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chu_totoroFor my father's father, from my father.
我父親活了九十二年，一生作了許多事，但最鮮明的印象裡，他是個時空錯置的人。我現在幾乎就看得到：常有一兩分鐘他臉上會出現非常遙遠的表情，然後忽然一拍膝蓋大發現似地說：「靄蘭五歲啦！」見到我看著他，他嘴角的笑容一寸寸收了回來，看來有些困惑。時光機停頓了。我父親乾咳幾聲，回復工作。我起初不覺得這有什麼特別，可是等艾蘭八歲，十歲，十二歲的時候，我發現他還是念著: 「靄蘭五歲啦！」雖然後來改進成「靄蘭十歲啦！」可是就這樣卡在那裡，直到我們都長大離家為止。
連續劇裡，有很多不快樂的人。通常都不是這些人的錯。壞事變成慘事變成天災...主角從這邊被推到那邊，那邊到這邊，連喘氣的機會都沒有。我覺得我父親就像這些連續劇裡面的人﹔他這一生，很少機會自由選擇。十八歲從軍，抗日。結婚生小孩之後，放棄了上校的位置而成為了一位教官。比較保險的工作，可是不可能升級。眼看著昔日同僚一個個升為將軍，心裡不知道是什麼滋味。有一兩次他還氣餒到想「去獅頭山當個和尚算了」。他曾跟我說，他如果生在不同的年代，一定不會去當兵。「那你當什麼呢？」我問。「起碼當個學者吧，」他回答。
我相信在心底深處我父親是快樂的，可是他無意被卷入了一個「現代中國」的連續劇，使他也相對的不快樂。所以他才會特別鐘愛那些被逼進紛爭的英雄吧。煮飯洗衣時，常聽到他唱著京劇。有時是《空城計》中的諸葛亮在感嘆「我本是臥龍崗散淡的人」，有時是《四郎探母》中的楊四郎在喃喃自語「我好比籠中鳥有翅難展」。
即使這樣，我父親從來沒有放棄過。不管人生帶給他多少挫折，他總是頑強地，有尊嚴地堅持下去。所以，我特別珍惜他那些穿越時光的時間。我從沒問過他說「靄蘭十歲啦！」的時候他到底去了那裡。我猜他也不會跟我說。不過，我想，不管怎樣，他應該還是很自豪吧。雖然經歷過戰爭，逃難，錢的問題，人的問題... 他一定還是為了我們，他的三個孩子，自豪吧。為了他的六個孫子自豪吧。幾個月前，我在跟母親講話時，他忽然睜開眼睛，大聲問道：「你五十歲了沒？」「爸，」我跟他說，「我五十一了。」「好，好，」他說。「很好。」「你問這幹嗎？」我問，可是他已經再度睡著了。
大約一年半前，我自己經歷了一段困苦的時期。有一段時間我無法確定我能不能在我父母之後死。照我父親來講，兒女比父母早死是最大的不孝。不過，我今天還在這裡，而為我是我父親的兒子自豪。這幾月我父親是不好過的。我必須在這裡謝了我哥哥，我妹妹，和我太太。他們幫我做了我這個兒子已經無法再做的事。我父親現在去了更好的地方了。我們中國人相信，在那裡，一年只等於一天。我為他高興。父親，祝你一路平安！黃泉下再會吧。
二〇〇八年十一月十四日張家綸書
二〇〇八年十一月十六日張善君譯
With a life spanning 92 years, my father had done many things; I, however, shall remember him most vividly as a time traveler because whenever I caught him time traveling, he was always at his happiest. I could almost see him now: for a few minutes he’d have this far-away look as if he went into a trance; and suddenly he would slap his knee really hard and exclaimed, “Ailan is five years old!” He would say this with a knavish grin, but as soon as he saw me watching the grin disappears. He’d look somewhat puzzled; startled, even, as if I just appeared out of thin air. The time machine had ground to a halt; my father cleared his throat loudly and went back to his chores. This didn’t appear too odd, at first. I started paying more attention when I realized my father was still saying “Ailan is five years old!” when Ailan, my sister, was eight, ten, and then twelve years old. To his credit, my father did manage to change the exclamation to “Ailan is ten years old!” but I think the expression got stuck there until we were all grown and moved out of the house.
If you watch Chinese serial drama, a.k.a. soap opera, you’d probably know it is filled with extraordinarily unhappy people. Not only that, but it is usually not their own fault. As a people we don’t believe in tragic flaws. A disaster is followed by a fiasco which is followed by another calamity. On and on it goes; and our heroes and heroines get pushed this way and that, much like a candle in the wind, never having a moment of rest. When I think of my father’s life, I think of how easily the Chinese serial drama captures the hearts of millions, for my father had such a life, a life he hadn’t chosen for himself because he wasn’t given too many choices. When he came of age he joined the army to fight the Japanese. Like all veterans, Chinese or American, he never told us much about his military service. After he got married to my mother and had us, he soon gave up his post as a colonel in the military and opted for a civilian teaching job, a position with more security but no chance of advancement. He would complain, of course, as we all do in similar situations. He’d watch his former subordinates promoted to the rank of generals and felt he had made the wrong career choice. A few times he felt so discouraged he even threatened to give it all up; in his words, “to go to the Lion Head Mountain and become a Buddhist monk.” He once told me if he’d been born in a different age he would never have become a soldier. “What would you be?” I asked. “A scholar,” he said, “at least.”
