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'As borders closed, I became trapped in my Americanness': China, the US and me
‘邊境封鎖后，我被困在了自己的美國性里’：中國、美國和我
I've long nursed vague plans of moving back to China for a few years, to solidify my place there. But with each year that passes in the US, such a move gets harder and harder to make
多年來我一直都有一個模糊的計劃：回到中國，鞏固自己在中國的存在。然而，隨著時間的推移，這一計劃對待在美國的我來說變得越來越難以實施
by Angela Qian
作者：安吉拉·錢
My grandfather died on 25 August 2020, Chinese Valentine's Day. I believe it was peaceful. He had been in hospital in a vegetative state for several months, and had been declining from dementia for three years. He was 95; he had always said he would live to be 100.
我的祖父于2020年8月25日去世，那天剛好是中國的情人節(jié)，所以我相信他走的時候定是安詳?shù)摹Ｈ昵盃敔數(shù)纳眢w因患了癡呆而逐漸惡化，去世前的幾個月一直以植物人的狀態(tài)待在醫(yī)院里。去世那年他95歲，而以前他總說自己能活到100歲。
Fifty-three days before he died, my grandmother died. She was eating a sweet rice ball at the dinner table and her heart suddenly stopped. Mid-bite, she simply stopped moving. Froze, like a buffering video clip. By the time they got her to the hospital it was too late. She had been in good health. No one had been expecting that she would pass away.
我的祖母也已經(jīng)去世了，就在爺爺去世前的第53天走的。當時她正在飯桌上吃著一個甜味的飯團，心臟突然驟停，飯團咬到一半時她便一動不動了，就像一段正在緩沖的視頻片段。而當他們把祖母送到醫(yī)院時，卻已經(jīng)來不及了。祖母的身體之前一直都很好，沒有人想到她會突然去世。
I was alone in New York when I heard about my grandfather's death. Because of the pandemic, none of the family in the US could travel. We used WeChat video to attend his funeral. From China, my aunt called us all in on a group conference – my brother in New Jersey, my parents in San Diego, my cousin in San Jose, my uncle in Indiana. The faces of all these separate individuals in different parts of the US were huddled on to the small screen of her mobile phone, which she held up at the funeral as she cried and prayed.
聽到祖父去世的消息時我正獨自一人待在紐約。受新冠疫情的影響，在美國的任何人都不允許出行。我們以微信視頻的方式參加了祖父的葬禮。我的阿姨在中國，她把我們聚在一起開了一個小會議——我的哥哥在新澤西，我的父母在圣地亞哥，我的堂兄在圣何塞，我的叔叔在印第安納。大家住在美國的不同地區(qū)，我們所有人的臉都擠在她的手機屏幕上，她在葬禮上拿著手機哭泣著、祈禱著。
I set my phone up on a small tripod in the living room of the Brooklyn apartment I'd been subletting for more than a year but never felt quite at home in. It was a summer evening, quite late, after dinner. After the hard pandemic months of March and April, Brooklyn felt warm, festive, alive, with outdoor restaurants packed with relieved diners. To prepare for the funeral, I got dressed and put on makeup. Instead of sitting down, I remained standing in front of the tripod to show my respect. I watched the tiny square within the square – the video of my grandfather was one of the five screens on the call – on which they were laying flowers over his dead body.
我把手機放在布魯克林公寓起居室里的一個小三腳架上，這個公寓從我通過轉租住進來已經(jīng)有一年多了，但始終沒有在家里的感覺。那是一個夏天的晚上，吃完晚飯后已經(jīng)很晚了。在經(jīng)歷了3月和4月的艱難疫情后，戶外餐廳里擠滿了如釋重負的食客，布魯克林給人一種溫暖、歡樂、充滿活力的感覺。為了準備葬禮，我穿好衣服，化好妝。我沒有坐下，而是站在三腳架前表示敬意。我看著大屏幕里的小屏幕——祖父的視頻是手機屏幕里的五個小屏幕之一——他們在他的尸體上放上了鮮花。
