Clear Sky by Chutian Shi

Dear Māma,

I am writing to you because I wanted to cry but I couldn’t.

I still remember the first letter I received from you, the one you were told to write by my class teacher back in 3rd grade. My elementary school held a 10th birthday party for all the 3rd graders, and they wanted all parents to write their children a letter as a special birthday present. I sat on the ground with 200 other kids in a hall that was clearly too small to hold this many excited, if not hysterical, little rascals. Weirdly enough, although it was called a “party,” we were forced to sit up straight and stop talking. I was confused but I did what I was told to do because I was a good kid.

The teachers only gave us the letters our parents wrote after a tedious lecture on “building familial bonds and filial piety,” words I couldn’t fully understand but pretended to. I opened your letter:

Dear son, you wrote, I never stopped loving you, not even for a single second, during the past 10 years. Words seemed more gentle and beautiful when they were written by you, heartfelt emotions flowing from one character to the next. Had it not been for the ending of your letter, I would have burst into tears:

If you want to cry, don’t. A true man does not shed tears easily.

I was the good kid. I didn’t cry.

And I haven’t cried since.

***

The first time I ever saw a sky full of stars, we were in the Maldives. I was six, maybe seven. You had saved up for years for that trip—your dream destination, you called it. A paradise where the ocean stretched endlessly in every direction, where the sky and the sea kissed at the horizon.

That was a night when I couldn’t sleep. The room was too quiet. You were still taking a bath, so I slipped out onto the balcony, my tiny feet pressing against the cool planks. And then I looked up.

I had never seen a sky like that before. It wasn’t just stars—it was a whole river of them, spilling across the darkness like someone had cracked the heavens open. They weren’t the pale, timid, barely visible dots I had seen back home through the smog-draped skies. They were fierce and brilliant, like tiny lanterns set aflame.

You came outside a few moments later, your footsteps soft behind me. “What are you doing out here?”

I didn’t turn. I just pointed.

You followed my gaze and went quiet. Then, without a word, you sat down beside me, pulling your knees up to your chest. I could feel your warmth.

“Have you seen so many stars before, māma?”

“When I was little, back in Chengde,” you said, voice hushed, “the nights were dark like this. No streetlights, no cars. Just the mountains and the sky. My grandma used to tell me that each star was an ancestor watching over us.”

“Wow…” I let that sit for a moment, staring at the glowing river above us, “Is there a star for me?”

You chuckled, and then you reached over, wrapping your arms around me, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head.

“There’s a whole sky for you, sweetheart.”

***

That time when you found out that I’d been secretly watching porn, you brought me to your bedroom and sat with me on your bed.

“You don’t tell anyone,” you said, “what I’m about to tell you.”

I nodded.

“When I was in middle school, there was one semester when I stayed at my uncle’s house, which was closer to school. During lunch break, we were allowed to go back home to take a nap, so I would happily walk back to my uncle’s house and sleep for an hour.

“There was this one time when I couldn’t fall asleep and I just lay in bed thinking about schoolwork. I then heard the door of my room squeak open. I peeked to see who it was. It was my uncle. I didn’t know what he wanted to do until he walked to my bed and put his hand on my arm. His sweaty, dead-skinned, sun-burned fucking hand.

“I was scared. I was so scared that I didn’t know what to do. So I squeezed out from my throat, ‘uncle’? It didn’t even sound like my voice. It sounded like a dying mouse.

“And then I felt him take his hand away. And then I heard him step out of my room. And then I heard the radio turned on. And then I heard my heart beating like waist drums. And then I never ever stayed at his house anymore.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You are now exactly the same age as I was then.” You held my hand. It was summer but your hands were cold. “You are too young for these things… Do you know what I mean? You don’t know what fear, what panic, what trauma these things could bring you. You are way too young, way too young… I don’t want you to understand these things so early that you might have to live with this pain like I did. I just want you to have a normal life.”

It was not until I felt something drop onto my hand that I realized you were crying.

***

You never spoke of this after that night, but I saw it—how your hands clenched around the steering wheel at red lights, how your breath caught when a stranger brushed too close in a crowd. A past stitched into your skin, tightening each time the world felt too near.

You never told me you were afraid, but I knew. In the way you straightened my collar, smoothed my sleeves, told me to stand up straight, walk like I owned the ground beneath my feet. As if posture alone could ward off the things that lurked unseen. As if a well-fitted shirt could build walls around the body, keep it safe, keep it untouchable.

You wanted me to be normal. But what you meant was safe. What you meant was whole. What you meant was: nothing like you that day, too young, too still, too scared to run.

