Kathryn 君妍 Lennon

Hunger is Inherited (Inheritance)
by Kathryn 君妍 Gwun-Yeen Lennon

Cooking is confusing
when the stomach
wants something but the head
doesn’t hold words to know
what these ingredients will become.

I see my mother’s mother, Pau Pau,
her hands folding
bamboo leave triangles around sticky rice
squatting on a newspaper in our kitchen.

I see my father’s mother, Grandma Lennon,
her hands unpeeling
Kraft singles
sitting by a window in a red dress.

I’ve gone searching for recipes
in the kitchens of other grandmothers
only to find them stuck
like tea leaves to the sides
of my cup.

Until the only thing left to do
is to visit the only one left.
I cross the world
to see Pau Pau.

Now, here I sit, hoping that she’ll speak to me.
Hoping that she’ll teach me
hoping that she’ll spill kitchen secrets
of black beans, cornstarch and soy sauce
brought to a boil, and
thickened.

But what I learn instead:
to thicken my skin
so her words will not hurt me.

My Pau Pau’s skin
is paper-thin, blue-veins raised like
remnants of the great wall
and I wonder if the great wall of her
stubbornness will ever fall.

She falls more often now,
has broken both hips, hit her head.
The arches of feet that once squatted
in the street, selling vegetables,
bok choy, gai lan, choy sum,
no longer hold her.
But she is stubborn and fear of falling
is nothing compared to the fear of failing
to feed one’s family.
She still remembers hunger.

She worries that I’m hungry,
gets up to shuffle into the kitchen
and I follow, hoping
I will find kumquats preserved in salt
after the New Year, hoping
I will find secret maps tattooed
onto the backs of my hands,
maps that will let me
crisscross checkpoints and bypass borders
trading secrets for spices and spices for seeds.

But, the kitchen is small.
I’m too tall.
I don’t know
how to hold a knife,
how much rice to cook for two.
I don’t know the
names of vegetables.

She tells me, get out of the way!
From the sidelines, I watch her
rinse rice,
slice wintermelon,
heat peanut oil in wok,
crisscross green onions, ginger, soy sauce
across fish belly.

My belly has never known
hunger. Yet, I am afraid
that when the last Saskatchewan farmer
yields to Monsanto
we won’t know how to feed the cities.
That when the grandparents are gone,
our tongues will long
for food that we no longer know
how to name.
That the food we eat will feed us
but our taste buds will not flower.

I am afraid to tell her why I’m here.
Afraid to say: Pau Pau, I’m hungry.
Hungry for recipes for survival
to help me hold out against the
day-to-day doubts that come from
not knowing the words to name my hunger.
Hungry for the wisdom of women who
carry the weight of the world on their hips.
Hungry, because if I have a daughter,
I don’t know what colour
her skin will be or what language
she’ll dream in, but
I’ll need to teach her to
trust her gut, to find
the food that makes her heart
and stomach fly.

But, I can’t say this in Cantonese.
Luckily, I love to eat.

Now, it’s six o’clock
the fish is steamed, the neighbours are home, and the news is on.
So, I pour the tea, fill our bowls
my Pau Pau shuffles out from the kitchen and takes her seat.
I turn to her and say the only thing I know how to say,
“Pau pau, sik fan”,
eat rice, grandmother.

饥饿是传承下来的吗？
Translated by Wai-Ling Lennon 姚慧玲

烹调是混乱的
当我们的肚子（胃部）
想要吃东西时候但脑子（头部）
却找不到那些东西叫什么
也不知道这些原料会做成什么

我看着母亲的母亲，婆婆（外婆），
她的手折叠着
竹叶包裹糯米成三角立体
她蹲在铺满报纸的厨房地面上

我想象到父亲的母亲，Lennon 祖母
她的手在撕开考夫起士（Kraft）
她身穿一条红裙子坐在窗台边

我去寻找菜谱
到过其他祖母的厨房
却找到
就像茶叶粘贴在
茶杯子的外边

直至剩下可以做的是
去探访剩下的一位
我到地球的另一端
去探访婆婆
如今，我坐着，期望着她会跟我说
期望着她会教授我
期望着她会告诉我一点下厨秘密
如黑豆豉，豆粉和酱油
煮滚，和
浓化

但是我学到的是：
把面皮厚化
她的话不再令我难过

婆婆的皮肤
像一片纸那样薄，蓝色的血脉
像倒塌了的长城
我想：她像长城的
固执会有一天倒下吗？

这些日子里她经常跌倒，
她两边的盘骨都摔倒过，头部碰到地面
她拱形的内足曾经蹲在
街道上，贩卖蔬菜，
白菜，芥兰，菜心，
已再不能支撑她的身躯
但她的固执和恐惧再跌倒
跟她恐惧不能养育孩子却是天渊之别
她还记得饥饿是怎样的

她担心我肚子饿
她慢步走到厨房
我在后面跟随着，期望
我会找到在盐瓮里的甘桔
在春节过后，期望
我能找到像地图的秘方把它刺青
到我的手背上
这些秘方
能让我出入无数的边境和边界
用秘方换味粉及味粉换种子

但是厨房的面积太小了
或是我长得太高
我不知道
怎样握刀子，
两人要煮多少米
我不知道
蔬菜的名字

她叫我走开！
从旁我看着她
清洗白米，
切冬瓜片，
把镬子里的花生油烧热
把已切碎的青葱和羌，酱油
淋到鱼肚上

我的肚子从来不知道什么叫
饥饿。但是，我害怕
当莎士吉川省(Saskatchewan)的农夫们
给满叁途 （Monsanto）让步
我们再不懂得怎样给城市人提供食物
当我们的祖父母离世后
我们的舌头希望尝到的食物
但我们却不知道它们的名称
我们吃的可以填饱我们的肚子
但我们的味觉却不再会开花

我不敢告诉她为什么我来探访她
不敢说：婆婆我的肚子饿。
我渴望得到生存的秘方
帮助我面对
每天产生自我的怀疑
从不知道用什么字句来形容我的饥饿
渴望从这些女性中能获得生存的智慧
她们被生活的压力都担承在她们的盘骨上
饥饿，因为如果有一天我生了一个女儿
我不知道她的皮肤是什么颜色
或她会用什么语言来做梦，但
我要教导她
相信自己，去找寻
令她的心和肚子喜欢的食物。

遗憾的是，我不能用广东话来表达这些想法，
还好的是，我爱吃。

现在是下午六时
海鱼已经蒸熟了，附近的邻居都回家了，黄昏的新闻报导
也在荧光膜上了
于是，我为婆婆倒了茶，盛好饭
婆婆从厨房走出来，坐下
我向她说我会说的广东话
“婆婆，食饭”，
吃饭，外婆。