Month: November 2022 (Page 1 of 2)

Nonfiction by Marie Look

I am about to climb a staircase up a hill in southern China with my father. A local has told us the summit is called Xianggong and that it’s the best view in the Guangxi region. It overlooks the Li River and the karst mountains that rise like shark teeth along the banks.

It’s a late November afternoon. There’s only a little time before the last bus back to Guilin and our hotel, but we don’t want to leave this hill unexplored. With naïve optimism, we begin. The stairs are steep, constructed of stone and wood and reinforced with metal. It’s humid, and my shirt sticks to me.

My father was born here sixty-seven years ago, on rural farmland in China. When he was seven, his mother sent him to the United States to live with a relative he had never met. He didn’t make it back to China again for decades, not until he was thirty-three, a little younger than I am now. Today we are both tourists in his native country, where neither of us can interpret the road signs or speak Cantonese with the locals.

The path uphill zigzags, and we can’t see the whole of it from any single vantage point. The level of exertion humbles us.

“Good thing you’re still hitting … the tennis courts … three times a week,” I gasp as we take the next turn.

“This is why you run … all those half marathons … right?” my father replies.

We discuss slipping our camera bags from our shoulders and resting. But we remember the bus, which will come soon and leave with or without us. So we ignore our screaming quads, our hearts beating in our ears, and we press on.

Some fathers and daughters have a favorite pastime they enjoy together. They take up cycling or become cinephiles or shop for vintage records. My father and I travel. We make discoveries, we collect experiences. But this trip is different from the others, in that we seek more than just a sense of place. We’re uncovering parts of ourselves in the local features, in this landscape that has remained unchanged since my father was born—possibly even since the time of his own father or grandfather. Who were they? Who are we? And if a man and his daughter manage to climb a question in the shape of a hill in southern China, what will it prove?

“What was your village called?” I often asked my father this while growing up in Oklahoma. But he couldn’t remember the name. Months would pass and I would ask him again, hoping for a different answer. I had so many questions about his origin story, which I understood to also be my origin story. Did he have siblings? How did my grandparents meet? What was China like? How many relatives still lived there? The details were always sparse. There were no stories handed down, no photos to pass around.

“I think it’s hard for him to talk about,” offered my mother, a Kansan with blue eyes and fair skin. “Or it’s possible he really doesn’t know.”

More discoveries await my father and me on this trip. The ancient city walls of Guangzhou, the hump of Victoria Peak, the stilt houses of the Tai O fishing community. But at present we’re chasing the bird’s-eye view of these limestone mountains, which for millennia have granted the tropical landscape around the Li a quality of otherworldliness.

Earlier, my father and I experienced the valley from the Li itself, aboard one of the ferries meandering southward from Guilin’s Zhejiang Pier to Yangshuo village. We stood on the upper deck, transfixed, as every bend introduced a perspective more compelling and timeless than the last. Fishermen on bamboo rafts. Serene-looking pagodas. Wading deer and buffalo. Over and over, we raised our cameras to capture it all.

Now, as we climb Xianggong, I feel every ounce of what I carry—especially my camera, a digital Canon EOS Rebel my father gave me several Christmases ago when I was still in my twenties. I call it my “big girl camera” because of its heft. It’s an expensive piece of equipment that requires responsibility, and I take good care of it. I know how to hold it, how to store it, how to clean it.

In the ’90s, my family lived in Broken Arrow, in a house on Orlando Street, where my father would empty the contents of a brown, leathery bag onto his and my mother’s bed. Lying on my belly on their floral comforter, I’d watch him clean his own camera and help him organize the lenses, the film canisters, and the various cleaning cloths as he explained apertures and F-stops, ISO and granularity. Negatives could reveal pictures if you used the right chemicals, he told me. I marveled at the system of it all. Photography was a superpower—the power of supersight, of supermemory.

At last, my father and I—chests heaving, legs shaking—lug ourselves and our cameras onto the hill’s highest point. Thoughts of the bus evaporate. The sun at our backs throws the jagged mounds of stone into light and shadow for as far as we can see. White ferry boats dot the river, appearing toylike.

Click. A moment captured.

Click. A memory created.

 Click. A question answered.            

Then there are no significant words exchanged, no particular actions I expect to recall later. Just an indefinite moment of wonder at the sky above us and the earth below us, and my father and I standing in stillness between the two, catching our breath.

Marie Look is an emerging writer of creative nonfiction and short fiction. As a journalist, she’s contributed interviews, travel articles, and more to regional and national magazines. She studied journalism at the University of Oklahoma and creative writing through UCLA Extension. She lives with her husband in Los Angeles.