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    Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief
    Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief
    Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief
    Ebook169 pages1 hour

    Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief

    By Victoria Chang

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    About this ebook

    A collection of literary letters and mementos on the art of remembering across generations.

    For poet Victoria Chang, memory “isn’t something that blooms, but something that bleeds internally.” It is willed, summoned, and dragged to the surface. The remembrances in this collection of letters are founded in the fragments of stories her mother shared reluctantly, and the silences of her father, who first would not and then could not share more. They are whittled and sculpted from an archive of family relics: a marriage license, a letter, a visa petition, a photograph. And, just as often, they are built on the questions that can no longer be answered.

    Dear Memory is not a transcription but a process of simultaneously shaping and being shaped, knowing that when a writer dips their pen into history, what emerges is poetry. In carefully crafted missives on trauma and loss, on being American and Chinese, Victoria Chang shows how grief can ignite a longing to know yourself.

    In letters to family, past teachers, and fellow poets, as the imagination, Dear Memory offers a model for what it looks like to find ourselves in our histories.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateOct 10, 2021
    ISBN9781571317360
    Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief

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    • 4/5
      Great meditation on memory and family history.

    Book preview

    Dear Memory - Victoria Chang

    Dear Mother,

    I have so many questions. What city were you born in? What was your American birthday? Your Chinese birthday? What did your mother do? What did your grandmother do? Who was your father, grandfather? It’s too late now. But I would like to know.

    I would like to know why your mother followed Chiang Kai-shek, taking you and your six (or seven?) siblings across China to Taiwan. I would like to know what was said in the planning meeting. I would like to know who was in that meeting. Where that meeting took place.

    I would like to know the people who were left behind. I would like to know if there are other people who look like me.

    I would like to know if you took a train. If you walked. If you had pockets in your dress. If you wore pants. If your hand was in a fist, if you held a small stone. I would like to know if you thought the trees were black or green at night, if it was cold enough to see your breath, to sting your fingers. I would like to know who you spoke to along the way. If you had some preserved salty plums, which we both love, in your pocket.

    I would like to know if you carried a bag. If you had a book in your bag. I would like to know where you got your food for the trip. Why I never knew your mother, father, or your siblings. I would like to have known your father. I would like to know what his voice sounded like. If it was brittle or pale. If it was blue or red. I would like to know the sound he made when he swallowed food.

    I would like to know if your mother was afraid. During college, I spent several weeks with her in Taiwan. She bought me bao zi, buns, every morning—the bao that steamed in small plastic bags with no ties, and sweet dou jiang, tofu milk. Always too hot for me to drink. She sat there and watched me eat, complained to me about your brother’s wife. Complained of being sick and how no one would help her.

    Do you know how long it took me to figure out how to call an ambulance? And then when they came, she refused to go. I still remember how the two men stared at me, as if I could move a country.

    Listen. It’s the wind. That’s the same wind from your countries. Sometimes if I listen closely at night, I can hear you drop a small bag at the door. I hear the sound of the bao touching the ground and the wind trying to open the bag.

    But when I open the door, there’s nothing there. Just the same wind. Thousands of years old. Happy birthday, wind. Happy birthday, Mother. April 6, 1940. I know this now. All the nurses, doctors, and morticians asked me, so I memorized it, your American birthday. April 6, 1940, I said again and again. As if I had known this my whole life.

    • Mother •

    • Mother •

    Dear Grandmother,

    Today I found a Certificate of Marriage and a translation of it by the President Translation Service. The date is July 26, 1939. Now I know your name: Miss Chang Chi-Yin. I also know you were twenty-seven and Grandfather twenty-six. I wonder if this was considered strange at the time, your being older than him.

    I now know you were born on April 29, 1913. Seeing this date makes me cry. The tears are long and rusted. I have tried to tie them together into a long string toward your country. The farthest I’ve ever made it was Kansas. The tornadoes always break my tears.

    Dear Grandmother, I now know you were born in Chingwan Hsien, Hopei Province. I google Hopei and see it is in the North of China, where all the good doughy food Mother used to make comes from—the bao zi, jiao zi, and shao bing. I can see how close you were to Beijing and Mongolia.

    I learn that you were born one year after the Qing dynasty collapsed. I learn that you lived amid civil war. I wonder if this is why you took your children and left for Taiwan.

    I can’t find your town, Chingwan Hsien, on Google because it’s probably spelled another way. After more searching, I figure out it is likely Jing Wan Xian. But I still can’t locate it on the map of Hopei, which I figure out is also Hebei Province.

    The Certificate says you were united in matrimony at Chungking City, Szechuan Province. Google says there are thirty million people there. I try to imagine thirty million people who look like me. In that moment, grief freezes. The Certificate says you were introduced to each other by Mr. Chang Kan-Chen and Mrs. Chou Chi-Ying. I wonder who these people were. I wonder if yours was an arranged marriage or if you loved each other. Or both. I wonder what love looked like in China in 1939.

    The Certificate says: These two parties are now united forever in harmony on this auspicious day in taking an oath of mutual fidelity throughout their lives. What happened afterwards, I don’t know. I do know that when I met you, the one time I met you, you were no longer together and hadn’t been in a long time. But Mother never talked about that. Mother only ever bitterly talked about how you favored all of your sons.

    The one time I met your former spouse, my grandfather, was when Mother brought me to the arcade to meet him. I played Ms. Pac-Man the whole time, while they stood near the door and talked. Their mouths moved but I couldn’t hear anything. All I remember is the sound of the yellow mouth eating white pellets.

    I often think about what the poet Mary Jo Bang wrote about her dead son, What is elegy but the attempt / To rebreathe life / Into what the gone once was / Before he grew to enormity.i That is what Mother feels like: an enormity. My history feels even larger. The size of atmosphere.

    An elegy reflects on the loss of a loved one. What form can express the loss of something you never knew but knew existed? Lands you never knew? People? Can one experience such a loss? The last definition of absence is the nonexistence or lack of. See how the of hangs there like someone about to jump off a balcony?

    I want to believe in the origin story. I want to believe we all desire to know how we came to be, who we came from. I want to know why my fingers are so long, why my mouth naturally frowns, why my back has chronic pain, why I have freckles all over my nose. Why my mind is so restless.

    But what if, during her own migration, my mother’s memories migrated, too, and became exiled from their origins? What if both my origin and memory can never be pinned down?

    Grandmother, in the list of people present during your marriage, there were two matchmakers, three parents, and a witness. Where was the fourth parent? I now know the names of three of my ancestors: Jin Hsuan-San, Chang Yen-Chen, Pi Pao-Chuan. I also have a photocopy of the original marriage certificate in Chinese. I now know your names in Chinese characters, though I can’t read them well.

    My mother had a photocopy of each of these documents. And then she made another copy of the copies. So many copies to forget her past. If I throw them away, does that mean I was never born? In some ways, being born Chinese in America means not being born at all.

    Maybe all of our memories are tied to the memories of others. Maybe my memories are tied to Mother’s memories, and Mother’s memories are like objects in a mirror—I see them, but I can’t ever reach them. When Mother died, my exile detached from her exile, and that gap filled with longing.

    But with these papers, there’s now a new wind. A Mongolian wind from the North, one

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