Reflecting on family loss during the pandemic, borders closing, and the deepening complexities of identity and belonging.
In August 2020, my grandfather passed away on Chinese Valentine’s Day. His death, after months in a vegetative state and years battling dementia, felt inevitable. He had always said he would live to be 100, but the reality was different. Just over a month earlier, my grandmother had unexpectedly passed away while eating dinner, her heart stopping mid-bite. She had been healthy, and no one anticipated her sudden death.
As I sat alone in New York, I was unable to travel for his funeral due to pandemic restrictions. My family, spread across various parts of the United States, also couldn’t attend. Instead, we gathered virtually via WeChat, each family member appearing on their own small screen, the experience of mourning distant yet intimate.
I set my phone on a tripod in the Brooklyn apartment I’d been renting for over a year. I had never truly felt at home there, but that evening, I dressed up, put on makeup, and stood in front of the screen, watching as my family in China prayed, laid flowers, and grieved. It was a surreal experience—attending a funeral via video call while the world outside felt alive and festive as restaurants reopened.
In this moment, I realized how deeply I had become entangled in my Americanness, despite my long-standing plans to return to China. The pandemic, with its border closures and travel restrictions, had trapped me in a version of my identity I had never fully embraced. The longer I stayed in the US, the harder it seemed to solidify my place in China. The passing of my grandparents, combined with the restrictions and distance, only deepened the sense of disconnection.
