THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
THE FEET OF MRS. LEE
"A kind of bondage," my father said about the feet
of Grandma, my mother's mother.
Indeed, many stories abound about foot binding, a very unique practice in
nineteenth century China for girls, starting from infancy.
Grandma Lee was left by her husband, a feudal lord of sorts, with two children
to care for, my mother and my uncle.
Being illiterate, she fended for herself throughout her life by whatever
innate resources she possessed. In the remote tiny village of Chung Ting,
in the province of Fujian, she raised her children until the clouds of war
swept through China. She fled to Formosa (now Taiwan), then to the Philippines,
and ultimately to America.
"It was not easy, running from soldiers, from devastation. I never
taught your mother, but she was always number one in her class," she
went on, repeating this many times.
She was the pillar of our home. From dawn to dusk she was in the kitchen.
She trusted no one where household chores were concerned. She was driven
by her own private mission, the task of family harmony, as she perceived
it.
Grandma never talked about her feet before. They were ugly appendages that
did not appear to belong to the rest of her body. It was as if there was
no curiosity about them at all. When I was born, she was already there,
assisting mother and father.
One day, after settling in New York, some years after the death of my mother,
she began to talk more about herself and, eventually, about her feet.
We argued about the necessity of binding little girls' feet.
"I cried a lot then. I could not run. I wished many times I were a
butterfly. I dreamt of the many places I could fly to," she said.
"But you did, Grandma. See, you are here in America. You are thousands
of miles from where you came from," I replied to her.
"Indeed," she mused, almost contemplating her next sentence. "My
feet are my curse," she finally said.
"How?"
"If it were not for these (pointing to her feet), I would have been
able to read, to help all of you, to make things lighter for your mother.
She worked herself to death. Did you know?"
"Mother died of cancer," I retorted with conviction.
"No, I am to blame."
"It is not your fault. You have given us all your life. Your heart
more than anything else."
As if in recognition of this, she submitted and said, "Yes, my heart.
It was there for all of you, always. What is the use of nice looking feet
if you cannot give yourself. Yes?"
Grandma Lee died eleven years ago. Her small feet did not mean much, after
all.
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