Three Generations of Longing: 16 Chinese Americans' Return to Their Homeland

In a still chilly March of 2025, an English inquiry quietly appeared in my work inbox. The signature at the bottom, "James Chen," reminded me of the elegant curve of an old-fashioned fountain pen. In this age of digital communication, it's rare to see such classic elegance. It turned out the sender was a Chinese American man in his eighties.

In his email, he wrote: "I haven't set foot on Chinese soil since I left in 1976. Now my five children and ten grandchildren only speak English, and I want them to see where their ancestors lived."

Three generations of longing for a homeland—a journey to Beijing, Xi'an, Zhangjiajie, and Guilin would be broad and rich enough to carry that weight.

Zhangjiajie Trip Planned for an 80-Year-Old

The final itinerary was set for four cities: Beijing, Xi'an, Zhangjiajie, and Guilin. The first two represented China's millennia of history and culture, while the last two were eternal examples of its natural beauty.

The only leg of the journey that I repeatedly thought about was Zhangjiajie. For a man in his eighties, the dramatic peaks and winding paths would be exhausting, even for a healthy adult.

So, I was extra cautious when designing the itinerary. I avoided the standard hiking routes and focused on how to allow the grandfather to experience the grandeur of Zhangjiajie without feeling exhausted. I communicated with the local guide countless times in advance, confirming the location of every rest pavilion, which sections of the paths were flat, and where we could avoid peak crowds. Most importantly, I repeatedly verified the accessibility features: whether electric shuttles were available for the entire route from the entrance to the Tianzi Mountain cable car, if there was a priority line for the Bailong Elevator, and if there were benches on the Yuanjiajie platform for him to rest whenever he needed.

Though I wasn't there in person, my heart was with them every step of the way.

In Beijing, he stood on the stone pavement of Tiananmen Square in the early morning, his body trembling slightly as he watched the national flag rise in the morning light. In that moment, he didn’t speak; he just gently placed his hand on his chest, as if responding to a rhythm buried deep in his heart. More than eighty years ago, he spent his youth in this city.

Now, returning to his hometown, the red walls and yellow roofs of the Forbidden City were as majestic as ever, but the footsteps he took were no longer those of a panicked refugee but the composed steps of a man looking back on his life with his children and grandchildren. He held his youngest grandson’s hand as they walked through the Meridian Gate, quietly saying, "This was the Meridian Gate, where the emperor held court." His words were simple, but each one carried the weight of years.

In Xi'an, he stood for a long time in front of the Terracotta Army pits. The clay army had stood silently for a thousand years, and the light in his eyes was like a quiet recognition of history. He didn't need the guide to explain; he just looked at the faces of the soldiers, each one different, and murmured, "It's not the same as when I left, but it also feels like nothing has changed."

On the ancient city wall, he sat in an electric car and moved slowly forward. The wind brushed his face, carrying a sense of long-lost familiarity. He remembered the sound of his bicycle passing through the narrow alleys when he was young. Now, his children and grandchildren laughed and took pictures beside him, but he simply looked at the distant Bell Tower, his shadow stretching out long in the setting sun, like a road leading to the past.

Then came the part of the trip that I was most concerned about—Zhangjiajie.

The guide reported that when they arrived at the scenic area in the early morning, the sunlight had just begun to fall on the stone pillars, piercing through the thin mist as if the world were being created. The grandfather sat comfortably in an electric shuttle, gazing at the rolling peaks outside his window.

For the rest of the trip, we avoided the long walking sections deep in Golden Whip Stream. Instead, we took the eco-friendly shuttle bus directly to the main viewing platforms. In Yuanjiajie, the guide specifically chose the path with the gentlest slope and arranged for short rests every fifteen minutes. The kids excitedly ran ahead, while the grandfather walked slowly in the middle. Sometimes he would stop to look at the distant mountains or listen to the guide tell a fun fact about the "Avatar Floating Mountains," a faint smile appearing on his face.

What moved me most was that the guide not only carried a portable stool and warm water for him but also kept motion sickness medicine and a thin blanket in his bag. When the mountain wind suddenly picked up in the afternoon and the temperature dropped, he had already quietly draped the blanket over the old man's shoulders. These details were not in the contract or the standard service manual; they came from a genuine, heartfelt kindness.

A few days after the trip, I received an email from the grandfather in the United States. There were no flowery words, just a simple message: “The whole family felt comfortable and had a great time. You were so thoughtful in your planning, especially for the Zhangjiajie part. I thought I might not make it, but your arrangements allowed me to see the beautiful scenery without feeling tired.”

Reading that, my eyes welled up a little. We had helped a soul who had been away for half a lifetime complete his return home, and in doing so, we had planted a seed of recognition and warmth for the homeland in the next generation.