April 7, 2025
Hands
by Chantal Yao, SASC Volunteer
I have hands that have never needed to do hard labour.
I have hands with smooth skin and slim fingers, nails trimmed short to be able to hit the black and white ivory keys with precision.
I have hands that wield pencils, not axes.
I have hands that have never truly known the harshness of the sun or the sting of thorns.
I have hands that have only calloused on the iron of the monkey bars, not the handle of a sickle.
My grandmother’s hands are stronger than any that I know.
Her hands know the sun and harsh plants like no other.
Her hands know the fire wood that she splits and the heat of steel crescents
Her hands are speckled like the rain drops on a puddle.
Her hands are thick, rough, and can easily snap the neck of a chicken without trying.
And yet,
My grandmother’s hands raised two daughters all on her own.
Her hands turned barren dirt into fertile soil to grow crops for her family to eat.
Her hands have cooked countless meals for her family, nourishing so many.
Her hands are gentle and kind and make me feel like I am protected inside of a fortress.
Her hands sewed together so many clothes, blankets, and toys for generations of children that her spindle can no longer protect her as well as the roughness of her skin can.
When I hold my grandmother’s hands, I am reminded of all that she has endured as I feel every scar, every knuckle, every vein, and every muscle. While my grandmother would be much opposed to the idea, I hope to one day have hands like hers.
Reflection Piece:
My maternal grandmother has been in my life for as long I can remember. I remember my parents sending me to live with her as an infant and being in her care for extended periods of time. She has always been a source of kindness, care, and gentleness in a way that no one in my family could ever be. I remember sleeping in the same bed as her, knowing that nothing would be able to get to me as long as she was there. While my parents were well meaning, they were harsh, cold, and were the cause of many tears. My grandmother was often the one who would tell me that I was enough, I was simply growing, and that parents sometimes just don’t know better.
The inspiration for this poem specifically came from a comment from my aunt, my grandmother’s second daughter. I was trying to help my grandmother, aunt, and mother prepare food and I wasn’t sure what I could help with. My aunt told me that my “slim, artist hands must be protected” in a playful tone. It rocked me to my core as I took in the statement and all of the privilege that it entailed. My hands have always been rather small, slender, and scarless, especially when compared to my mother’s hands who were shorter but muscular, but especially when compared to my grandmother’s hands, veiny, muscular, scarred, knuckles bulging, and thick finger tips.
I come from generations of strong and intelligent Chinese women on my mother’s side. Much of the family until recent generations were farmers from the Jiangsu province of China, my grandmother included. Growing rice and vegetables was one of the ways she provided for her family. Despite not being from a family of money, she was able to provide her two daughters with fresh vegetables to eat and warm meals, having grown everything herself (or bartered from neighbours). It was her care that allowed my mother to focus on her studies and leave the countryside for university. One of my grandmother’s wishes for my mother was to “go as far away from here as you can”, for her to pursue an education and career away from the countryside. I guess my mother accomplished that as her studies led her all the way across the world to Canada where she gave birth to me.
Now, I was never the strongest kid in class. In fact, I was probably one of the weakest physically. However, this trait was a privilege; I didn’t need to be physically strong to survive. I didn’t have to be as strong as my grandmother. This privilege is seen as clear as day when I look at our hands. My hands took art lessons, practiced piano, drew with pencils, and played with soft plushies and plastic toys. I never had to plant rice by hand, butcher meat, or work in the blistering sun for months at a time. I got to be a child and play and create. I am shielded by the labour of the generations that came before me.
When I think about my grandmother, one of the first things that comes to mind is how much labour she does. She has been raising children for over 40 years and continues to do so; her own two daughters, the small children from the village, and her four grandchildren. When she is around, the family is strong and stable, as she is taking on the responsibilities of cleaning the house, cooking meals, taking care of children, and planting vegetables, all tasks that are infinitely divisible, but leave the parents of the house with more time and energy to devote to working. Despite all of this, she would still make time to play with me whenever I asked.
I write this poem as I reflect on all of the work and devotion my grandmother provides to the family, without complaints and without thanks. In my heart, I hope she knows that I see her; I see her work, I see her labour, I see her love.