After leaving the church service, we drove a couple of blocks to my grandmother’s house on Elm Street. It was late and dark. My brother parked the rental car and pointed the headlights towards the front door. My mom and I stood in the bright light while my husband, Alex, struggled with the key my uncle had handed him during the gathering in the church basement following the funeral. To the left of the entrance, the sagging screened porch clung to the side of the house. The mesh was torn, and the wooden floorboards had completely rotted away, revealing dirt and leaves through the gaps below.
Once inside, we reminded each other which lights were safe to use, recalling my uncle’s warnings about the old, frayed wiring. It was January 2004, in Marks, Mississippi, and the house felt cool and slightly damp, imbued with a hint of mildew. My grandmother—whom we affectionately called Por Por in Cantonese—had spent most of the last decade away, moving between her children’s homes. Yet, this small, single-story wooden house with its pitched roof and towering tree remained the family’s heart. It was where my mother had spent her childhood before relocating to New York City, where we gathered for Christmases, sleeping on the floor with my cousins. Everything felt unchanged.
Por Por would have feigned disapproval as her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, aged seven to 37, huddled around her coffin, slipping in handwritten notes, a small jade piece, a pecan tart, and a crayon-drawn ticket to heaven. She would have wrinkled her smooth face at my all-nighter, writing four single-spaced pages about her life to share at her funeral, dismissing it with a gentle wave if I had told her it was harder to condense four pages than to fill 40.
I aimed to speak truthfully about her, and I believe she would have appreciated it. There were the simple, glowing descriptors: the kind-hearted churchgoer, the woman who baked pecan tarts for church functions and superhero-themed birthday cakes for neighborhood children. She was a devoted friend, a Sunday school teacher, and the best grandma anyone could wish for. Yet, I would have loved to tell the crowd at First Baptist Church that she was also a fiery liberal who sent me passionate emails filled with typos, declaring, “DUBYA IS AN IDIOT. THESE STUPID MEN ARE SENDING THIS COUNTRY STRAIGHT DOWN.” It was a side of her she never revealed, especially in her lifetime.
There were so many other things left unsaid. I longed to share with my cousins, church friends, and even the mayor of Marks everything about her. I wished to grant her what she always desired: the opportunity to be truly known. I would have told them she still held resentment towards my grandfather, Gung Gung, for reasons she never articulated, even 33 years after his passing, and wrestled with her identity among her busy grown children.
We often clashed. I urged her to express her feelings openly; she encouraged me to show more kindness. She struggled with the emotional boundaries imposed by her upbringing, haunted by the losses she suffered as a child when both her mother and grandmother passed away. She was a mother who lost her firstborn son at 34, creating an irrecoverable rift with her other children.
I wanted everyone in that room to see her as I did. We bickered frequently; I pushed her to assert herself, while she gently nudged me to be more accommodating. I insisted that Dr. Phil wasn’t a real doctor, and she shrugged it off, unfazed. Not everyone enjoys such a unique relationship with their grandmother, and not everyone has the privilege of having them until they reach 34, but she was my confidante, and I was hers. We always had each other’s backs. In her 70s, I dubbed her “Grambo” for her indomitable spirit. Standing before her coffin, I read the carefully crafted tribute, remembering how she often told me I was the only one who truly understood her. For so long, I cherished that bond, but now I wished to share that blessing—and burden—with everyone present.
The Poorest County in America
Por Por moved to Marks, a small town with a population of about 1,500, in 1935 from Chicago’s Chinatown to start her married life with Gung Gung. Family lore suggests that the entire town turned out to greet her at the train station when she arrived. She often shared that it was more than just geography that separated her from her past life as a Chinese girl from a bustling city. She was only twenty.
Marks serves as the seat of Quitman County and is known for its historical significance. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. visited in 1966 and witnessed a teacher dividing meager food supplies among underprivileged students, which brought him to tears. In 1968, during his Poor People’s Campaign, he spoke about the town, identifying it as “the poorest county in the United States.” A month after his assassination, a symbolic mule train departed from Marks for Washington, D.C.
It seemed unlikely that Por Por would abandon her urban lifestyle for a rural existence in the South. The transition was challenging; she shifted from streetcars to dirt roads, leaving behind a city of millions for former plantation land. While Chicago had its share of racial issues, Mississippi bore deeper wounds. Nevertheless, she adapted because of the community around her.
Many Chinese families established roots in the Delta after the Civil War, taking advantage of opportunities created by the decline of plantation commissaries. My grandfather was one of them. He emigrated from China at 14 and later opened Wing’s Grocery Store in Marks.
Having visited Marks since childhood, I found the rundown houses, dry lawns, and sagging Main Street familiar yet surprising. The town often reminded me of a movie set, complete with characters acting out their roles. During one visit, my brother and I entered a dimly lit drugstore, where the pharmacist recognized us as “some of the Wings.” Even though my mother, Virginia Faye, had left Marks over 30 years prior, the pharmacist’s ability to identify us based on our lineage spoke volumes about the community.
My mother recalls a time when the town was segregated, with separate facilities for black and white residents. She remembers how older black men would step off the sidewalk and tip their hats as she walked by. Today, the only access to Marks remains the flat highways lined with cotton fields.
In Marks, the Chinese were accepted, whether out of genuine respect or social convenience. Por Por and Gung Gung raised six children while running their grocery store at the edge of “colored town.” Eventually, they moved from an apartment above their store to the house on Elm Street, situated on the white side of town.
Being Chinese provided them a slight advantage in the segregated South. Perhaps it was because there was always someone lower on the social ladder, or perhaps Marks was an outpost of relative acceptance, but my grandparents gained respect and success over the years. Their family members became mayors, business owners, and landholders. While Chinese children in nearby towns faced exclusion from white schools, they were welcomed in Marks.
A Family Farewell
The night before Por Por’s funeral, our extended family, including my mother, her four surviving siblings, and all eight grandchildren with our spouses and children, gathered at a Comfort Inn in Clarksdale, the nearest “big” town, just 18 miles away. We took over the function room and set out trays filled with homemade soy sauce chicken, barbecued pork, strawberry trifle, and rich chocolate cakes.
We folded funeral programs on the buffet, recalling Por Por’s wishes for hymns like “How Great Thou Art” and “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel. We created assembly lines at breakfast tables, stuffing small envelopes with nickels and coffee-flavored candies to distribute at the cemetery—a Chinese tradition meant to sweeten the sorrow and offer luck.
We gathered photos from our bags, sharing and reminiscing before arranging them into collages to decorate the funeral home. We laughed, pointing out memories—Por Por as a young girl modeling in Chinatown, with her children in their yard, and with each grandchild at significant milestones, including my wedding just seven months before her passing.
The desire to share who she truly was lingered with me, and I wished everyone could see her as I did—an unyielding spirit who embraced life in all its complexities.
In summary, this reflection on my grandmother’s life reveals the strength of family ties and cultural heritage in the context of the Mississippi Delta. Por Por’s journey from Chicago to Marks encapsulates resilience, community, and the enduring bonds that connect generations. For those interested in starting their own family or exploring insemination options, resources like this at-home insemination kit and insights from this online egg donor registry can provide valuable guidance. Additionally, the CDC offers excellent resources for understanding pregnancy and home insemination.