You never said it outright, but I heard it in the way you watched me. A glance too long at the way I moved my hands, at the way my voice slipped higher in laughter. The way you asked, once, too carefully, if I had enough friends at school, if I ever felt lonely, if I was being a little 男子汉, a little tough guy. And I could tell you were bracing for an answer you wouldn’t know how to fix.

So I said yes. I always said yes.

***

Your name is 艳旻. Mine is 楚天. Despite the different characters, they both mean “the clear, bright sky.” You said you gave me that name before I was born because you wanted my mind to be as open as the clear, bright sky, because you wanted me to be a 顶天立地的男子汉—a tough guy who stands tall, a true man who can support the sky. But I understand that for you, being a 顶天立地的男子汉wasn’t just about strength. It was about safety. You had seen what could happen to those who are small, soft, and scared, and you wanted to build me into someone who could never be hurt the way you had been.

You told me how, before I was born, Dad’s dad went to a temple to ask for Goddess Guanyin’s blessing that I could be born as a boy. I did turn out to be a boy, and I even shared the same birthday with Goddess Guanyin. You said that Dad’s dad was so happy that he thought that I would definitely grow up to be a 顶天立地的男子汉, and that he went back to the temple and kowtowed ten times to Goddess Guanyin.

When I was little, Dad’s dad would hold me in his arms and say to me, “Goddess Guanyin has three birthdays: The day when she was born, the day when she initiated, and the day when she became a goddess. The day you were born happened to be the same day she initiated.”

I didn’t even know who Goddess Guanyin was, not to mention what initiation meant. I found it confusing as to why this day had to be meaningful because it was Goddess Guanyin’s birthday. Why couldn’t it be meaningful because it was my birthday? I didn’t know why Dad’s dad had to compare me to Goddess Guanyin. I didn’t even know why he went to the temple for such a blessing.

You wanted me to be a 顶天立地的男子汉, but as I grew older, I began to realize that the version of strength you imagined for me was not the one I carried inside myself. I always thought I should have been a girl. If not, how come I wanted to grow my hair out? If not, how come I was also attracted to boys? If not, how come I looked like you and shared my name with you, my dearest, dearest mom?

From time to time, I feel like my name is both a blessing and a curse. My being, the language that is used to describe my being, existed long before I did. Goddess Guanyin prescribed me something that doesn’t feel innate, but refusing has never been an option.

In high school I learned an ancient Chinese poem by Liu Yong, in which there was a line that went “暮霭沉沉楚天阔.” I saw my name 楚天 in it. I soon learned that this line meant “deep, vast and endless, the evening clouds shrouded the bright, clear sky”.

I, 楚天, clear sky, am shrouded by deep, vast, endless clouds.

***

You used to tease me about how clingy I was as a child, how I’d beg you to stay in my room until I fell asleep, afraid of monsters lurking in the dark.

“You wouldn’t even let me check my phone because the screen was too bright,” you laughed. “What a little brat you were.”

But you forgot that you were the one who made me fear monsters in the first place. One evening when I was five, I refused to get out of the car in the underground garage. The damp darkness reminded me of the monster’s lair in a cartoon. I told you I was scared. You simply said, “Monsters love eating children who don’t listen to their parents.”

I remember screaming as I crawled out of the backseat.

***

The first time you hit me, I was 16. You pinched my arm so hard that I grunted like a boar. Your face was burning red, a ruby dripping blood, a horrendous crimson sunset painted on a clear, bright sky.

You hit me because I refused to cut my hair.

“You are not normal,” you said. “Boys don’t have long hair. Only girls have long hair. You wouldn’t look good. You would look like a pervert. People wouldn’t like you.”

I wanted to tell you I was never normal. I always wanted to. But instead, I glared at you like a dying beast, hoping to appear fierce, intimidating—masculine enough to be called a beast.

You stared into my eyes and asked, what have you become?

But I knew what you were really asking.

You were searching my face for the child you had tried to keep safe, the child you had dressed in well-pressed clothes and upright posture, the child you had tried to armor against a world you feared would devour them. But here I was, slipping beyond your reach, beyond the blueprint of protection you had mapped out for me.

Your stare pierced through me, as if you wanted to find me in your own reflection in my eyes, as if you wanted to find the clear, bright sky you painted out for me.

And after what felt like a century you asked again, what have you become?

