Remembering: What I’ve Learned from Collecting My Family’s Stories

Since this past summer, I’ve been recording stories that my family members have passed down. It’s not an organized process, especially since these stories can come out of nowhere. A conversation about school—my mother will remember learning English at her first American school. A walk in the park—my father will recall playing in the Dutch woods as a kid. Cooking in the kitchen with my family—a certain smell or recipe will evoke past experiences in foreign countries. Family stories are everywhere, yet there are still so many gaps. This can make the idea of writing down your family’s history seem daunting and impossible. How can you create a timeline that encompasses generations when you are given only flashing images of unfamiliar classrooms, the woods, and far-off adventures? 

I’ve come to realize that family stories are not linear. Rather, they are a collection of memories and a compilation of moments that I am building upon to form a better idea of who I am and where I came from. These stories can be anything—recipes my parents learned from their parents or songs my mother sings in a language I can’t understand but know the sounds of—as long as they are told and not forgotten. 

Although I have been unconsciously collecting stories about my family ever since I was born, it was only this summer that I decided to start reaching out for more stories instead of merely letting them come to me. When I think of this promise’s origin, a family wedding I attended comes to mind. Seeing so many of my extended family members in one place, putting faces to stories, and hearing more Mandarin and Cantonese words than English made the history I’d heard a reality. I found myself grasping for fragments of information while listening to the adults reminiscing over platters of cuttlefish and abalone. I wanted to find stories I hadn’t been told before to piece together frequently repeated narratives. After that night, I realized that I was used to collecting stories in a passive process. I sought to make it an active one. 

One of my favorite things about this project is how it has brought me closer to my family. Sometimes, my relationship with relatives feels distant because of time and language barriers. However, I try to prioritize speaking with them more often, and I don’t shy away from asking questions. I want to synthesize historical events I learn about in my history classes with their real-life experiences. I want to hear about every pivotal moment in their lives. I want to pick up phrases in their languages. I want to know everything about their culture—my culture. I am learning, recording, and remembering.

There is something both humbling and enlightening about hearing the stories of your ancestors. Whenever I speak to my grandparents about their pasts—stories of hardship, endurance, and success—I am almost always amazed at the resilience they exhibited in order for me to live my life. Not only do these stories give me insight into what life was like back then, but they further immerse me in the different cultures that I have grown up surrounded by. My mother’s family immigrated from China while my father’s family mostly lives in the Netherlands, and hearing stories from these very different places has given me more appreciation for the agglomeration of cultures and traditions that my family still preserves. There are personal details: my mother brings home mooncakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival; my father makes a Dutch dessert called oliebollen for New Year’s. My mother’s family speaks Fuzhounese; I converse with my father in a combination of English and Dutch. Then, there are historical pieces; in a school project, I interviewed my Dutch grandparents regarding their experiences in the aftermath of World War II and the onset of the Cold War. I also learned about my grandmother’s 13th birthday: how her family spent it with the radio on, listening to the news that the Russians had invaded Hungary. My Chinese grandparents experienced the Cultural Revolution and immigrated to the United States with their four children. These stories and fragments of history, both unique to my family and shaped by the universality of our pasts, are all retained in my family tree.

There is no end date for this project. I will continue collecting stories, and at some point, I will contribute my own. My narrative—transcribed from paper notes, FaceTime calls and letters—grows longer and more complete with each addition; each story adds dimensions layered on an ever-growing timeline. Storytelling is important for so many reasons—honoring a family’s legacy, preserving world history, and paying homage to the people who shaped you. For me, creating this collection has molded my awareness of my identity and the world around me, giving me a newfound sense of gratitude for the present. It has helped me reevaluate my values and what I want to preserve for years to come. Despite my realization of how small my presence is in my family’s saga, I now recognize my duty to honor the past in the present. It is my responsibility to make sure that my family’s stories are not lost to time.