of my mom and my father at my uncle’s wedding, and I think you can see that there. I think it’s something I should think about when considering a relationship.

When I think about you, I think there would have been that disconnect, and I had thought about it before one day when we were driving. Even though I was in love, I was wondering if we could overcome the differences in our lives, and you wondered too. I believed that we could. Thinking about my parents, believing probably isn’t good enough, and I should pay more attention to the differences. Maybe I’m too much like my mother.

Growing up, my father would always get really angry or frustrated with me when I wouldn’t finish my dinner. I don’t think my mom particularly cared because I’m sure she figured that if I were hungry I would eat and if not I wouldn’t. I was being an obnoxious little kid standing by the couch, and my dad came over and picked up my wrist and said he could wrap his fingers around my wrist. I was too skinny. If someone picked up my wrist now, he or she could wrap their fingers around it. God knows how much I eat now. Another divide.

I wonder why my mother decided to marry my father. It’s another thing I won’t ask. There are lots of things I don’t think it’s polite to ask about, and even though I want to ask people questions about everything, I never feel comfortable asking for details unless they open up the conversation. I never ask about people’s pasts or childhoods unless they broach the topic.  Maybe I’m always terrified of unknowingly bringing up a painful memory, so I avoid asking about things unless someone starts talking about it. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to discuss mine.

The second disconnect happened freshman year and would define my high school years. I wanted to go to the ice rink to practice during the Friday night public skate. I will never forget this night. I wonder if people are simply blind to how much they can hurt other people or if they just don’t care. After this I went through a sort of ungrateful phase that most teenagers experience. I guess I phrased that incorrectly. I was ungrateful of my mother considering how much she worked, and I became completely disillusioned with my father. I got over one but not the other.

I noticed the stark differences between my family life with those of my peers in high school. Their parents were home, they knew details about their lives, they did family things. I remember when I went to Boston for Harvard Model Congress, I was on the phone with my mom, and I learned for the first time that she lived in Boston for a time. She didn’t tell me the entire time I told her about the trip and prepared to leave. Details of my mom’s college life emerged when we went to her college reunion. I can imagine, though, how happy she was living with all those girls and how they must have bonded being alone in a strange place — sharing bicycles, eating fried chicken and okra. It was a different time. When I was moving into the dorms, my mom looked around and was like “Man, college sucks now. I didn’t have to do laundry in college, and we ate real food…”

It’s a little different now that I’m older, but I wonder if I should try to understand my childhood in an attempt to understand myself or in an attempt to finally make sense of the memories.