My grandpa died today.
Grandpa grew up poor in a remote province in northern China. He was the first one in his family to go to school. His father, my great-grandpa, was a musician who would perform at wealthier peoples’ houses. He saw how much emphasis the upper class put on education, and pushed my grandpa to study.
Grandpa got his medical degree during the cultural revolution, a time filled with paranoia. He witnessed book burnings and denouncements of other doctors as capitalist spies, often merely due to medical treatments gone wrong. He kept his head low and became a lecturer instead. He was a great public speaker.
My mom came to America in the first wave of post-revolution Chinese grad students. My grandpa followed soon afterwards. While my parents worked long hours to stay financially afloat in this strange new land, my grandparents raised me and my sister. I remember he would pat my butt and sing chinese songs to put me to sleep. But I can’t remember the songs anymore.
Grandpa learned english and became a naturalized citizen. He found a community of chinese seniors in Michigan, and opted to stay there after my family moved to California. I visited him a few times while in college. He always had a case of Natty Light in his apartment, something I never noticed as a kid.
Grandpa died today, at the ripe old age of 91. A couple days before passing, he asked my uncle, his son, for a beer. Uncle smuggled two beers into the hospital and shared a drink with him in his last days.