My grandma has never been like all the grandmas’ of my friends. While their grandmas’ waved to them from their cars at the end of the school day, my grandma stood next to the swing set on the playground, wearing the patched-up jacket that she refused to replace, waiting to walk me home. While their grandmas’ read fairytales from picture books to them before tucking them into bed, my grandma told me stories from her own life, because she could not read the stories in the picture books. While their grandmas’ praised them on how well they played their musical instruments, my grandma only suggested that if I practiced more, perhaps I would be better.

When I was younger, these differences made me incredibly ashamed of her. I desperately yearned for a grandma who had wavy white hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a ready smile. Instead, I had one with graying black hair, brown eyes, and a ready criticism. My grandma couldn’t read, or drive, or even speak English. She didn’t dress like any other grandma I knew either. She stubbornly clung to her old, worn clothes even though my mother had purchased new clothes long ago. I hated her hat most of all. It was an ugly canary yellow and its goofy shape gave her a comical look whenever she wore it. I deeply resented her for being so different and wanted to associate myself as far away from her as possible.

During elementary school, my grandma worried that I wouldn’t have enough water to drink at school. She set out a water bottle on the kitchen counter each morning before school. I usually stuffed this bottle into a side pocket of my backpack on the way out the door to catch the school bus, but on one particular day, I forgot. Worried that I would be parched the whole day, my grandma walked the entire way to my school. When she reached the school, she did not know where my classroom was located, but she resolutely knocked on every classroom door until she reached mine. Needless to say, I was extremely surprised and more than a little embarrassed to see the goofy canary yellow hat peeking out from the doorway of my classroom. Her face lit up when she saw me and she rushed into the room. “Here you are finally! I’ve searched the entire school looking for you. You forgot your water bottle today.” She said in her loud, rough Chinese. She gleefully thrust the bottle into my hands. All the other kids around the room looked on the scene curiously and a flush of embarrassment crept up my neck. I felt no gratitude. I only felt heated hatred towards my grandma for humiliating me like this. With a bright red blush and a mutter of apology to the teacher, I hastily pushed my grandma out of the classroom. “Why did you come here? I don’t need that water.” I said petulantly in Chinese. “Can you please just go?”

After that episode, I was restless for the rest of the day. My embarrassment ebbed away and a strange sense of guilt replaced it. In my gut, I knew that what I did and how I felt about my grandma was wrong, but at that point, I didn’t want to admit it to myself.

Later, during dinner, I nervously sat down in my usual seat and wondered if my parents knew about the entire incident. My question was immediately answered when my dad said quietly, “Your grandma told us what happened today.” At those words, a flush of unease spread through me. He continued, “You’re grandma walked all the way to school just to make sure you had water to drink. She did this because she loves you and worries for you. Not only did you not feel any gratitude, but you ordered her to leave! Why did you do that?” My dad looked at me sternly, expectantly.

The answer was dreadfully obvious to me, yet extremely difficult to admit to my parents, but I forced myself to say it. “She embarrassed me at school.” I winced at those words.

“Were you embarrassed because she cannot speak English? Because she is different? You should never feel embarrassment for your family, especially your grandma.” As he talked, my heart hammered against my chest. I could not bear to look at either of my parents and especially not my grandma, so I stared instead at the nondescript floral pattern on the tablecloth, pretending that one of the flowers deeply intrigued me. The things my parents were saying were what I had been feeling guilty over the entire day, and finally they had forced me to acknowledge it.

After that day, my perception of my grandma began to change gradually. I started appreciating her storytelling because I realized that although she could not read, she still tried her best to send me off to sleep with a story. When she yelled at me to practice my piano, I held back my retort and simply nodded dutifully because I understood that she wanted me to work hard and be the best that I could be. When I spotted her on the playground every day after school waiting for me, I happily placed my hand in hers and we walked home together.
Looking back, I feel deeply grateful for what happened on that fateful day in 4th grade. That incident spurred the shift in my perception of my grandma. Without it, I would not have the mutually loving and respectful relationship that I have with her now.