Black Butterfly

by Chain-Wen Wang

This essay is dedicated to my great grandmom, Tai,

and to my little friend Brian.

It was the first morning of summer; the breathing of the world was warm and slow. I was impatiently waiting for the bamboo door to open.

"Mei-mei, go inside now," whispered mom as the door slowly slid open.

She gently pushed me into the room. The secret world behind the bamboo door was revealed in front of me. It wasn't what I expected. A bony old lady with a strange style of black dress sitting in a huge wicker chair was staring at me across the room. She had the eyes of the eagle. I shivered and tried to hide behind mom and grandma.

"Go on, don't be afraid. Give Tai a hug," grandma said, with an encouraging smile on her face. I hesitantly moved toward the old lady. I saw her open her black wings and grab me with her sharp long claws. I heard myself screaming and tried to run away from her, but I fainted. This was my first memory of meeting my great grandmother. I was five.

Each summer vacation of my childhood, my brother and I would spend with my grandparents. The first thing we always had to do was visit my great grandmother over at my granduncle's house. Summer vacation didn't start without great grandmother's blessing. Tai was over seventy-five when I was born. As her first great grandchildren, my brother and I were the most interesting little things to her at that time. Of course, as a boy, my brother always had more freedom than me. He could go everywhere he wanted, do everything he wanted, and ask all the silly little questions he had. He even got to drink out of Tai's glass--the long-life wine. But not me. As the baby little girl of the family, I was supposed to stay with all my female relatives. It was my responsibility to entertain the elderly, especially Tai--the authority of the Chang family.

It was not that uncommon in the old Chinese society for rich and powerful men to have more than one wife. Actually, wives, like children, are the symbol of wealth and power in old Chinese society. As in the typical Chinese marriage of the old days, Tai married a rich and powerful man in his mid-sixties when she turned sixteen. She became my great grandfather's third wife. It was not easy to be the youngest wife, especially when she was younger than his children. She had to live in the same house with his other wives and their children. She had to call his wives "older sisters" to show them respect since she was the newest wife. It was almost embarrassing to her when the other wives' children called her "third mom." However, Tai received a lot of attention and respect from the family--not because she was younger than his children but because she gave him three sons in his old age.

For generations, the Chang family had only had sons. Great grandfather had twelve sons from his three wives, but no daughter. All my grandfather's brothers had more than three sons, but no daughters. Even though my great grandfather had died long before she was born, my mother became the treasure of the Chang family since she was the first girl in three generations. Tai loved mom dearly but was very strict with her. She treated her colder than anyone in the family because she was afraid to spoil her. She knew her granddaughter received more attention than she needed from other members of the family. But I was different. As her great granddaughter, I was supposed to be spoiled by her.

It was hard for both of us at first. Tai didn't speak Mandarin--the only language I could understand at that time--if anything could make sense to an exceptionally active five year old. I didn't want to be with her. She scared me. She was a skinny little old lady with strong facial expressions. Her eyes were as sharp as eagles'; her finger nails were long and bent like eagles' claws. And an extremely bright green jade bracelet on her left wrist reminded me of the band on an eagle. Her strange black dress was so big it seemed dangerous to me. I had never seen anyone else wear anything like that before. It was not until later on in life that I realized Tai was wearing the traditional Chi style dress and the black and dark blue were the colors of widows.

Tai and I had a very strange relationship. I don't remember how we communicated with each other--neither of us spoke the other's language. But I do remember all those hot summer afternoons I spent with her alone in her room--behind the big sliding bamboo door. I was the only one allowed to take naps in her room! Although I was a little bit uncomfortable being there with her alone, I loved her bed. I always imagined I was in the emperor's palace taking a nap when I lay down in that bed. It was an old traditional Chinese wood carved bed with the most unique shells embedded on the sides and the most elegant embroidered grayish blue silk veil hanging from the posts. The softness of her bedding eased my fear toward her.

Sometimes in my sleep, I could sense her cool hands touching me, and I could feel her soft kisses on my chubby cheeks. It felt very nice and comforting during those hot, humid afternoon naps. Later, I heard my relatives talk about how much Tai saw herself in me. She told them I had my grandfather's stubbornness and my mom's wit. She also told them that I was the only one who had inherited her strong will and high energy level. She felt I was part of her and I reflected her. We got closer through the non-spoken communication which occurred in her room while we were alone.

Tai died when I was fifteen. Before she died, she told my grandfather that she didn't want me to go to her funeral. She thought I was full of life then; there was just so much for me to do at that age that there was no reason for me to feel or have any encounter with death. So, I couldn't even go to her funeral. Even though I still spent my summers with my grandparents for years after, I hardly thought of Tai after her funeral.

Last summer I had a chance to visit my grandma again. As a tradition, I was supposed to visit all my ancient relatives' graves to show respect--including my grandfather's. However, I could only light incense in front of Tai's picture over at my granduncle's house because Tai's grave had been moved to the Chang's family graveyard back in Mei-Li--the origin of the family in Taiwan. She is buried with my great grandfather and his wives now. The wives share the same space as they used to.

It is strange how life can change you. After living in the U.S.for four years, all of a sudden I couldn't handle the summer heat of Taiwan. I almost fainted while I was visiting my granduncle's family. Even though nobody ever went into Tai's room after she died, except my grandaunt who cleaned the room every day, she offered to let me lay down in Tai's bed. So, I took a nap in that beautiful bed again, as I used to do all those long gone summer days of my childhood.

I don't remember if it was a dream or real. On Tai's bed, I felt the gentle summer breeze on my face, the same softness of the bedding; everything was so familiar to me. I opened my eyes and saw the reflection of the light penetrating through the finger-sized strips of the bamboo door on the same grayish-blue embroidered silk veil in front of me. All the memories I had in this room came back to me.

I remember I felt the same kind of gentle summer breeze on my face and the same softness of the bedding that I had felt a long, long time ago. I will never forget what happened one particular afternoon; I don't remember my exact age at that time. But it was half dream and half real to me. I think I was awakened by the warm, bright strips of sunlight through the bamboo door on my face. I turned around and saw this huge black butterfly with a shiny green strip on her left wing laying beside me. I must have made some noises because the butterfly moved and embraced me with her wings. I closed my eyes and thought I must be in heaven because everything was so peaceful. Then I started to wonder where Tai was. So I opened my eyes to search for her. There she was; she was the butterfly--she had her arms around me. All of a sudden I seemed to realize that something special had happened between us. I can't tell you exactly what it was because I don't know how. But it was like Tai passed some part of her to me at that moment. I had never felt anything like that toward anyone else. It was the special kind of closeness that cannot be described by any spoken language.

Now I am much older, and I don't spend my summers with my grandparents anymore. But I really miss those summers of my childhood --especially the time I spent with Tai. I even bought a black silk top similar to the ones Tai used to wear all the time. I see Tai when I look at myself in the mirror. I am always a part of her.

Mei-mei means younger sister in Chinese; most Chinese family members will call the youngest girl of the family mei-mei to show their affection.

Tai means great grandmother in southern Chinese dialect.

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Last update: 8 May 2000

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