Great Grandpa’s Legacy

A Personal Essay by Esme Monaé, 14

A January 2025 Monthly Essay Challenge Winner 

I would start off by describing my relationship with him, but that would be impossible, for I had no relationship with him. Which I guess is a type of relationship—none. But nothing is incomprehensible to us, so we can only describe it by what it’s lacking, and… well, ultimately, this is all just a roundabout way of saying, “There was nothing there.”

Indeed, the bottle was empty and the canvas blank, but not formless. Not a single ounce of knowledge was present as I sat in that pew, waiting for the memorial service to start. Well, aside from the unavoidable facts which formed the outlines of my mental silhouette of him; he cooked laudable Chinese food and fathered almost half of my extended family, including his children—my Great Uncles and Great Aunt—of whom very few inherited his callous attitudes, and even fewer his physical height and facial shape.

“Mr. Chin,” announced the speaker as he gripped the podium. I don’t remember most of what he said, his words fading into the monologue and blending in my memories. The few points of information I did glean-that he was a preacher and worked with my great grandfather in his early years in America-are entirely separate from the picture in my mind of him standing in the pulpit.

This situation was nothing new; someone I heard of, maybe shook hands with a couple times, passes away, and it isn’t until then that it looms; just how little I knew them and the life they led. It happened twice, with an elder and a deacon from my church. Years ago, when I was so very small. I can’t even picture one of their faces anymore; it’s all a blur now, the two combining, colliding, with the only remaining debris a few mental portraits of the first and a consistent sense of loss and shock and regret at all that I missed.

Why neither of them are today’s subject, though, and what’s possibly cruel of me, is that I felt no such regret at Great Grandpa’s funeral.

Perhaps it’s because he’s my family and thus elicits a greater impact. Or perhaps it’s because I saw him hours before death, wheezing, barely able to move his limbs and incapable of lifting a bottle of Gatorade. Perhaps it’s because all I felt was the pressing fear and dread of finding myself in that position: weak. Helpless.

His children—my Great Aunt and Great Uncles—each took a turn stepping up to the podium and presenting their anecdotes, his wife wailing, inconsolable. Most let her be, not bothering to stifle her weeping so soon.

I won’t say I wasn’t affected. I was. It just wasn’t for him. Naturally, I never knew him; we never talked and he preferred his Chinese language. How can one miss what they’ve never known?

No, that’s not why I nearly wept. I found myself at the brink because of what I did know; the joy and love of my relatives. What was missing at the funeral was not his presence, but rather the laughter of my relatives.

The slick wood was cool beneath my palms, I recall, as I listened to the speakers choke on their own tears before the throng of mourners.

What if I disappeared? More importantly, what would be left behind?

It’s a thought that plagued most of my childhood: the fear of disappearing forever.

I’ve come to terms with its inevitability now, convinced myself to just keep trying, keep working, keep writing, and eventually I’ll leave something which can be appreciated by someone else down the road.

It’s a common thought, now that I think about it. The afterlife. Death. Countless tales surround it; countless more mention it or utilize it as a literary tool or metaphor.

None of the anecdotes of my relatives mention his bad traits—his and his wife’s constant bickering and yelling. It was frustrating, that such important information just be forgotten, shuffled beneath the carpet; but it was also reasonable, considering their current pain.

Is imprinting a meaningful legacy really as easy as devoting mounds upon mounds of time to it? Or is there more? Dedication—the consistence of a parent’s support for their child—is all that Great Grandfather provided (along with the bare necessities), yet he’s being honored as a wise and devoted Christian. Was he simply lucky to have a family willing to be loving and forgiving, despite his flaws?

One of his children, toward the end of their tribute, finally quoted their father directly. He claimed his father taught him to stand for his morals, to “not be scared to do what’s right.” The actual quote was, he jested, “don’t be wishy washy.” It was a side joke, clearly. He meant to add humor, to jive about Great Grandfather’s habit of meaning one thing and his words failing to capture that meaning, but this never deterred his family. His children always saw the softer, loving meaning behind it. His children always understood the disconnect language barriers can cause between intention and result.

A question I doubt I’ll ever ask them is if the true, benevolent father was simply hiding within his Chinese, unable to break through to the English side, my side, or if the inserted meanings were always just that—inserted.

Before he was bedridden, one of the few phrases he uttered to me was “I no good anymore,” before he promptly shrugged and returned to the dishes. He knew. He knew, and yet he wasn’t disturbed, probably knowing his mark was made and his legacy set.

I can’t say the same for myself; on the one hand I’ve barely accomplished anything, much less anything warranting the praise given to him. On the other, my life has barely begun. Who’s to say I won’t accomplish great things?

Perhaps there was something intentional after all that he left his children; something he knew he provided, something they recognized and gladly received. Perhaps it was the time they spent together, the energy he devoted and the knowledge that, when push came to shove, he only wanted the best for them and vice versa.

This family, my ancestry, is his legacy.

He was born a son, became a father, graduated to grandfather, and left a great grandfather.

Curious to wonder if I’ll ever achieve anything so great as to be recollected with wistfulness and mourning, even curiouser to ponder as to what that will be. It’s ironic how the one in charge, the actor, the doer, relies entirely upon the receiver to tell them the granduer and depth of which they hit. Which we may never hear, which we know, so we continue to press and push and throw our darts at whatever we can, blind to the target’s center, simply hoping something will stick and shift someone, somewhere, for the better.