In Search of my Past:
A Young American Visits His Chinese Home Village

Last winter, my family and I visited Sing Ping Lei Village in Kwantung Province, China where my ancestors have lived for several generations. (Courtesy of Aaron Chung)

Visiting the house and the village where my father was born provided me with a greater understanding of my family history. (Courtesy of Aaron Chung)

As a second and fifth generation Chinese American born in Los Angeles, I have found myself in limbo on numerous occasions as to who I am, and where I came from. Exactly what is Chinese American, or even Asian American, for that matter? Growing up in Southern California, I was fortunate to never lose sight of my Chinese heritage while submerged in American society. The older I got, however, the more I realized there is so much I have yet to learn about my family's history. After all, if I am not able to tell my children about their family background, they might lose sight of who they are and where they came from. Knowing one's history is so important, because the experiences of our ancestors have in some way contributed to the lives we live today.

The process of tracing my roots started months ago, when my family decided to go on a trip to Hong Kong during the winter. It was then that my sister and mother had the idea of visiting the village where my father was born. It is also where much of my family history can be traced. Although hesitant at first, I eventually opened up to the idea. As the trip neared, I grew more and more excited about the opportunity. I had no doubt this would be an experience unparalleled to any other I have had in the past.

After several days in the safety and familiarity of westernized Hong Kong, I found myself on a boat headed up the Pearl River ( ) in Southern China. Our destination was the City of Hoiping ( ), where the first leg of the journey awaited us. After lunch, we departed for my father's village, called Sing Ping Lei ( ). At the first sight of it, I was in a state of amazement. Here I was, standing around the most beautiful landscape and taken aback, knowing that my ancestors before me stood where I stood.

As I proceeded to walk around the village, I was directed into an uninhabited house, which turned out to be the one belonging to my family. The first thought that ran through my mind was how many people had walked through this house over the years. Second, seeing the room where my father was born was unbelievable. I could not believe that I was there, thousands of miles from my own birthplace, my own life. Being there for one hour was enough to make me realize how little I knew about my past, and how much I appreciate the entire experience in which I was taking part. Little did I know, this was only the beginning.

The following day, we planned to visit the gravesites of several of my ancestors, a tradition known as bai san ( ). The purpose of this tradition is to show a sign of respect to the ancestors. On this particular day, I was to visit the burial sites of three people I am related to by blood, yet never met. A thirty-minute hike up the side of a mountain took us to the first gravesite, which belonged to the mother of my great, great grandfather, Man Fong ( ). The first of my ancestors to journey to American, Man Fong had worked on the Transcontinental Railroad during the mid-1800s.

As I stared at the small, engraved stone that marked the final resting-place of my great, great, great grandmother, a comforting feeling came over me from knowing that thousands of miles from California where I call home, this place was also home to me. The language barrier, the cultural barrier, and thousands of other differences between the world I was used to and the one I was surrounded by were completely inconsequential. At that moment, and I felt that I was no longer a visitor in this foreign place, but finally arriving home.

With that first experience tucked firmly into my memories, I was primed for more. Our group descended the mountainside and hiked for roughly another hour through tough terrain and toward another mountain. When we finally arrived at the second gravesite, I was astounded by the view, which overlooked a mountainside and a lake. No words could do justice to the landscape that was ahead of me. I was told that these locations for the gravesites were personally picked according to feng shui ( ), which was a superstitious belief that good luck was a matter of your surroundings. Following some initial confusion as to who exactly was buried here, we were told that this was where my great, great grandfather's first wife was buried. She was the wife from which my family line descended. My father told me as we were hiking that Man Fong had walked those hills for seven years before deciding on that particular burial site for his first wife. Such an undertaking was beyond anything I could possibly comprehend. To know this about him gave me an unparalleled sense of pride of my family, and I yearned to learn more.

We visited the gravesite of my great, great grandfather, Man Fong,
who worked on the Transcontinental Railroad in the mid-1800s. (Courtesy of Aaron Chung)

The final gravesite we visited that day was Man Fong's. I had expected an incredible view high in the mountains like the previous two graves, but I was surprised. His grave was tucked away behind what used to be a rice field and now resembles a marsh. We quickly found out that we had to run to the grave in order to keep from sinking into the mud. Imagine the surprise to my family at this revelation! Finally reaching the gravesite, I was surrounded by high, dry brush, and that was all. The site was very secluded, and I wondered why it was not as extravagant as the other burial sites. I attempted to rationalize the reason for this and supposed it had something to do with feng shui. I stepped back, reflected upon the entire experience, and came to the conclusion that some things will always be shrouded in darkness. There are so many questions left to be answered regarding the history of a family lineage; it would be nearly impossible to find answers to them all. I accepted this, because I realized not knowing everything was part of the appeal, part of the mystery that draws us to learn more.

The experience of trying to piece together a part of my family puzzle was one I would not soon forget. The chance to trace this portion of my family tree and to relive it by physically being there was an opportunity of a lifetime. I am most grateful to this trip for helping me to gain clarity and insight into myself. It allowed me to see who I am and where I stand in the scheme of being a Chinese American. I often used to see this label as a handicap, with me not belonging fully to one group or the other. Through tracing my family ties to its origins in China, I was able to appreciate to a higher degree than before what it meant to be Chinese. At the same time, being an American has presented many opportunities that I would not have if I were raised in another country. Now, instead of a hindrance, I see that being Chinese American allows me to have the best of both worlds.