The Life and Love of 葉長青 (1934–2020)
Our grandpa’s name is 葉長青, a name I only recently discovered as I’ve always lovingly called him 公公. 公公 lived a life bigger than any of us could have ever imagined or hoped for. And even as we gather here today, bearing witness to his love and legacy, we find it impossible to write a biography that can fully and vividly capture everything that he is. In retelling his life story through the memories of his children and grandchildren, words become inadequate. Yet memories and words are all we have to remember him by, knowing that the love he has for us and the love we have for him, is felt more strongly than any words can ever describe. In this retelling of his life, we feel him through his children’s memories and the endless weight of always missing him.
葉長青 was born on November 17, 1934 in Phongsaly, Laos, where he spent his childhood years with his two older sisters and an older brother — 葉阿团, 葉阿白, and 葉長能.
公公’s early life was marked by tragedies and hardship. His father passed away when he was 9, and his mother passed away when he was 12. As a young boy, 公公 discovered the layered meaning of family in being raised by his stepmother and older brother.
公公’s childhood was also one of poverty, where every day living was measured by his relentless resiliency to work and learn. To attend school, he would cook for his teacher and spend afternoons cleaning classrooms. His value for education was passed down into each generation, though none of us — his children or grandchildren — could ever match his brilliance, discipline, and tenacity.
I like to think that 公公’s life changed the day he met 婆婆, when they were around 10 (none of our parents could actually agree on the age so let’s go with 10). 婆婆, 傅芳容, as you all know, is wildly generous yet stubborn, vastly different from 公公.
Together, they embodied a love that was humble, quiet, and generational, the kind of love that made you still believe in magic even after the magician revealed the trick. They were childhood sweethearts, first and ever who grew up together, attended school together, survived and thrived together, and built a life and love that is everlasting.
They got married in 1955 when 公公 was 21 and 婆婆 was 18, and over the years, raised six children — 葉俊輝, 葉俊雄, 葉梅麗, 葉梅林, 葉梅香, and 葉俊民. These six children became the center of 公公 and 婆婆’s world.
Part of our grandparents’ enduring love story is this act of sacrifice, doing so for each other, for their family, for the future that has yet to arrive. 婆婆 came from a wealthy family, but gave it all up to be with 公公, who, as a young man in love, had nothing to offer but his heart and the promise of a life together — whatever that life may hold. 婆婆 defied her family and married 公公. Even well into their eighties, 公公 often spoke of the wonder that is 婆婆; how she never asked her family for help or money after marriage, and instead, committed heart, soul, and sweat to struggling as partners in their new lives together. And they struggled. And struggled. And struggled against war and poverty, working hard to build a sturdy foundation for their six children through the value of education, hard and honest work, respect for self and others, and filial piety. 公公 instilled each and every one of these values into his children and grandchildren.
In Phongsaly, 公公 was a beacon of light. Family members, relatives, nieces and nephews far and wide sought him out for wisdom and comfort; he was respected and admired by all who knew him. He embodied a big and generous heart, never failing to act with honesty and discipline, persistence and follow through. He taught his children to never give up, never forget where they come from, who they come from. When his older brother passed away, 公公 embraced his sister-in-law and niece as his own, raising them, loving them.
Family is family, will always be family. This is 公公’s greatest lesson that anchors us together.
公公 lived a life of purpose and promise. He served as a key translator for Chinese doctors to speakers of Lao and various minority dialects in the city’s hospital. By 1980, the family moved to Vientiane, started a small business sewing and selling clothes. By 1985, 公公 and 婆婆 settled at a refugee camp in Thailand, staying there for four years, until 1989, when they arrived to Los Angeles.
Throughout his life, 公公 was frugal, preserving his honest and humble savings for his family. Not knowing this country’s language, geography, and customs, our grandparents sewed clothing in their small garage to earn money, while also babysitting and feeding the zoo of grandchildren that now skipped around their front yard on Cogswell Road. While 公公 didn’t have a lot of money, he was deeply rich from the people that surrounded him. Before passing away, he delighted over the birth of four great-grandchildren with that smile of his, rare and unforgettable.
As 公公 and 婆婆 aged, they finally rested, seeking solace and joy in each other as they traveled the world together and settled into a home for two. In 1991, they traveled to Japan to visit their oldest daughter and her family. In 1994, they traveled to China, and in 1999, to Europe.
Over time as more and more grandchildren circled around 公公, he accompanied us on fishing trips, road trips, camping and cabin trips, hikes and picnics, and most importantly, the wildest adventures in his small living room and ever blooming garden.
