CHINESE PARENTING IS IN MANY SENSES strikingly similar to porcelain making. One manipulates the clay as one wishes; yet after the firing, only few turn out exactly the same as desired. Legend has it that the ancient Japanese figured out how to repair the cracked pieces of ceramic vases at an enormous cost, which they call Kintsugi. In efficiency-oriented modern China, when a Riss in a vase is spotted, the Riss gets covered and the vase put away, allowing, from afar, an exclusive glance for all curious gazers.
Riss, masculine, plu. Risse, means a crack in German.
I thought my being the gay son was the Riss in the beautiful family vase. Excused from major family or community gatherings, I have become so vague an existence that everyone seems to fancy talking about; yet, none of them has really seen. In the vase’s defense, no one explicitly bars from coming back home and intermingling over tea or Mahjong. But that unspoken disapproval against my digital exposure, the obvious unwillingness to learn about my private life, the convenient disregard for gay couples on the street, the questionable excuse from social events when no absence is culturally acceptable. Six years after coming out to my parents, I eventually figured out their peace-offering mechanism is to let me out of the closet and put me in a vitrine.
Vase, feminine, plu. Vasen, means a vase in German.
Keeping that in mind, I exiled myself as far as I could, both physically and digitally. If you don’t like, I won’t flash. If you don’t ask, I won’t tell. If you don’t see, I won’t point it out. If you don’t invite, I would be happy to be left out.
As long as the vase looks perfect from a distance. As long as the vase maker gets the compliment from viewers. As long as the home keepers make easy peace with themselves.
Before long, however, ceding territory behind a look-through glass can hardly prevent a second crack. Barely four weeks after I fled from the epicenter in Hubei province, the pandemic took continental Europe overnight. Italy, Spain, France, and Germany. Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. Austria, Czech, Poland, and Hungary. Walls, wires, closed borders, armed forces. Alitalia, Air France, British Airways and Lufthansa. Delay, cancel, grounded airplanes, congested airports.
As soon as Donald J. Trump imposed his travel ban on the European Union, the vase cracked again. The cracking was so loud that everybody heard it without even seeing it this time. Concerned gazes, painful glares, pitiful sighs dominate the sphere around the vase. As China gradually recovers from the pandemic, questions start pouring into the epicenter, the continent that used to be fantasized as stable, peaceful, cultured.
“Hello! How is it going? How many cases have been confirmed? Are you alright?” ask they.
“Bonjour! Ça va? Are you going to be alright? Do you need anything?” offer they.
“Tag! Wie geht’s? Have you thought about coming back home? Isn’t it dangerous there?” advise they.
“Hola! Que tal? If anything happens to you, I won’t be able to live no more. I cried last night in my dreams!” beg they.
“Ciao! Come stai? Europe is launching herd immunity now. People are dying every second. Please come home.” urge they.
“喂！还好吗？ Things have long stabilized in China. What the heck are the European governments doing? Why the fuss about face masks?” rage they.
It struck me that before I even realized the vase had been so much devalued. A second Riss turned out to be the final nail.
As one combats (corona-)racism face-to-face abroad, one also exposes his or her extremely vulnerable back towards the rising populism and nationalism at “home.” While the requiem for the dead still lingers beneath the roof, the new narrative of smart governance and model citizens has soon gathered its own orchestra.
The failing democracy, the flawed public, the fragile economy. Trilogy of Europe in Decay.
It is deemed a sin to expatiate. It is condemned a crime to bring the virus home. It is denounced Machiavellianism to be away when THE OTHER is building up the motherland and then to be back when you are insidiously contagious. Thus, it is impossible to return to the Middle Kingdom.
The patronizing, the stigmatizing and the ostracizing. It all reminds you that you are a Riss.
I am sorry to break the vase.
I am sorry to be the gay son.
I am sorry to be living in Europe.
I am sorry to be even attempting to preserve the vase.
I should’ve smashed the vase into pieces and ashes.
Then there is no more Riss.
Then there is no one sorry.
Vive le Riss!
