Hong Kong 2012, Part 5: Pork and Pride

Here's the link to Part 4...

(Side note: So evidently I've totally been living under the assumption that my Uncle Kan's first name is in fact Ken and his name is Ken Kan.  My family always called him Uncle Kan, so I figured they were saying Ken, a first name.  According to my mother, this is completely wrong.  Hooray for 26 years of ignorance!)

The next day we did have a very important agenda.  We planned to visit my grandfather's "grave" (and yes, the quotes are necessary) to pay our respects, so we grabbed a couple of items: water, flowers, and a wet cloth (the use of these items will become apparent later).  Of course, we had to get some food before we could make such a journey, so we met up with some friends to have lunch.  

Now I had been thinking about things I really wanted to eat while in Hong Kong, considering I hadn't been back in 12 odd years, and it wasn't like I was going to go back anytime soon.  So it was important that I made a list of all the things I wanted to eat before I departing back for the US.  One of these things was roasted suckling pig, with the skin melting with the fat of the baby pig and turning into a singular crunchy, delicious morsel. I'd had it before in Flushing in Queens many a time, but I wanted to have an authentic version from Hong Kong, because it surely had to be better (as everything else had been).

So when we arrived for lunch, and the persons ordering asked what I wanted, I jumped at the chance.  Now some of you may not be familiar, but in general at Chinese-style meals, you have one person who orders for the entire table and everyone shares each of the dishes ordered.  However, when there's someone special (like me, the gwai lo kid who doesn't speak Cantonese), usually the person ordering the food asks particularly what that person wants.  I had become accustomed to answering in generalities, saying that I would eat anything or that everything was good to me.  This was mostly true, and I generally felt that asking for things personally for me would be a little too selfish.  

However, one of my mom's adages is that when you're on vacation, you should enjoy yourself.  And I can't really disagree with my mother, can I?  So I told them that I wanted to have roasted suckling pig, or more specifically "the pig with the crispy skin."  Our friends obliged and I waited in anxious anticipation.

Of course we ordered other things, but I snapped a picture almost immediately when my pig came.

I know exactly 1 of these people

So the pig is actually the small dish in the right foreground, with the brownish reddish skin, looking like cubes of meat.  I was actually a little bit surprised, because I was used to just eating the skin, not expecting much meat on any of the pieces.  It was still infinitely delicious.  The skin was crispy and oily and amazing as usual, but the fat had actually mostly melted into the skin and meat, so the whole thing was like a crispy pork cube.  And yes, it was just as delicious as "crispy pork cube" sounds.

After lunch, we hopped into my Auntie Myna's van for the trip to my grandfather's grave.  Now I've already shown that "graveyards" in Hong Kong look like this...

However, I was a little surprised to see that my grandfather's grave looked like this:

That is a hole in a wall.  Yeap, that's it. 

Evidently, it was my job to clean the marble (water + washing cloth), and then place the flowers in the little container and add a little water.  So I climbed up the rickety little ladder they had and began to work.

Me washing marble

Me placing flowers

As I stood atop that ladder, cleaning the grave of a man I barely knew, I couldn't help but think about his perspective.  Now I'm not one to care for thinking about life after death; Whether we're dead and gone or live on in some magical plane really makes no difference to me.  But for this moment, I felt like that difference had a monumental effect on my perspective.

See, the last time my grandfather had seen me was when I was 12.  I was a half-spoiled, sheltered little child, with no direction and no ambition in my life.  I had nothing of my own, only the things my parents had pushed me to do, and all the normal mundane things of childhood.  I was a kid; Sure, I was smart, but that was expected.  He probably thought I was a nice little kid, immature even for my age at that time, but still just a kid.  That's all he knew about me.  He didn't know about all the time since then.  He wouldn't know anything about my switching to public school, he wouldn't know anything about my singing or my life in high school.  He wouldn't know about the things I did in college, or how my life has turned out now.  I'd be just a kid to him.

But in that moment, I thought about what if there was a way that we lived on, a way in which he could be aware of the things I've done.  What would he have said if he had seen me win 1st place in the state Science Olympiad competition?  What would have he thought about my choosing to go into teaching instead of business?  What would he have said if he heard I got into Cornell?  What would he have felt if he heard me sing?  Would he be happy?  Would he be proud?  These things, these legacies, seem so meaningless if I'm doing them for someone I barely knew, someone I barely met.  But if it's someone who has seen me grow up, even from afar, even from some mystery plane beyond our understanding, someone who has understood my journey and where I've been and where I've come from, I think it'd make me want to succeed even more.  

I've always been content with the things I've done.  I've always made decisions about my life for myself.  I've rarely considered how others would view my life decisions; I wanted to be successful for me, never for anyone else.  But in that small moment, I really wanted to know if he was proud of me.  I really wanted to know if the things that I've done, if the choicest I've made, have been good enough.  I'd like to think he agrees with me.  I'd like to think he's proud.  I'd like to think that.