Thank You, Mr. Yang

Lately, I’ve been sensitive to seemingly random coincidences in my day-to-day. But they seem to be coincidences between levels of experience that rarely intersect.

Abstract thoughts formulated one day, reappear and greet actual life events at a future date. When two former acquaintances, lovers, friends run into each other in a place like New York, it seems fortuitous. Comments like “small world” are exchanged or thought.

But what’s the word when life itself seems small, when something important from a previous era in one’s life suddenly is made prominent in the present?

Last weekend, I found myself trying to encapsulate the movie, Yi Yi, to someone in my book club. At first, I tried to summarize the story but I couldn’t get past the words “life” and “family.” As I stumbled, I tried to shift to the reason the movie resonated with me. I spoke of its pace, its cinematography, its accuracy. Somehow, that felt short. So I gave a brief history of its director, as if my respect for the man behind the movie might shed light on why Yi Yi was so great to me.

All of these, of course, just scratch the surface. I realized that pinpointing a specific or definitive reason for something’s greatness to me, especially with art, will always be lacking. It’s an irrational premise to be so moved by a “moving picture” and to try to justify my admiration on objective rational terms is not really possible.

But it’s easily justifiable to me on a subjective level. I relate to it. I relate to Yang-Yang, NJ, and Ting-Ting. I’m a layered person and it’s a layered movie. I saw it at an opportune time in my life and like all great literature or art it somehow does a better job of explaining or making sense of my world than I could do myself.

Edward Yang’s YiYi came up as a topic on Sunday. And yesterday, James sent me a New York Times article reporting that he had passed from cancer the Friday before.

“I’m sorry, Grandma. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to you. I think all the stuff I could tell you, you must already know. Otherwise, you wouldn’t always tell me to ‘Listen!’ They all say you’ve gone away. But you didn’t tell me where you went. I guess it’s someplace you think I should know. But, Grandma, I know so little. Do you want to know I want to do when I grow up? I want to tell people things they don’t know. Show them stuff they haven’t seen. It’ll be so much fun. Perhaps one day, I’ll find out where you’ve gone. If I do, can I tell everyone and bring them to visit you? Grandma, I miss you. Especially, when I see my newborn cousin who still doesn’t have a name. He reminds me that you always said you felt old. I want to tell him that I feel I am old, too.”
- Yang Yang