My grandmother always held Chinese and the great lands of China in reverence. It’s what she grew up with, where she’s from. She taught me to read ancient texts and old Chinese poetry and scriptures. Stuff you’d see in the museum, myths and tales of old wise men and women alike. She led me through the turbulent era of the first emperors, helped me understand the strategies of patient warriors, showed me the mirror-like moonlight and the philosophical genius of academic poets, she took my hand and aided me in drawing the borders of the three kingdoms, and taught me the ways of Lao Zi, Confucius, and Mung Zi. She taught me a great deal in my own language and lore that I never came to appreciate until my more mature years.
My grandmother always yearned for a great and beautiful China. One of the artistic and cultural pinnacles of the Tang and Song Dynasties. She never cared much for military might, as she thought of China as a powerful diplomatic authority. Thus she held education in very high regard. She instilled in me to be mindful, to be kind and speak softly, and to always be curious. I am still trying to live up to that. In my teen years I started studying music and Buddhist literature. I then practiced English and read the translated works of the likes of Aristotle, Newton, and Freud. I studied Hamilton, Locke, Voltaire, yet none of them brought me joy as I have experienced when I read with my grandmother. Something was lacking, but I paid it no attention. I hadn’t really figured out why.
During my last trip deep into China, I visited the Mogao Grottoes. The Buddhist statues and wall paintings stunned me. I couldn’t believe that artifacts were preserved in such pristine condition even after 1700 years. I saw one of the peaks of my culture with my own eyes, and I felt that I could understand just a little bit of what my grandmother meant when tears filled her eyes as she sighed at the crude carvings of simplified Chinese and smashed statues in many cultural sites. During that trip, I came across a hand copied piece of Buddhist literature at a museum. It was recovered from a Buddhist grotto. I understood every word written on that fragile piece of parchment. It wrote so clearly the instructions to lead a fulfilling life. Instructions to be grateful, to be content with what you have, as you never know what kind of accident may befall. As I explained line by line to my mother, I noticed that no other Chinese tourist gave attentionpaid mind to the scrolls. They simply glimpsed at it and moved on. That’s when it hit me. They couldn’t read traditional Chinese. I felt a great deal of pride, yet I could clearly feel a stinging sensation in my soul. I was disconnected from modern Chinese society.
See, simplified Chinese characters are the results of diluting a culture. Stripped of its intricacy and its beauty muddied and contorted. My grandmother always asked, “How could one love, if one is without a heart?” The character of love, 愛, is without the heart character in the center in its simplified form: 爱. In its place is the character for friend: 友. How can true love be, if it exists in a context without passion? Without amour? Without infatuation? The simple and straightforward nature of simplified Chinese compounded with the materialist modernity of our current time created a society and culture that is not one for subtlety. Sometimes I make the comparison between simplified Chinese and instant ramen. Sure, instant ramen provides convenience and immediate satisfaction at a fraction of the price of a bowl of ramen from a sit-down restaurant, but it doesn’t carry the same flavors, textures, or aromas. Just as simplified Chinese may offer convenience and raise literacy levels, it doesn’t contribute as much as traditional Chinese. The dilemma with simplified Chinese is evident in its name: it is simplified. Along widening the language’s audience and user base, we must also consider the depth and breadth of the language. Just as there is a profound difference between “knowing” and “understanding,”, there exists a vast discrepancy between simplified and traditional Chinese.
My grandmother taught me that the multiplicity of traditional Chinese is also why its composition can be simple. That its difficulty is an effect of its potency. The photographic identity of Chinese brings implicit meaning into reality. The underlying concept materializes as its greatest significance. We seem to have forgotten that. I am grateful that my grandmother taught me how to read. It’s only because of her that I can be so well-equipped in this utterly chaotic world. It’s thanks to her that I can appreciate the sensitivity and the refined elegance of the arts and its science. The written language carries the weight and wisdom of all those who came before us. Yet some think themselves better positioned than others, and modify knowledge and make foolish decisions that lead us into folly, and think of it as triumph. I reject their claims and nonsensical declarations. For I know that I know nothing and I am no better than those who impart their knowledge so eagerly. I am but a meager student of transcendent minds, eternally thankful for the teachings of my grandmother and all those like her.
Truly, I stand on the shoulders of a magnificent giant.
