After leaving the church, we made the short drive to my grandmother’s house on Elm Street. It was late and dark, and my brother parked the rental car in the driveway, illuminating the front door with the headlights. My mother and I stood in the bright light while my husband, Jason, struggled with the key my uncle had given him during the fellowship dinner in the church basement after the service. The screened porch on the side of the house sagged with age; the mesh was torn and the wooden floorboards were rotting, revealing the dirt and leaves below.
As we stepped inside, we reminded one another which lights were safe to flick on, avoiding those my uncle had warned us about due to their ancient wiring. It was January 2004 in Marks, Mississippi, and the air inside felt cool and damp, tinged with mildew. My grandmother—whom we affectionately called Por Por in Cantonese—had spent most of the past decade living with different family members. Yet, her small, one-story home, where she’d resided for over 60 years, remained the heart of our family. It was the same house my mother had left behind when she moved to New York City, where we gathered for Christmases, and I remember those nights packed with cousins sleeping on the floor. Nothing had changed.
Por Por would have pretended to scold us grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who ranged from seven to 37, if she’d seen us slipping notes, a piece of jade, a pecan tart, and a crayon-drawn ticket to heaven into her satin-lined coffin. She would have scrunched her smooth face at me, her lips forming a playful “Oh, shush,” had she known I stayed up all night crafting four single-spaced pages about her for the funeral. She would have waved me off if I had told her that writing four pages was tougher than writing forty.
I aimed to be truthful about her, and I don’t think she would have objected. Of course, there were the glowing descriptors: kind-hearted churchgoer, the lady who baked pecan tarts for church functions, and the best grandma ever. She was a dedicated friend who wrote letters to a pen pal she’d corresponded with since she was nine. However, I also wanted to share the parts of her that she kept hidden, like her fiery liberal side. She’d send me emails filled with typos and random slashes, all in caps, proclaiming, “DUBYA IS AN IDIOT. THESE STUPID MEN ARE SENDING THIS COUNTRY STRAIGHT DOWN.” This was something she would never have admitted in public.
There was so much more I wished I could have expressed. I wanted everyone in that crowded First Baptist Church—friends, cousins, and even the mayor of Marks—to truly know her. I would have told them she still held a grudge against my grandfather, Gung Gung, even 33 years after his passing, and struggled with her place in her grown children’s busy lives. Por Por and I often clashed; I urged her to express her feelings, while she encouraged me to be gentler. She was confused by the emotional constraints of her upbringing, still haunted by the loss she experienced as a child when she lost her mother and grandmother, struggling to articulate her pain. She was the young mother who lost her firstborn son at just 34, creating an unbridgeable gap with her other children that day.
I wanted everyone to see her through my eyes. We argued frequently; I pushed for honesty, and she taught me the value of kindness. I attempted to convince her that Dr. Phil wasn’t a real doctor, and she shrugged it off, saying it didn’t matter. I would roll my eyes, and she’d just smile.
Not everyone can say they had a grandma until they were 34, but she was my person, and I was hers. We always looked out for one another. I nicknamed her “Grambo” in her 70s because of her indomitable spirit. Standing above her coffin that day, reading from my carefully prepared notes, I recalled all the times she said I was the only one who truly understood her. For years, I cherished that connection, but now I wanted everyone else to share in that blessing.
Por Por moved to Marks—an aspiring town of 1,500—in 1935 from Chicago’s Chinatown to begin her life with Gung Gung. Legend has it that when she arrived, the entire town came to the train station to see her. She often shared that it wasn’t just geography that separated her from her old life; she was a Chinese girl from the big city at just 20 years old. Marks, the seat of Quitman County, has its own history marked by civil rights struggles. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. reportedly visited in 1966, witnessing the harsh realities faced by impoverished students, and he returned just before his assassination to speak of the town’s struggles.
It was a surprising choice for Por Por to leave urban life for rural Mississippi. The transition was challenging; she moved from streetcars to dirt roads, from a city of millions to a place rooted in the past. Despite facing racial tensions, she found community among other Chinese families who had similarly migrated during Reconstruction, seizing opportunities that arose after the demise of plantation commissaries. My grandfather, arriving in America at 14, eventually opened Wing’s Grocery Store in Marks, contributing to the family legacy.
From a young age, I visited Marks often, finding the squat houses, dry lawns, and the sagging Main Street both familiar and surprising. There was a stark contrast between the dilapidated shanties and the memories I held. I can still recall a trip to a local drugstore when my brother and I were recognized simply as “some of the Wings.” The pharmacist was able to identify us as Virginia Faye’s children, despite our mother having left the town over 30 years ago, highlighting the small-town familiarity that was absent in California.
When my mother was a young girl, Marks was a segregated town, where she remembers Black men stepping off the sidewalk to let her pass. Now, the only way in or out of town was through flat highways bordered by cotton fields. Despite the social hierarchies, Por Por and Gung Gung thrived, raising six children and running their grocery store on the edge of what was known as “colored town.” They moved from an apartment above their store to the Elm Street house, situated on the white side of town. Their Chinese heritage provided a unique social standing, allowing them to be respected and successful in a complex social landscape.
The night before Por Por’s funeral, our family gathered at a Comfort Inn in Clarksdale, the nearest larger town, to prepare for the services. We laid out trays of soy sauce chicken and barbecued pulled pork, while folding funeral programs that included the hymns she wanted sung. We even created small envelopes filled with nickels and coffee-flavored candies—a sweet Chinese tradition for luck and to ease the sadness.
We reminisced by sharing pictures, creating collages that captured her life—Por Por as a young girl modeling in Chinatown, with her children in their yard, and at our graduations. I remember her walking me down the aisle at my wedding just seven months before she passed away. The memories of her were cherished, and I felt the weight of wanting to share who she was with everyone around me.
In summary, my grandmother, Por Por, was a remarkable woman whose life intertwined with the fabric of our family and the community in Marks, Mississippi. Her journey from Chinatown to a small Southern town encapsulated her resilience and ability to adapt. As I reflect on her life, I realize the importance of sharing our stories and cherishing the connections we have, especially in moments of loss.
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