Dear China,

I don’t know you well but I come from you. We are a hundred years apart. 

I know that we come from the south, from GuangDong. 

I call you the motherland but my mom, her mom, her mother, nor her mother never knew your soil, your earth. 

Yet they know your tongue. To the ears so harsh and abrasive but to me it is deep and speaks to the heart. 

They know your food. Bones boiled for hours. Tong (soup), packaged in a re-used to go plastic container sent back with me to Santa Cruz. Tong to heal your soul and make you homesick enough to cry in your shared triple dorm room. 

I know that you were invaded by Japan but I don’t know enough. I want to know more about how that scarred you.

I was never taught much about your history, only the cultural revolution. I promise to learn more about you moving forward. 

I want to speak your language and to understand you. I promise to practice and learn a new word everyday. I may never be fluent, but that is ok. 

My mom tells me that your people are hard-working. To be honest, I am conflicted about how capitalistic you seem. 

You are where my ancestors left for more financial opportunities. 

I was embarrassed to be associated with you for 18 years, even though I grew up with many Chinese peers. 

I might never understand you completely but I have a piece of you that will be passed on to generations farther than I can imagine. I hope that I can reclaim you in ways that heal and make my ancestors proud. 

You give way to many resilient people, families, and communities.

Love,

Hannah