***

I remember the night after you told me that monsters would come for disobedient children. I made you sit cross-legged on the carpet beside my bed, your silhouette cut from the hallway light. You sighed, Enough now, close your eyes, but I kept shaking. The monster’s breath still pooled beneath the doorframe, sour and metallic, like the garage’s wet cement. The room hummed with the AC’s static, a sound I swore was growling. You flicked on my dinosaur nightlight, its plastic scales casting amber puddles on the ceiling. See? you said. Nothing here but you and me.

But then it appeared: a black shape rippling across the wall, arms too long, fingers splayed like roots. I screamed into my blanket. You laughed, That’s just your shadow, silly, and raised my trembling hand to prove it. The thing on the wall mimicked me, clawed and grotesque. You’re the monster! you teased, pinching my cheek. I didn’t laugh.

So when you asked me, what have you become? I wanted to answer:

A shadow that learned to walk without its body. A sky that carries the weight of every storm. A house where the monster and the child share the same bed.

I press my ear to the wall each night, māma, listening for the scrape of claws, only to find the sound is my own pulse. I have become the thing you feared: someone who no longer fits inside the armor you built for me. A child you can no longer protect.

You named me 楚天, the clear, bright sky. But māma, the sky is never truly clear. It carries its shadows in the clouds, just as I carry mine.

You asked me, what have you become?

Look, māma. The monster is here.

***

It was almost winter when you first came to my college to visit me. You were an unexpected guest, and I didn’t have the time to remove the new brownish orange gel nails that I got for Thanksgiving. My hands trembled as I showed my nails to you. You saw them, but you didn’t make any comment. You simply ignored them. Silence cut deeper than words.

The day before you left, you took me to your hotel room and sat down with me together on your bed. You looked down at my hands, sighed, and said with hesitation, “Can you stop doing this?” You stopped for a second, as if you were trying to weave your thoughts into a coherent, eloquent speech, but in the end you just said, “I tried to understand, but I’ve reached my limits.” You looked up, tears glistening in your eyes. Your voice trembling, you said almost like you were begging, “Can you please stop?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing except silence came out from my throat.

Some ten minutes later, you got up and opened the curtains. Gleaming sunlight poured into the room. It was sunset. Face aglow in hues of warm, mesmerizing oranges and pinks, you said in a nervous, almost squeaky voice, “I heard a lot about the gorgeous sunsets in LA.”

I looked at you, confused.

“Is this what inspired you to do your nails?”

For a moment neither of us said anything.

You sat back on the bed, and together we watched the sun slowly and gracefully descend below the horizon, brushing the sky in a magical symphony of colors.

For a moment, I wondered if this was what you meant by 楚天, clear sky: not a rigid, cloudless ideal, but something alive, changing, bruised gold and violet at its edges. You named me after a vastness neither of us could contain. But as the light faded, I realized: even the clearest sky is made of layers. The same air that cradled Guanyin’s myths, your uncle’s shadow, my trembling hands.

I used to resent how my name felt like a cage, a demand to prop up heaven with a spine that never bent. But watching you then, your face softened by LA’s impossible colors, I saw it—how you, too, were named 艳旻, clear sky, yet taught to fold yourself into smaller shapes. To call it love when they trimmed your wings and called it safety.

Perhaps you gave me your name, not to chain me as a 顶天立地的男子汉, but because it was the widest thing you knew. A shelter. A promise. A thing that could hold both of us, even when we didn’t know how to hold each other.

***

I’m writing to you, māma, because the tears you taught me to swallow have turned into words. They pool here, in the spaces between these letters, in the ache of every comma where my voice cracks. I wanted to cry but couldn’t—not because I’ve mastered being a 顶天立地的男子汉, but because I’ve spent years stitching myself into the shape of the son you tried to armor against the world. Yet tonight, as I write this, I feel the seams splitting.

You once said a true man does not shed tears easily. But māma, what is a sky if it never rains? You named me after the clear, bright sky, but perhaps you forgot—the sky is not meant to be empty. It holds monsoons and sunsets, the breath of Guanyin and the scars of stars. It lets its shadows pass like ghosts, and still, it remains vast. Still, it remains.

This letter is my confession: I don’t know how to stop loving you, even when love feels like a bruise. Even when we speak in languages heavy with unshed tears. You taught me to hold my breath, to stand tall, to build walls out of posture. But tonight, I’m letting the storm break. I’m writing to you not as a 顶天立地的男子汉, but as your child—the one who still sees your reflection in every cloud, who still believes the sky is wide enough to hold us both.

I’m writing to you because I wanted to cry but I couldn’t.

Because I love you.

Image Source: Maciej Kraus via Flickr Creative Commons