I believe that, deep down, my father was a happy man; but he was caught up in a real Chinese serial drama that we call, simply, modern China, so there was also a lot of unhappiness in him. Perhaps that is why, among the many Peking operas he loved, he was particularly drawn to stories about heroes who got thrown into difficult situations not of their own choosing. He would sing key passages from these operas as he cooked or did the laundry. There was the famous Zhuge Liang, in “the Empty Citadel,” going: “I used to be a resident of Mount Crouching Dragon, a worry-free nobody.” And there was the General Yang the Fourth, in “the meeting of the Fourth Son and his Mother,” going, “I am like a bird in the cage, winged, but flightless.”
But my father never gave up. Despite the disappointments, the little disasters and calamities that life had brought him, my father kept on, if at times not so cheerfully, but always doggedly, with dignity, and with grace. This is why I treasure these moments of his time-traveling. These moments of rest, of repose and reflection. I never asked him directly where he’d gone when he called out, “Ailan is ten years old!” I didn’t think he’d tell me. But I imagine he must have felt proud about what he had accomplished, despite the war, the relocation across the Taiwan Strait, the money problems, the people problems. Despite all that, he must have felt proud about us, his three children. He must have felt proud about his six grandchildren. Several months ago, while I was talking to my mother about something, he suddenly opened his eyes and asked me loudly, “Are you fifty years old yet?” “Yes, father,” I told him, “I am fifty-one now.” “Good, good,” he said, “Very good.” “Why do you ask?” I said, but he was already nodding off.
About a year and a half ago, I myself went through a difficult patch when, for a moment at least, I wasn’t sure if I could outlive my father and my mother―which, according to my father, was the ultimate failure of the filial duty, namely to die before your parents do. But I am still hanging on here, proud to be my father’s son. The last couple of months have been very difficult for my father. And I would like to thank both my sister and my brother, and also my wife, who have done what I can no longer do as a son. My father has traveled to a better place now; a place―we Chinese believe―where a day is the equivalent of a year here in this world. I am happy for him. Bon voyage, I say. I shall join you by and by.
Written by Chialun Chang 11.14.08
Translated into Chinese by Adela Chang 11.16.08
我父親活了九十二年，一生作了許多事，但最鮮明的印象裡，他是個時空錯置的人。我現在幾乎就看得到：常有一兩分鐘他臉上會出現非常遙遠的表情，然後忽然一拍膝蓋大發現似地說：「靄蘭五歲啦！」見到我看著他，他嘴角的笑容一寸寸收了回來，看來有些困惑。時光機停頓了。我父親乾咳幾聲，回復工作。我起初不覺得這有什麼特別，可是等艾蘭八歲，十歲，十二歲的時候，我發現他還是念著: 「靄蘭五歲啦！」雖然後來改進成「靄蘭十歲啦！」可是就這樣卡在那裡，直到我們都長大離家為止。
連續劇裡，有很多不快樂的人。通常都不是這些人的錯。壞事變成慘事變成天災...主角從這邊被推到那邊，那邊到這邊，連喘氣的機會都沒有。我覺得我父親就像這些連續劇裡面的人﹔他這一生，很少機會自由選擇。十八歲從軍，抗日。結婚生小孩之後，放棄了上校的位置而成為了一位教官。比較保險的工作，可是不可能升級。眼看著昔日同僚一個個升為將軍，心裡不知道是什麼滋味。有一兩次他還氣餒到想「去獅頭山當個和尚算了」。他曾跟我說，他如果生在不同的年代，一定不會去當兵。「那你當什麼呢？」我問。「起碼當個學者吧，」他回答。
我相信在心底深處我父親是快樂的，可是他無意被卷入了一個「現代中國」的連續劇，使他也相對的不快樂。所以他才會特別鐘愛那些被逼進紛爭的英雄吧。煮飯洗衣時，常聽到他唱著京劇。有時是《空城計》中的諸葛亮在感嘆「我本是臥龍崗散淡的人」，有時是《四郎探母》中的楊四郎在喃喃自語「我好比籠中鳥有翅難展」。
即使這樣，我父親從來沒有放棄過。不管人生帶給他多少挫折，他總是頑強地，有尊嚴地堅持下去。所以，我特別珍惜他那些穿越時光的時間。我從沒問過他說「靄蘭十歲啦！」的時候他到底去了那裡。我猜他也不會跟我說。不過，我想，不管怎樣，他應該還是很自豪吧。雖然經歷過戰爭，逃難，錢的問題，人的問題... 他一定還是為了我們，他的三個孩子，自豪吧。為了他的六個孫子自豪吧。幾個月前，我在跟母親講話時，他忽然睜開眼睛，大聲問道：「你五十歲了沒？」「爸，」我跟他說，「我五十一了。」「好，好，」他說。「很好。」「你問這幹嗎？」我問，可是他已經再度睡著了。
大約一年半前，我自己經歷了一段困苦的時期。有一段時間我無法確定我能不能在我父母之後死。照我父親來講，兒女比父母早死是最大的不孝。不過，我今天還在這裡，而為我是我父親的兒子自豪。這幾月我父親是不好過的。我必須在這裡謝了我哥哥，我妹妹，和我太太。他們幫我做了我這個兒子已經無法再做的事。我父親現在去了更好的地方了。我們中國人相信，在那裡，一年只等於一天。我為他高興。父親，祝你一路平安！黃泉下再會吧。
二〇〇八年十一月十四日張家綸書
二〇〇八年十一月十六日張善君譯
With a life spanning 92 years, my father had done many things; I, however, shall remember him most vividly as a time traveler because whenever I caught him time traveling, he was always at his happiest. I could almost see him now: for a few minutes he’d have this far-away look as if he went into a trance; and suddenly he would slap his knee really hard and exclaimed, “Ailan is five years old!” He would say this with a knavish grin, but as soon as he saw me watching the grin disappears. He’d look somewhat puzzled; startled, even, as if I just appeared out of thin air. The time machine had ground to a halt; my father cleared his throat loudly and went back to his chores. This didn’t appear too odd, at first. I started paying more attention when I realized my father was still saying “Ailan is five years old!” when Ailan, my sister, was eight, ten, and then twelve years old. To his credit, my father did manage to change the exclamation to “Ailan is ten years old!” but I think the expression got stuck there until we were all grown and moved out of the house.
