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My Turn
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General Chen Ji-Tang is seated in the front row. His son and my father, Shu-Yun Chan, is wearing a white suit and standing directly behind him.
From The Asian Reporter, V18, #23 (June 10, 2008), page 6 & 7.
The warlord’s son
Between 1928 and 1936, General Chen Ji-Tang was the supreme ruler of southern China. He was a leader in the ruling Nationalist party at the time, and was a rival to the party leader, Chiang Kai-Shek. General Chen wielded enormous economic and military power in the region, and was commonly known as the "King of the Southern Skies" due to his military might.
I bring up this somewhat arcane fact not because I’m particularly interested in this period of Chinese history, nor to relate this to some facet of China’s position in the world today. Instead, I sometimes reflect upon his life and times in a very personal way, as a contrast to my own life. You see, General Chen was my grandfather.
He lived and led during a tumultuous time in his country’s history, when decisions had life and death consequences. At times he led his military to fight the Japanese invasion of China, and at times he fought against the emerging Communist movement, which would ultimately lead to the retreat of the Nationalist party, pulling back to the island of Taiwan.
Whenever my father’s family would get together for a reunion, grandfather’s exploits on and off the battlefield were often the topic of discussion. While many of the stories were undoubtedly true, I suspect through the haze of time that his legend in the family has grown.
I have heard stories of how he singlehandedly led the way to modernize southern China’s infrastructure. I’ve heard that during the tumult of World War II he received requests from the leaders of both sides of the war to recruit his support for their efforts. He is said to have travelled in a bullet-proof car, which he acquired after machine-gun fire was sprayed over his previous vehicle while he was in transit. I’ve been told that at a particularly dangerous period, Grandfather would have his aides frisk his own children before allowing them to come into the house, in case one of his enemies had successfully turned one of his own against him.
Yet even with the enormity of the times, it’s the few personal anecdotes my father tells that stand out most in my mind. By all accounts, my father was not the favorite of Grandfather. Caught up in the drama of his times, along with having 15 or more other children by his three consecutive wives, Grandfather could be dismissive, distant, blunt, and bad tempered to his children, and particularly with my father.
My dad was a sickly child, constantly in and out of the hospital, and his condition in the eyes of his father was often in stark contrast to the vitality, ambition, and spirit of his closest elder brother, who happened to be the favorite of the family. I’m sure this is one of the reasons why my father does not often speak of his childhood.
In the few times my dad has spoken of his past, his life was often at odds with a family of tremendous wealth and power. His living quarters were in a separate building from the main residence, where his parents and his favored siblings lived. His room was sparse, with a cold concrete floor, furnished with a hard, uncomfortable chair and a bed with very little padding. He was often scolded for being sick, and because his illnesses affected his schooling, his grades suffered, which would only bring more scorn and ridicule from Grandfather.
The piano was a refuge for my father, a way of escaping the starkness of his life, enabling him to revel in the beauty and peace of Mozart and Beethoven’s music. Unfortunately, Grandfather often berated him mercilessly for playing the piano too loudly while he was trying to work or nap. He stopped playing shortly after that, and it was only a few years ago that he started playing again. I suspect that may be a reason why Dad always pushed me to learn the piano.
With all this, it’s one brief encounter between my father and grandfather that is the most vivid to me. As I recall the story, my father, a slightly built eight- or nine-year-old, had just been berated by one of the servants of the residence. He sat, alone, on a wooden bench, looking glumly at the floor.
Grandfather, entering the room, saw his son sitting alone, and decided to sit beside his dejected offspring.
Quietly, and very tenderly, Grandfather raised his son’s small and slender hand into the air, and placed his own open hand against the palm of his son. He looked down, into the eyes of his son, and said, "Everything will be all right. You see? Your hand is much smaller than mine but it is the same. You are a part of me." This is my dad’s favorite childhood memory.
My grandfather passed away long before I arrived. I wonder how he would have fared in today’s world, where our greatest struggle often is nothing more than getting through the daily commute without spilling hot coffee in the car. I wonder how I would have fared during the tumult of his times. I suppose these are questions that were never meant to be answered.
In the end, you live your life the best you can in the times you are in. The important thing is to honor your past, and to do your best to live up to it.
These two men — they are a part of me as well.