In a flash of green, an emerald sword shot out, straight at the middle-aged man’s left shoulder. Swinging his sword nimbly, the young man moved to cut through the other man’s elbow. With a sound like thunder, the older blocked the younger’s sword and threw his weapon straight at the younger’s forehead. The younger ducked right, and with a flip of the wrist, thrust his emerald sword straight towards the elder’s thigh-
I closed the book and checked on my grandfather. With his head leaning lopsidedly on the couch, the old man gently snored. Noticing the sudden silence, he opened his eyes — realizing where he is, he looked over at me and smiled shyly.
My grandfather and I only grew close when my grandparents came to Canada to visit us for a month when I was sixteen. Initially I feared their arrival. I worried that I would not be up to par with their expectations of me, that the reality of me would dash their hopes. When they got here I made strenuous efforts to avoid them, thinking that interacting less would ensure I could not disappoint them.
My grandfather and I didn’t speak more than four words to one another until one day nearly two weeks into their visit, when he caught me reading a kung-fu novel on my bed. It was late afternoon when he burst to my room to inquire if I had seen his reading glasses. I jumped at the shock of his voice and dropped the book, which he automatically bent to retrieve for me. As he went for a closer look, he began to laugh.
“You can still read Chinese? Good! I got the same book here.” Still laughing, he pulled an identical book out of his jacket pocket and handed both to me.
“Good!” He repeated. “That way I don’t need to go look for my reading glasses. Just read it to me.” The old man gingerly moved himself to the couch and threw his hands into the air. “Begin!”
My love for kung-fu novels first began when I immigrated to Canada with my family when I was ten. For the first entire month, I read the books behind my English textbooks in every single class as the slippery English words slid right over my head. The Chinese-language books became my lifeline back to China and the last part of my life that I had really understood. Over the years, as English became more familiar, the role of the novels changed. Instead of reading alone, I started translating the stories into English for others. By the time I reached sixteen and fluency, they had faded into more of a hobby than the “full-time job” they had once been.
My grandfather’s arrival only increased my attachment to these books. Every afternoon, after reading him my favorite passages, he would share with me a part of his childhood — when he was first reading these books himself as a child. His reenactments of his favorite moments of the stories drew us closer. Soon, my grandfather’s childhood no longer seemed like an ancient history to me and China, along with memories of my own childhood there, seemed to be closer, once again.
In a thundering clash, the older man’s sword falls to the ground. The younger man charges his weapon at his rival, only to turn away at the last possible second after seeing the determination and courage in his eyes. With a crooked smile, the younger man lowers his sword and drifts away-
The young girl closes the book and turns to ask me if her pronunciations of the Mandarin were right. I’m sitting behind the desk in the Chinese language school I teach at during summers. She has lived in Canada her entire life. She has never felt the wrench of slippery English words getting away: English is all she’s ever spoken. But slowly, slowly, Mandarin is starting to sound natural in her mouth; China is starting to seem less far away. We’re getting there.
