by Kelly Hsu

The piece hangs in the space between our dining room and our kitchen. Framed with dark wood, the paper yellowed with age, sealed under shiny museum glass, free of prints.
It won an award, my dad would tell us. That’s why it was saved.
High on the wall, I accepted it was just part of our house, breathing a hint of culture into our New York City, Upper East Side apartment.
Great-grandpa’s painting is probably what we would call it, had we ever the need to refer to it. Though illiterate in the language, we could recognize brushstrokes like those from our own pieces. So instead of reading the script, we read the brushstrokes on paper as a painting. Pretty art to decorate our wall.
Perhaps, once, I was curious about what it actually was. Maybe I even asked. But my parents never had a full story to tell about it, so I didn’t have it either.
It was only recently, three or four years ago, after spending decades on display in our home, that my family discovered the writing was a poem.
It was my sister who decided to conduct the research. Curious and unsatisfied with guessing, she took a picture and sent it to a friend. Her friend presented it to her mom. Her mom, who was fluent, then reported back that it was a famous poem.
It made us all excited.
“My great-grandfather was a poet!” I could brag.
But while we had the translated version, I could never repeat what the poem actually says.
Hell, I don’t even know my great-grandfather’s name
And even if I did, I wouldn’t actually know how to say it.
The sounds were likely too unfamiliar…so far from the mother tongue, and unable to take root in my own arid, bleached-out mouth. As someone who highly values good writing, I mourned the many details I could be missing. Maybe the poem rhymed, contained a bit of wordplay, or carried some cultural symbolism.
I couldn’t say.
So instead, I referred to the pride that my great-grandfather was a poet.
Basking in the discovery, my family excessively used the internet to see just how famous it actually was. It was then that we discovered that it was a long-standing proverb. Not famous, but a commonly known saying.
My dad clocked it immediately.
The award was for the writing, he explained, not the writing.
I winced at our ignorance.
My great-grandfather was not a poet. He was a calligrapher.
And while I cringe at the fact that we thought he wrote this culturally well-known poem, it brought me relief to know I’m supposed to appreciate the penmanship instead of the obscured content. After all, I was fluent in the language of artistry. I could say many more things about him than I ever could if he had been a writer.
He was educated— knowledge of structure and balance are fundamentals of the calligraphy style.
His hands were steady and precise— neat columns of loopy brush strokes.
He worked hard at his craft— a custom bright red stamp in the corner, a signature of my great-grandfather’s name, worn around the edges.
He upheld, even went beyond, standards of rhythm, energy, fluidity, and gracefulness— winning an award a long time ago.
And then after that, a place between our dining room and our kitchen.
I was never able to read the poem, and probably never will. But, there was always one thing my family universally understood; something I could say.
My great-grandfather was an artist.