" title="Juliane Huang"> Juliane Huang

Tell Me There’s More To Life Than Food; I Won’t Believe You

Mama’s is located in Washington Square in San Francisco.  The wait is up to an hour, so come patient and enter hungry.

New Friends for the Stomach and Soul

Photos by the inimitable Tracy Lee.

Though it’s hard to say which meal of the day I love the most, I must admit that brunch rarely disappoints.  Food.  Friends. Coffee. What a beautiful way to start the day.

Moving From One Coast to the Other

“What happened to all your stuff?” my roommate asks after I open my bedroom door.

“Sold,” I reply simply.

Little by little I have been selling off many of the things I own, watching as they slowly dwindle in number.  I feel freed, I think.  Every now and then, I get the simple urge to rid myself of various things, picturing in my head a reptile shedding its skin and starting anew.

That’s me, I say to myself.  That’s what I’m doing now.

I take photos, post ads, open the door when strangers arrive to take away the things I used to live with.  My room starts to look more and more empty.  The walls return to their bare and natural state.  The corners and windows uncovered and naked.  The transformation, a stop-motion video.

In three weeks I’ll board a five-hour flight across the country.  I’ll have checked in one large suitcase and one smaller suitcase containing clothes and a few keepsake items I’ve refused to let go.  I’ll spend five minutes questioning the purpose and actions of my life and four deciding whether or not I should call my parents.  I’ll opt not to.

I’ll buy a ginger ale at the airport stand and some pretzels for the flight.  I’ll walk through the gate briskly, my boyfriend keeping pace behind me.  In our seats, he’ll look at me, raising his eyebrows as he reaches his hand out for mine, wiggling his fingers until I stop rolling my eyes and smile.

You know, it’s just that right now, at this moment, this thing feels right.  Everything feels right.

Haircut

I gave all my hair away.

Untitled II

“Grampa, we bought the house.”

It surprises me to see my aunts crying as hard as they are when we say this; I don’t know the statement’s significance.  It sounds like a chant as we all say it over and over in unison as we use several sheets of yellow funeral paper money to wipe along the four edges of his coffin.

When my mom and I get back to the States, I ask her what that sentence means.  She sighs and turns off the tv.

“The coffin is his new home,” she explains as she tears up.  ”We were cleaning it and telling him we bought his home and brought it back for him,” she says as I tear up.

Eight weeks ago her father died.  Two weeks ago, my dad’s father died.

“They are going out together,” my third aunt says without looking at me.  I crack a forced smile as she quietly manages a sad chuckle.

It feels so weird; I was just here going through the same proceedings, wearing the same garb, chanting the same verses, except this time my brother has also flown to Taiwan.  My dad is my paternal grandfather’s eldest son, and my brother my dad’s, and though my brother is essentially a stranger to our extended family overseas, tradition still dictates his ceremonial participation.

At the crematorium, the funeral director tells us to tell our departed it’s time for him to leave this world.

“阿 公, leave quickly,” we instruct as the coffin bearing his body goes into the fire.  We are kneeling as we say this over and over, and my third uncle cries so hard he can’t stand after.

I can’t think about this anymore; it makes me too sad.