My hero
My great grandmother just celebrated her ninety-seventh birthday this may. The past years have not been kind to her. Deep lines are etched into her face, seemingly carved there like some kind of intricate design. Her lips are a puckered line, her once neat rows of teeth long gone, each one having fallen away like the years of her youth. Her eyes, however, have gained a new look, a new depth that spoke of wisdom that came with age.
She is plagued with arthritis and rheumatism, and her bones creak with every move. Yet, she had never once complained about how the years have dealt harshly with her, stripping her of the youth and vigor and still hobbles around the estate with her bamboo walking stick each morning for her morning walks.
It never fails to fill me with admiration and respect every time I think about her past and how she struggled to bring the family thus far. Her life so far, has been a far cry from a bed of roses. How hard was it, for a young woman, barely into her thirties, to sail across treacherous oceans with three young children by herself, just so she could meet her husband who was working in a foreign land? How hard was it, to just barely settle into a new environment, before having all her hard work forcibly torn away when she had to brave the horrors and bloodshed of world war two? How hard was it, to single handedly raise ten children after losing her husband, her pillar of strength, to the war that ravaged hundreds of families? How hard was it, to defy the social norm that women had to stay at home and be housewives, and go out to work, just so that she could put some rice onto the dinner table? How strong must she have been, to have managed to walk that long and difficult path, full of obstacles that life threw at her, alone?
Great grandmother cannot speak English, nor can she converse fluently in mandarin. However, she managed to get her way around in the working circle with her broken mixture of dialects. She never received formal education, so she could not clinch those much converted white collared, higher paying jobs. Instead, she found little odd jobs like cleaning up at road stalls and sweeping up the dirt and dust accumulated during the day off the roads at night.
She scrimped and saved every single cent she could just so that her children would receive the best education she could afford and never have to work till their fingers bled and their bones ached with an exhaustion that went more than skin deep, like she did. I always wondered how was it like, for her to give up all the luxuries of life, of being the first wife that bore six strong and healthy boys to carry on the family name, and work in a manner, she, once the proud mistress of a thriving household who never had to lift so much as a finger, had never done before.
She is a small and wizened old lady now, her back bent double as her spine can no longer hold up her body weight. However, her strength and tenacity still exudes from her petite frame. Every time I feel like giving up, like throwing away all the weariness and stress of life and simply giving up, all I have to do is look at how far one woman, with no one to rely on when things were going downhill, had managed to come so far by herself, and I will find my inspiration and strength to go on.