My mom’s cousin (表姨*)

*pronounced “Biao Yi,” meaning aunt in English.

A couple of days after Christmas, I realized that I had not called my mom for almost two weeks. I am not worried about her these days—she’s under the very good care of my brother. Though it has been an unusually cold winter, my brother and I made sure her house was warm and cozy.  But she does need to hear from me, her only daughter, regularly that everything is fine here in the states and that she has nothing to worry about. So I called her while on my brief walk around the neighborhood.

It started off with my usual affirming messages to her, that she needs to make sure the heat is left on all times, since this year’s winter has been colder than usual. It is the coldest winter within the past couple of decades. A lot of the nights have reached temperatures below minus 10 degrees Celsius.

“Don’t worry about the high cost of electricity,” I said. “Taking care of yourself is the number one priority. My brother and I will make sure that the heating cost is taken care of. Just make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

My mom lives alone, in a two-bedroom house with a spacious attached kitchen, as well as a large sunroof patio. It was rebuilt over the old house where we three children: my two brothers (one older, one younger) and I, grew up, but with modern utilities: running water, flush toilet, electric heating and cooling, plus the small gated yard.

My mom is in great health considering her advanced age. She turned 80 years old on November 10th—Nicholas and I flew all the way to celebrate her birthday. Her voice is strong and her gait steady. After her last doctor’s checkup, my 55 year-old younger brother told me, “Her vital signs are better than mine.”

“Guess who just died?” my mom said, changing the subject, “Your auntie, my cousin.”

My auntie; my mom’s cousin; the daughter of my maternal grandmother’s second older sister, who also married into the same village as my mom, where I grew up. Even though we were families with different last names in the same village, since we were relatives, our families visited each others’ houses often; her oldest child, who was three years younger than me, was one of my close girlfriends.

During our recent visit to China last month, my son Nicholas and I paid a brief visit to her (at my mom’s prompt). She was 79 years old and had been paralyzed from a broken hip suffered during a fall off of her couch a few years ago. Despite her loss of mobility, her mind was still sharp. She immediately recognized me. She even managed to call Nicholas’s name in English without trouble. I left her a red envelope of one thousand yuan, my way of showing respect.

Memories of her rushed back. 表姨 was one of the most educated women within her generation. Her family could afford to send her to attend schools. She excelled through secondary school and was able to get into and graduate from high school, while her cousin, my mom, never attended even a single day of school because my grandma needed her to help out with the family. But like all other girls in rural villages, she was not allowed to decide who is she going to marry.

I did not know another woman of similar age or older in my village who ever graduated from high school. When I was young, I wondered why she married a village guy who could barely read or write, why she settled for such a hard life like most of the women in the countryside, when she could have chosen a much easier life in the city with some educated city guy.

My mom told me that, when 表姨 was in her early twenties, her family had arranged for her to meet (through my mom’s introduction) one of my uncles from my village, who worked for the government at the time. After they met two times under supervision, it seemed that they would be a good match for each other. They agreed on their engagement. My mom was delighted they were going to become cousin wives.

While the wedding planning was underway, they went to the civil office to get a marriage certificate. However, when they on the day, they found that the civil office was unexpectedly closed. They had to try again at a later date.

However, one day before the scheduled date of their second try to certify their marriage, her fiancé told her that he had had a change of heart. He decided that he would not marry her. Instead, he was going to marry a girl at work who had been in love with him for some time. It was just not meant for them to be together.

Naturally, 表姨 felt ashamed, even though she barely had any conversations with her then would-be fiancé. It was such a shame for a woman and her family to be dumped, but what could she do? A country girl had no control over her fate. She had to wait for the next arranged marriage. My mom told me she herself was quite angry with the fact that her cousin got dumped just before getting married, especially since she was considered the matchmaker for this arrangement. 

表姨 later married another guy in my village, a poor but good looking guy who did not even finish elementary school—very few families could afford their children to go to school at that time. She had four children, two girls and two boys. Like every other woman in the village, she had no choice but to toil in the farm field to barely make ends meet, and take care of her family and in-laws. Remaining shy and timid all her life, she never had a chance to put her education to real use. At times, I heard that she was even physically and verbally abused—it was not an uncommon treatment for women back then.

None of her children went to college. The youngest son, her favorite, was the only one to finish high school. He ended up striking rich in the steel business more than ten years ago. So in her old age, 表姨 finally had her son to brag about. She had been living with her son and helping take care of her grandchildren until she took a fall a few years ago. She was 79 years old.

Sometimes, I wonder, what would have happen if the civil office was open that day when she went to certify their marriage with her first finance? Or had 表姨 had the choices that girls have now to choose who she would marry, she would have had a complete different life!

Rest in peace 表姨!

I should mention that her name is 王喜敏 (Wang Ximin). I just learned it from my mom. I did not know her name before, because no one ever needed to address her by name. She was always someone’s wife, mom, sister-in-law, daughter-in-law—and my 表姨.

I could tell my mom was sad when talking about her cousin’s death. She must have thought about herself, too—she’s a year older than her cousin. I just hope she keeps putting her health first. It took many years for her to realize that she does have choices now. She is worth it.