Thanks for helping me revise my UC Prompt 2. I removed all the names and locations.
I did not find out that my grandmother was not really my "grandmother" until I was fourteen. My mom delivered this revelation bluntly; there were no bubble-wrapped words of caution involved. Mom and I were in Grandma's new community apartment, phoning "home" to our Shanghai relatives, delivering good news that Grandma had finally found a great place to live after moving out of our home.
"Hi, Mom, how are you? Uh huh...I'm doing great," said my mother cheerfully through the speaker. "So are (my name) and (grandma's name)." But (grandma's name) is my grandmother's name; my mother's mother. So who was on the phone? I gave a perplexed look to her but she waved me away, so I patiently waited until she was done. After the call, Mom proceeded to tell me, in a matter-of-fact tone, that the woman on the phone was her biological mother; she had given Mom to Grandma when she was only three because they were best friends, and Grandma desperately wanted a child of her own.
I was at once shocked and offended and furious. Shocked to find out, offended that my mother spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone, and furious that I was kept in the dark for fourteen years. But it was Mom's turn to look confused. "So what?" she said. "She's still your grandma." I mulled these words over and realized she was unconditionally the best judge of my character, because those would have been my words, had my emotions not clouded my judgment. The smiling old lady sitting cross-legged on the sofa was my grandma when she peered curiously over the crib when I was a toddler. She was my grandmother when she made me her special Shanghainese Pork Nian Gao on special occasions, such as my ninth birthday. She was my grandmother five minutes before the phone call ended, and she will always be my grandmother.
Since that day, I have only been to appreciate Grandma even more; for her devotion, her caring, and her time. She took care of mother and immigrated to America to take care of me. She was tied to us not by blood, but by love. When she was finally able to take a break from taking care of us after getting her own apartment at (retirement community), I felt obligated to pay her grace and altruism back. So I started to visit my grandmother every weekday after school until dinner time, and every Sunday morning, and I took up her suggestion to volunteer as an Event Coordinator for the senior citizens. I have volunteered there ever since, never missing the chance to organize another Bingo/Coffee day, a Thanksgiving potluck, a Christmas gingerbread house building session, or a Moon Cake Festival party.
My devotion to helping her and her fellow senior citizen residents causes her to beam in delight whenever the other grandmas and grandpas tell her how lucky and proud she must be to have a grandson that visits her so frequently. She is proud to have a grandson like me. I am proud to bring such joy to her. I am her grandson, after all.
I did not find out that my grandmother was not really my "grandmother" until I was fourteen. My mom delivered this revelation bluntly; there were no bubble-wrapped words of caution involved. Mom and I were in Grandma's new community apartment, phoning "home" to our Shanghai relatives, delivering good news that Grandma had finally found a great place to live after moving out of our home.
"Hi, Mom, how are you? Uh huh...I'm doing great," said my mother cheerfully through the speaker. "So are (my name) and (grandma's name)." But (grandma's name) is my grandmother's name; my mother's mother. So who was on the phone? I gave a perplexed look to her but she waved me away, so I patiently waited until she was done. After the call, Mom proceeded to tell me, in a matter-of-fact tone, that the woman on the phone was her biological mother; she had given Mom to Grandma when she was only three because they were best friends, and Grandma desperately wanted a child of her own.
I was at once shocked and offended and furious. Shocked to find out, offended that my mother spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone, and furious that I was kept in the dark for fourteen years. But it was Mom's turn to look confused. "So what?" she said. "She's still your grandma." I mulled these words over and realized she was unconditionally the best judge of my character, because those would have been my words, had my emotions not clouded my judgment. The smiling old lady sitting cross-legged on the sofa was my grandma when she peered curiously over the crib when I was a toddler. She was my grandmother when she made me her special Shanghainese Pork Nian Gao on special occasions, such as my ninth birthday. She was my grandmother five minutes before the phone call ended, and she will always be my grandmother.
Since that day, I have only been to appreciate Grandma even more; for her devotion, her caring, and her time. She took care of mother and immigrated to America to take care of me. She was tied to us not by blood, but by love. When she was finally able to take a break from taking care of us after getting her own apartment at (retirement community), I felt obligated to pay her grace and altruism back. So I started to visit my grandmother every weekday after school until dinner time, and every Sunday morning, and I took up her suggestion to volunteer as an Event Coordinator for the senior citizens. I have volunteered there ever since, never missing the chance to organize another Bingo/Coffee day, a Thanksgiving potluck, a Christmas gingerbread house building session, or a Moon Cake Festival party.
My devotion to helping her and her fellow senior citizen residents causes her to beam in delight whenever the other grandmas and grandpas tell her how lucky and proud she must be to have a grandson that visits her so frequently. She is proud to have a grandson like me. I am proud to bring such joy to her. I am her grandson, after all.