If you watch Chinese serial drama, a.k.a. soap opera, you’d probably know it is filled with extraordinarily unhappy people. Not only that, but it is usually not their own fault. As a people we don’t believe in tragic flaws. A disaster is followed by a fiasco which is followed by another calamity. On and on it goes; and our heroes and heroines get pushed this way and that, much like a candle in the wind, never having a moment of rest. When I think of my father’s life, I think of how easily the Chinese serial drama captures the hearts of millions, for my father had such a life, a life he hadn’t chosen for himself because he wasn’t given too many choices. When he came of age he joined the army to fight the Japanese. Like all veterans, Chinese or American, he never told us much about his military service. After he got married to my mother and had us, he soon gave up his post as a colonel in the military and opted for a civilian teaching job, a position with more security but no chance of advancement. He would complain, of course, as we all do in similar situations. He’d watch his former subordinates promoted to the rank of generals and felt he had made the wrong career choice. A few times he felt so discouraged he even threatened to give it all up; in his words, “to go to the Lion Head Mountain and become a Buddhist monk.” He once told me if he’d been born in a different age he would never have become a soldier. “What would you be?” I asked. “A scholar,” he said, “at least.”
I believe that, deep down, my father was a happy man; but he was caught up in a real Chinese serial drama that we call, simply, modern China, so there was also a lot of unhappiness in him. Perhaps that is why, among the many Peking operas he loved, he was particularly drawn to stories about heroes who got thrown into difficult situations not of their own choosing. He would sing key passages from these operas as he cooked or did the laundry. There was the famous Zhuge Liang, in “the Empty Citadel,” going: “I used to be a resident of Mount Crouching Dragon, a worry-free nobody.” And there was the General Yang the Fourth, in “the meeting of the Fourth Son and his Mother,” going, “I am like a bird in the cage, winged, but flightless.”
But my father never gave up. Despite the disappointments, the little disasters and calamities that life had brought him, my father kept on, if at times not so cheerfully, but always doggedly, with dignity, and with grace. This is why I treasure these moments of his time-traveling. These moments of rest, of repose and reflection. I never asked him directly where he’d gone when he called out, “Ailan is ten years old!” I didn’t think he’d tell me. But I imagine he must have felt proud about what he had accomplished, despite the war, the relocation across the Taiwan Strait, the money problems, the people problems. Despite all that, he must have felt proud about us, his three children. He must have felt proud about his six grandchildren. Several months ago, while I was talking to my mother about something, he suddenly opened his eyes and asked me loudly, “Are you fifty years old yet?” “Yes, father,” I told him, “I am fifty-one now.” “Good, good,” he said, “Very good.” “Why do you ask?” I said, but he was already nodding off.
About a year and a half ago, I myself went through a difficult patch when, for a moment at least, I wasn’t sure if I could outlive my father and my mother―which, according to my father, was the ultimate failure of the filial duty, namely to die before your parents do. But I am still hanging on here, proud to be my father’s son. The last couple of months have been very difficult for my father. And I would like to thank both my sister and my brother, and also my wife, who have done what I can no longer do as a son. My father has traveled to a better place now; a place―we Chinese believe―where a day is the equivalent of a year here in this world. I am happy for him. Bon voyage, I say. I shall join you by and by.
Written by Chialun Chang 11.14.08
Translated into Chinese by Adela Chang 11.16.08
