Speaking With My Heart
By Adora Du | 心语
a tribute to my grandpa, who passed on November 1st, 2022, just a few days before FAUNA Mental Health’s official launch.
心语
心：heart
语：language
Names bear a lot of significance, and Asian culture is no exception.
In many Asian cultures, the father’s side of the family not only passes on their family name to the newborn child, but they also choose its first name. Depending on the culture and several other factors (too complicated for my Asian American brain to understand), children born in the same generation of the family will therefore have the same last name, and the same first character of their first name.
(In English, it may be something reminiscent as being named Sarah, having a brother named Samuel, a sister named Sally, and 3 cousins on your father’s side named Samantha, Sage, and Steven.)
When I think of my maternal grandfather, the first word that comes to mind is “non-traditional”. The word for “maternal grandfather” in Mandarin is “wai gong” (fun fact, “wai” means “outsider”), while “ye ye” is used exclusively for “paternal grandfather”. However, my parents taught us to call both grandfathers in our family “ye ye”. In addition to this, contrary to traditional practices, my mother’s father was the one to choose my Chinese name - Xin Yu (pronounced shin you), xin meaning heart, and yu meaning language, essentially translating to “the voice from the heart.”
(It’s a running joke in my family that him naming me was so outrageous, my younger sister never received a Chinese name at all. She really didn’t get a Chinese name though, so maybe it’s more of a theory than a joke.)
Not only was I named in a non-traditional naming process, it is also an excessively flashy name for the language. However, my grandfather named me with full intentionality. He hoped that I would grow up to follow my heart and listen to the wisdom that (allegedly) would come from within me.
(Again, he was a very non-traditional Asian man.)
Nobody in my family has ever called me by my Mandarin name, and the only time I was ever referred to “Xin Yu” was during a Chinese class I signed up for in high school. However, I always secretly loved the name, and though I did not feel particularly connected to the sound of it, I did feel very attached to its meaning. Throughout my life I have always been deeply concerned with the meaning of life. I remember having these kinds of existential musings even as an elementary school student, and I remember how burdensome these thoughts were when I was trying to pick a field of study for college or decide on a career choice to report back to my parents. If I had to guess where in my family tree this trait comes from, I would bet it was from my maternal grandfather.
My grandfather seemed to be the type of person who always had one foot outside reality, like his mind was always halfway into the clouds. I was not very close to him since he lived in Asia my entire life, but when we did periodically get to see him, he was always in his own world. When he would listen to music, he would sway his head to his own tempo, and it seemed like he was listening to something buried within the melodies that people on earth could never hear. When he would hum in the shower or while he cooked or cleaned, his voice always deepened as if the music would vibrate through his rib cage. And when he would play the same 2 minute tune on the piano, every single day without fail before his afternoon nap, he would slam on the keys and animate his hands in an artful dance that we could never fully appreciate. He lived his life filled with pure passion, and I regret that I will never get to know that passion for mundane things more intimately.
A few years before he died, after my maternal grandmother passed away, he came to live with my family in America for a year. I was still in college at the time, but when I would come home to visit there would always be a massive pot of porridge on the table and an army of home-cooked dishes surrounding it. Looking back, I feel ashamed that given my own relationship with body image, I never full-heartedly indulged in his cooking the way he probably hoped I would.
I remember during these breaks at home, I would struggle to find a common topic to talk about with him. I remember trying to think of questions to ask or some commonality to bond over, but to no avail. There was one instance I remember fondly though, when he and I spent an entire Saturday wresting to build a cheap (poorly built) shoe cabinet that my mother got on Amazon. We spent over 5 hours trying to build it, and even with the sweat beading on his forehead and the pain his posture was probably causing him, he never once showed a twinge of frustration or anger. While we built that cabinet, he told me about the Cultural Revolution and the famine that he lived through (and why he hates that my mother throws leftovers away). That flimsy shoe cabinet is still standing by the entryway of my parent’s home today.
A few months before his passing, my grandfather - who was back in Asia at this point - reached out with a funny request. He said he wanted to practice his Japanese with me to keep his mind sharp.
Remember how I said he was a very non-traditional man? It turns out my Chinese grandfather had learned Japanese out of his own curiosity decades ago, and he never forgot it. For the first time, we found something that could help us maintain a connection despite the distance and cultural barriers. We would periodically send voice messages in Japanese back and forth. Even though there was not a whole lot of content in these messages, it was always precious to hear his voice and his overly formal Japanese as he talked about random things in his day.
The day before he died, he sent me his last voice message. He told me to be well and take care of my health. Even if you cannot speak Japanese, I thought it would be meaningful to share the recording below.
(If you can speak Japanese, you will want to note that I said he learned Japanese, not that he spoke it fluently or well. haha.)
My grandfather died suddenly, unexpectedly, painlessly, and serenely the next day.
I could never fully convey to him (in Mandarin or in Japanese) what my work or field of study entailed. It’s not easy explaining mental health and counseling to an old Asian man in the same language, let alone when there is a language barrier. I think all he knew, and all that mattered to him, was that I found that fire in my career and in what I do now. I think he could tell that I found that guiding voice within my heart, that I unlocked that deep, invigorating drive for meaning and love and life.
Maybe now, I can finally hear those same melodies that sailed through his mind.