While smiling was rare, 公公 found purpose in watching his grandchildren playing and laughing, as if we were the rising sun that returned to him day after day, when in fact, he was our sun.
公公 was first diagnosed with lymphoma cancer in 2010, devastating our family when his oncologist said he only had six months to a year. For people who don’t know him, it’s hard to see how his strength and will to live can in fact, hold up entire universes. From six months to a year, he lived another ten years, seeing the marriage of one grandson and three granddaughters, and the birth of four great-grandchildren. He often said that he wanted to live till 90, to hold his great-grandchildren in his arms, to stay longer in this world with us. Just as his early life was marked by poverty and tragedy, his later life was marked by illness and cancer. And one might see his life as one of sorrow, but if one has experienced the depth of how 公公 fiercely and quietly loved his family, one would understand his life to be singularly hopeful, particularly in a world where the human spirit breaks so easily.
公公’s medical timeline included heart surgery in 2012, chemotherapy for prostate cancer in 2013, lymphoma cancer returning in 2014. And through it all, he persisted, unwaveringly and graciously. Without ever saying so, we knew that he sat with the pain of chemo treatments to spend more time with his grandchildren, to see our lives become his. He was a man who smoked for 30 years but quit in 1992 for his grandchildren — not easily but decidedly. He was a man who did anything and everything to stay healthy, to extend his time here, and we’ve often wondered how much pain he endured for us, to stay with us for just a little while longer.
Between doctor visits on May 8 through May 12, his oncologist shared that his lymphoma cancer had returned for the third time, and by May 14, he was hospitalized. We despaired in the depth of his loneliness and isolation as he stayed in the hospital by himself for nine days, away from 婆婆 and his family, only hearing our voices through the phone and seeing our faces through a digital screen. 公公, were you hungry? Were you thirsty? Were you cold? Did you sleep okay? Did the nurses take care of you? Did you hurt? Did you miss us, cause we missed you endlessly and achingly.
On May 23, our family brought 公公 home so we could cook for him, feed him, wash him, and lovingly attend to his humble needs. With tight hearts, we watched 公公 as his eyes lingered on each of our faces, recognizing his children, his grandchildren, his great-grandchildren. And through the pain, his eyes also shined with familiarity and peace to be home with his family. By the next morning, 公公 passed away.
In our hearts, we knew that 公公 endured and waited to see every single one of us before saying goodbye.
公公 often declared that he would live to 90, and while he passed away at 87, his lifespan doesn’t feel any shorter or less fulfilled. And in fact, life is experienced as both long and short, sad and joyous, nostalgic and hopeful, all at the same time. The cycle of life is a constant of this world and death is considered normal; how we choose to remember and honor our loved ones after they are gone is where the meaning lies. And in remembering 公公, here are some of the memories his six children shared:
爸, you loved casinos. And the grace of you is that even though you didn’t have much, you never asked for money or accepted money when offered. Even when we tried to give you money for Father’s Day or as gifts, you told us to save it for our children’s college funds.
爸, remember when you use to wash our faces using a towel soaked in a tub of boiling hot water, leaving our faces raw and red from your not-so-gentle scrubbing? As kids, we dreaded getting our faces washed by you; but can you wash our faces again, soon?
爸, you use to cut your grandsons’ hair under that big tree on your lawn. You were the family barber for decades, tenderly smoothing the hair of our children until your hands ached and could no longer operate the manual scissors. Electric razors weren’t your thing; haircuts were your labor of love and this deserved patience.
爸, you use to take us around the city and countryside in Laos to play, explore, and build musical instruments out of nature as we gathered around you, listening to you singing songs and telling stories. The lessons you imprinted into us and our children is one of deep humility, absorbed through the simple things, like learning to sew — a skill that you said wouldn’t bring wealth, but would also never let us go hungry. You’ve always taught us that as long as we worked hard and acted honestly, we would be okay.
As we’re all sitting here today, I don’t think we’re okay yet. We’re still learning how to imagine and live in a world without you in it. Your absence aches in us, leaving tender reminders that bring both joy and sadness whenever we think of you. You didn’t smile often, but when you did, you lit up the entire room. 公公, we wish you could see yourself through our eyes, and through the eyes of everyone who knew you. In your own quiet ways, you filled up the space in our hearts, persistently, tenderly, like a never-ending sunrise making space for light as we welcome each new day.
One lifetime with you is not nearly enough. If you’ll have us again, let us be yours to love and raise, over and over. We’ll never stop missing you, and until we see each other again, know that we think of you often, and love you always.
Read at the funeral of 公公 on June 9, 2020.
