2023 BAAFN Award
Rediscovered Memories
by Kalina Brookfield
Sitting in a squeaky red fabric chair in the front row of the auditorium, I waited impatiently for the never ending line of students to trickle in. The school had advertised the event as a Lunar New Year celebration, a performance showcasing all of the diverse Asian cultures present at Brookline High. All I knew was that it would last an entire hour, and that it took place during the very last block before we were released for February break.
The lights dimmed and the crowd quieted. A few dozen students stood on stage accompanied by an array of string instruments, holding their bows at the ready. Arms hovered shakily, waiting for a signal. The room seemed to be holding its breath.
With the sweep of an arm, the orchestra descended into a traditional Asian folk song that I had heard over and over again growing up. And suddenly, memories I had long forgotten of my earliest years came flooding back. My Ama massaging my feet with cold cream to get rid of my fever, the pressure of her fingers digging into my soles bringing me to tears, but the look on her face telling me that I dared not cry. My tongue burnt on zhou as I ate on a plastic stool in front of a fan, battling the sweltering humidity of a summer in Taipei. My Ayi cradling my face with her
permanently cool-to-the-touch hands, her praises of what a guai haizi I was accompanied by the clinking of jade bracelets worn on both arms.
Before I knew it, the folk song was over, and as the audience applauded I was left with a feeling of incredible longing for those years when I still spent my summers in Taiwan, still lived in the Flushing Chinatown of Queens, New York. Years before I’d quit my Chinese Sunday school and the kung fu classes and Chinese holiday parties that came with it. Years when I’d had no reason to feel insecure about my American accent when speaking Mandarin, and could speak to my relatives in complete sentences. It was a wave of indescribable nostalgia for a culture that I hadn’t even known I’d lost.
Each of the following acts brought with them an onslaught of rediscovered moments buried deep within my past. The boy on stage launched his yo-yo five feet into the air, hypnotizing me in the same way that the toy vendors of the Shilin night market would every night with their carts full of flashing colored lights. A girl playing guzheng threw me into a memory of my cousins taking turns on the piano, fingers moving across keys as if they had been born with the sole purpose of being pianists.
As two students on stage were in the middle of a Karate routine, I was snapped out of my memories by the baffled laughter of someone in the audience behind me. My initial confusion turned into anger as I realized that they were scoffing at the martial arts in front of them. The beauty of the form was lost on them, so they picked it apart and discarded it as something absurd. But they didn’t know the amount of precision each step of the routine in front of them required. They had never been seven-year-olds peeking around the corner to watch in awe as the big kids
practiced roundhouse kicks so high that they were practically flying, spinning around with the deadly strength of a hurricane.
And so the rage melted into a feeling of sadness - for myself and for the laughing people behind me. I was losing my place in this stunning, unique culture with every year that passed. But they might never get to experience the magnificent Asian cultures, might never understand the beauty of a martial arts routine. As the hour came to a close, I realized that I was not ready to lose this wondrous part of my life and my identity. It’s only been a week since, but I know that I will do my best, from here on out, to hold onto the memories that I still have - and hopefully, will have the chance to make new ones too.
The lights dimmed and the crowd quieted. A few dozen students stood on stage accompanied by an array of string instruments, holding their bows at the ready. Arms hovered shakily, waiting for a signal. The room seemed to be holding its breath.
With the sweep of an arm, the orchestra descended into a traditional Asian folk song that I had heard over and over again growing up. And suddenly, memories I had long forgotten of my earliest years came flooding back. My Ama massaging my feet with cold cream to get rid of my fever, the pressure of her fingers digging into my soles bringing me to tears, but the look on her face telling me that I dared not cry. My tongue burnt on zhou as I ate on a plastic stool in front of a fan, battling the sweltering humidity of a summer in Taipei. My Ayi cradling my face with her
permanently cool-to-the-touch hands, her praises of what a guai haizi I was accompanied by the clinking of jade bracelets worn on both arms.
Before I knew it, the folk song was over, and as the audience applauded I was left with a feeling of incredible longing for those years when I still spent my summers in Taiwan, still lived in the Flushing Chinatown of Queens, New York. Years before I’d quit my Chinese Sunday school and the kung fu classes and Chinese holiday parties that came with it. Years when I’d had no reason to feel insecure about my American accent when speaking Mandarin, and could speak to my relatives in complete sentences. It was a wave of indescribable nostalgia for a culture that I hadn’t even known I’d lost.
Each of the following acts brought with them an onslaught of rediscovered moments buried deep within my past. The boy on stage launched his yo-yo five feet into the air, hypnotizing me in the same way that the toy vendors of the Shilin night market would every night with their carts full of flashing colored lights. A girl playing guzheng threw me into a memory of my cousins taking turns on the piano, fingers moving across keys as if they had been born with the sole purpose of being pianists.
As two students on stage were in the middle of a Karate routine, I was snapped out of my memories by the baffled laughter of someone in the audience behind me. My initial confusion turned into anger as I realized that they were scoffing at the martial arts in front of them. The beauty of the form was lost on them, so they picked it apart and discarded it as something absurd. But they didn’t know the amount of precision each step of the routine in front of them required. They had never been seven-year-olds peeking around the corner to watch in awe as the big kids
practiced roundhouse kicks so high that they were practically flying, spinning around with the deadly strength of a hurricane.
And so the rage melted into a feeling of sadness - for myself and for the laughing people behind me. I was losing my place in this stunning, unique culture with every year that passed. But they might never get to experience the magnificent Asian cultures, might never understand the beauty of a martial arts routine. As the hour came to a close, I realized that I was not ready to lose this wondrous part of my life and my identity. It’s only been a week since, but I know that I will do my best, from here on out, to hold onto the memories that I still have - and hopefully, will have the chance to make new ones too.