Yi Po
Art by Ellen Ma
Yi Po is my great-aunt.
Her husband was my father’s second uncle.
She had a house in upstate New York
And a dog named Thunder.
He was a big, friendly dog—
As many large dogs are to children—
And he ate the leftover rice and meat from dinner.
Now Yi Po lives in a retirement community in California,
Where all her children are.
I saw her for the first time in many years
When she and my aunt—
My father’s sister—
Stopped by for dinner this summer.
She speaks English with a strong accent,
But not a Cantonese one, unlike
My Sei Goong and Sei Po—
My father’s fourth aunt and uncle;
My father’s second father figure and his wife—
No, Yi Po speaks with a Japanese accent.
She was born in Japan and lived in Tokyo
During the raids of World War II.
She says that her childhood experiences
Are what allowed her to be strong.
Yi Po is very strong.
She says that her body is frail
And her memory can’t always be trusted,
But she has two college degrees—
One from Japan,
And one from a community college in New York City.
(She applied to Baruch—
My mother’s alma mater—
But her previous college credits were denied
Because she was getting her American degree
As a forty-something-year-old working mother,
So the credits were from “too long ago.”)
Now she discusses Shakespeare with fellow retirees,
Alumni of prestigious universities,
Who tell her that she knows Shakespeare better than them.
Yi Po used to work for a Japanese bank in the City,
In the building whose garage was bombed before 9/11.
She had created the company’s emergency policy
Just a few weeks before.
The power went out.
The tickers stopped running;
The lights went dark.
Yi Po went to her manager.
“This is an emergency,” she told him.
He agreed.
(For this she spoke in character,
Reciting his lines in Japanese
Even though none of us fully understood.)
And then she went to the trading desks
And told them, “Carry all your papers yourself”—
For each trade was approved and confirmed on paper;
They could not lose the records of what
Had yet to be transferred—
“And take off your high heels!”
It took several hours to walk down the stairs
In the dim emergency lighting,
With your forerunner saying,
“I’m turning a corner!”
For you to repeat to the person behind you,
And the crowd parting:
“Make room— this woman is going to give birth!”
But they went,
Down,
Down,
Down.
Now Yi Po sits on the couch across from me
And asks my father if we ever visited her house,
Which would be sold soon.
We did;
We went once for Chinese New Year to receive hong bao.
“I don’t remember the house, but I remember Thunder,” I tell her.
“Ah, Sandaa.” She nods with her whole body. “I miss him!”