I would have died on their watch. My immigrant parents fed me and clothed me, but for me spiritually they did nothing. I think I would have died on their watch. If I didn’t have a herd of people who understood the ins and out of being in a village; they surrounded me. They did what my parents couldn’t do, and now that I’m older, I realise the absence. How was a single woman to survive without another fundamental need, which is to be understood? Some, especially those in the literary arts, would say that being understood is better than food and shelter— cause what is there apart from someone else understanding you? I think the truth of it is that when my paternal grandmother died I died with her. I wish I could be fourteen again and have her next to me, in Beijing, teaching me the Ballad of Mulan. It was the only time when anything made any sense to me. But she transmitted more than the Ballad of Mulan, she transmitted to me her brand of living and loving— compassionate, open-hearted, open-minded. The Chinese for this is kāifāng, 开放, and that, coupled with the fact that her ancestors came from the south of China, meant that she just embodied an open attitude to the world. When I shaved my head at 29 or 30, and dyed my hair blue, she didn’t batter an eyelid. Her response was— oh, I saw that hairstyle on TV the other day. I will forever be looking for her replacement in all my relationships. And so really I was having a funeral for myself, not for someone else. The times I was walking down the street last year during Clear and Bright, and this year during Clear and Bright, I was having a funeral, holding a funeral, for myself. So much of this year has been, I’ve already died, so who cares. If I get on a plane or bus and think there might be a crash— I’ve already died so who cares? If I see a car swerving towards me— I’ve already died so who cares? If I am with a person who’s going to poison my soul, I’ve already died, so who cares?