See, Shee, She…

Who is she?

Chew Shee, Mar Shee, Low Shee

Housewife — occupation on her CI registration

Widow — status on her death certificate

Beloved mother — fading remembrance on her gravestone

She stares at me hauntingly through her black and white photo.

I wonder:

Who is she? 

Did she have a good childhood?

Or was she sold? Given away?

A daughter unwanted, a burden to the family?

Wong Shee, Jung Shee, Fong Shee

She entered her husband’s door.

The family that received her.

The family of her children.

The family that buried her.

The family she’s buried with.

The family she was born to already purged her from their legacy. Family trees that fail to grow branches for their daughters. Disappeared as if she never existed. Erased as if she never drew a single breath.

Chan Shee, Der Shee, Chow Shee

What is her name?

To the world, she was simply wife to a man who had two, three, even four names. But no matter her wealth, no matter her place at home, she had no name of her own. She’s the madame of her household remembered by the family door she entered, the family that didn’t want her, and the ears of the white border agent of a state who didn’t want her even more.

But what is her real name?

The one her mother called her as a newborn to soothe her from her cries.

The one other children teased her with when they wanted to play.

The one her adopted family called her as a teen when she did something wrong.

The one that her husband uttered quietly when they were alone in a tender moment.

The one her sister wives passed around the kitchen when they made dinner together.

Sometimes, it is only after her last breath that a trace of her name flutters across a newspaper — when a weeping son sheds tears for his mother, who was more than a Shee to him.

Most times, she’s forever lost. A spirit without a name. A face without her own past. A lost murmur between the dead.

See, Shee, She…

I don’t know your name, and I may never find it, but I won’t forget that you lived.