The Duality of Strength

Go Fish – Henry Zhang

Mo Zheng

The concept of origins relating to roots has always seemed backward. While the “roots” of a person might mean their starting point, the roots of a tree are complex pathways that, in reality, branch out from the seed. Being a traveler and a foreigner my whole life, I was, ironically, foreign to the concept of home. Our family traveled from China, Canada, the United States, and different cities (Leshan, Toronto, Central, Greenville, and Raleigh) and states (Sichuan, Ontario, South Carolina, Washington, and North Carolina). Although there are infinitely different pathways or locations I can steer from in my current state of life, I can always trace back to my seed. If my life is a timeline, my grandpa defines my starting point, my home. 

He was a splendid musician. As a violinist, the more I advanced in the field of music, the more I appreciated my grandfather’s musical talents. Most times, while we bustled about in our apartment in the city of Leshan, Sichuan, he hummed a plethora of tunes, spreading his joy along with others in the family. He also played the violin at a young age, but his music influenced me through this ancient Chinese instrument called Er Hu. Like the violin, it utilizes a bow gliding between its strings, producing colorful, vibrant music. Unlike the modern violin, this instrument had a humble two strings, only half compared to the four violin strings. Regardless, the four seasons materialized in the room whenever he set hands on the Er Hu. From the sweet, gentle, and blossoming tunes of spring to the sharp, burning, and fiery orchestras of summer, only two strings captured and conveyed them all. I froze in awe, ensnared by the nets of music reverberating throughout the room. Unlike the separateness of Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons,” the music my grandpa created finely interweaved all the seasons. The memory of his daily routine—leisurely playing with his beloved Er Hu—will never leave my mind. 

Apart from his musicality, my grandpa showed the true meaning of strength. On the surface, like the stereotypical definition of strength, my grandpa was extremely built, even at his age of past seventy. Though not very tall, he had a huge frame–accentuated by my perspective as a small child–because of his earlier years of training with weights. Although past his prime, it was as if Godzilla swung its massive arms or took monstrous steps whenever my grandpa moved. However, there was gentleness infused in his strength. His presence compelled authority and respect wherever he went, but it also left room for kindness. His physique led to my passion for lifting as I grew older because I desired his strength and his figure. I found solace whenever I pushed myself on every rep of an exercise at the gym, knowing I was one step closer to my grandpa’s strength. However, while people only saw the surface of strength, my grandpa possessed the entire ocean. His true strength was one of which I was completely unaware of in my childhood, yet inspires me forevermore. 

My grandpa had suffered from Parkinson’s disease since I was born. Upon diagnosis, this insidious disease brings the inevitability of pain and suffering. Yet, in my early childhood memories with my grandpa, I never noticed one moment in which he seemed resentful or affected by his disease. I can only recall feeling joy in the time spent with him, from shopping together at the neighborhood market to the long walks throughout Leshan, Sichuan. At the crack of dawn, we wolfed down some simple bread and xian cai, meaning “salty vegetables,” which were essentially pickled cabbages sliced into strips. My taste buds grew a mind of their own when coming into contact with the xian cai, immediately salivating at that distinct, spicy flare. During the afternoon, my family and I wandered among the hectic but lively streets of Leshan, watching hordes of people swarm popular restaurants and flea markets like a swarm of starving mosquitoes. The melting pot of aromas in the air greeted my nose with the exotic spices and mouth-watering dishes exuding irresistible smells. At night, we soaked up the festive atmosphere of the nightly collective street dances, consisting of many elderly and children. Old-fashioned songs played by the speakers blended in with the odd noises of the streets diffused throughout the atmosphere. It certainly was a joyous time of my childhood, when I felt at “home,” and when the worries and stresses of life had not yet grasped me in their palms. Now a popular tourist destination due to the giant Buddha carved upon the side of a mountain, Leshan was my earliest “home.”

While my family and I were walking through the streets of Leshan, one peculiar but persistent memory kept nagging at my mind:

“Swing your arms,” my grandmother chided my grandpa. “Keep them swinging.”

I kept asking myself the question, Why such a random phrase? As a side effect of Parkinson’s, my grandpa could not naturally swing his arms due to the loss of motor functions. People with this disease experience the degradation of the substantia nigra, an integral part of the brain that controls these involuntary movements. At the time, my family had kept me shrouded in darkness in light of my grandpa’s disease. Although my grandma was only correcting my grandpa, secretly admired his uncontrollable quirk. It made my grandpa special compared with other people, from adults to children. 

He had both arms fixated at his side, not moving one inch as he traveled through the streets and parks. People in society may look down on or ridicule this odd habit; nevertheless, I interpreted this action as how my grandpa held or composed himself. When a person walks, their arms involuntarily swing with their body. If the path of a walk represented the journey one undertakes during a lifetime, the constantly moving and shifting of the arms symbolized the unpredictability and inevitability of change. One day, a new concern or worry may materialize. Swinging to the next, an accident or a missed deadline could occur. However, my grandpa’s fixated, motionless arms set him apart from others. His unique walking motion represented stability, as he only took persistent, steady steps. I even purposefully copied this movement, as I saw him as my role model for my ideals in life. I wanted that steadiness–that unwavering poise–as life continues. As life slaps one upside the head with Parkinson’s disease, many may collapse or mourn. Instead, my grandpa “faced it all”, and still “stood tall”, and did it “his way” (just like the Frank Sinatra song “My Way”). 

My grandpa passed away last year. To this day, I have not shed a single tear out of sadness. Although I am still unsure if this was an unnatural reaction, I know I loved and respected him. I also know that he can finally be at ease without worrying about showing his struggles. Overall, my gratefulness overtook any room for sadness. My grandpa showed me what true strength and resilience were. He can face an inevitable, overpowering enemy waking up every day, yet he has the strength for spending time with his family with a face full of happiness. To this day, he still resides in my internal engine, my heart, not only as a figure who has shown me the secrets of strength and resilience but also as someone who brings me the idea of home, wherever I travel in the infinite pathways of the roots of life.