by Brian Barton
In this small moment, something happens. When he turns away, something inside me clicks. I don’t know if it’s his apartment or the drinks or the way he walks. But, my desire suddenly spikes. I have the strongest urge to be naked with him. I know I shouldn’t. I just need this now.
• • •
We kiss some more. I pull off his shirt and he takes off my blouse and bra. I need his skin on mine. He reaches around and unzips my skirt. It falls to the floor, so I step to the side to free my feet. He manhandles me, dancing us further down the hallway. He flips me around so I’m facing him, then presses my back up against the wall. He moves my legs apart and tugs my underwear to the side. He takes himself in his right hand and tries to enter me. He presses against me, straining to get in.
I don’t open, so he stops. He kisses me more, nibbling on my neck and shoulders. He leaves dozens of small kisses on my breasts and along the base of my neck. Soon, I’m wet. He tries again and I allow it. As he enters me, I wrap my legs around him like a monkey on a tree trunk. He starts off slowly, then takes me faster, thrusting against me in the hallway. I’m acutely aware of the family vacation photos on the bookshelf behind him.
Don’t stop! Please stop! Come inside me. Don’t come inside me. Wear a condom. Forget condoms. Give me all of your STDs. I deserve them. What I really want to say is, “You’re married! You made a commitment! What the hell are you doing!?”
He thrusts into me, our bodies bumping against the plaster wall with rhythmic, hollow thumps. Our petite, doughy, svelte, fleshy bodies commingle with a single destination in mind.
“Harder!” I stage whisper. “Don’t pull out!”
He goes faster and his face telegraphs everything. I know that look. I’ve got him. He’s committed to his essential contribution.
“Oh my god!” His face contorts and he groans loudly, then stops thrusting.
“Wait,” I whisper. “Don’t pull out.“ I grip my legs around him tightly and caress his warm back with my hands. “Please. Stay for a minute.” He stays and we kiss passionately. He caresses my hair and kisses me gently. Please cuddle and kiss me all day and night. I want him inside me forever. But, he softens and falls out of me. I climb off of him.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Wow, that was good. Are you okay? That was like the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve never cheated on my wife, you know.” Whatever you need to tell yourself.
“What’s your name again?”
“Quan.” That’s my bar name.
“Oh my god. You’re incredible, Quan. The truth is, my wife and I have hit a rough patch. We’ve been together fourteen years, but we’re in therapy and—”
“—Of course. I understand.” Blah, blah, blah, he continues.
“You taste really good. Your lips are so soft and I love the way you kiss. There’s really something here, I think.” Boy, is he a talker. “Like some electric chemistry. Why don’t you give me your number?” I peck him on the lips without answering, and pick my clothes off the floor.
I excuse myself to the bathroom and sit on the toilet. I watch him drip out of me into the bowl as I pee. I finish and flush, then check my makeup.
Looking in the mirror, I accidentally look myself in the eyes. I see myself and the person I really am. Then it hits me. I did it again. A tide of shame wells up inside me.
What the hell are you doing? What if he has HIV? He’s married, dumbass. Stupid slut! I look away from the mirror and try to push away the pain. A tear leaks from my left eye and rolls down my cheek.
I run my fingers through my hair and try to compose myself. I breathe into my hand and sniff it, checking my breath for alcohol. I pop in a breath mint and say my goodbyes.
U WANTS ME DEAD. MY SISTER IS PLOTTING MY DEMISE.
When we were kids, my sister and I were mortal enemies. Yu was a musician, too, and five years older. She played piano and accompanied me when I played violin. When we were younger, she was a know-it-all. Arrogant and mean, she lorded her strength over me. Having nothing else to do, she bullied me mercilessly. Our family gave her the outlets she needed to assert her power, and I served her desires.
In elementary school, Yu warned me. She approached me with tones of sisterly concern. She told me middle school was going to be violent. She said kids were going to beat me senseless the first day of class. “Prepare to fight!” she said. Of course, there were no fights for me in middle school. But she terrified me every day for weeks leading up to the first day of class. When I entered high school, again she lied to me. “Be careful, Li Hua! They’re going to get you!”
Her abuse pushed me to the breaking point—and beyond. Her campaign of emotional and psychological torture was immersive. I spent most of my time with her, so she learned to manipulate my thoughts and feelings. I came to depend on her validation for love and support. And she betrayed that, too. I didn’t know any other way of being existed.
During the day I was busy in school, and at home, I learned to avoid her. But when night fell, her campaign would begin anew. At bedtime, she would pull my hair until I cried. She would hit me as I slept and I often woke to bruises and sores. She ruined any object I cared about. I learned not to care about anything.
When I was tentative or afraid, Yu took note. She catalogued my insecurities for further control and exploitation. When she learned I was afraid of snakes, she found a dead one by the side of the road and put it in my bed. That night, I screamed louder than I ever had before. I was hysterical—crying, jumping up and down, shrieking at the top of my lungs. She just laughed and called me a crybaby. When I told her I was afraid of dying, she told me that my cold symptoms were signs of terminal illness. I was certain to die within the month, she said. When I slept at night, my recurring nightmare was of a witch torturing me. Busy or uninterested, Mother and Father rarely intervened. Music was my salvation.
My memories of Yu don’t deserve a space in my life. I’ve replaced the memories of my sister with happy memories of Taiwan.
• • •
A big smile comes across my face when I think of the oil sticks. Oil sticks were my favorite because they were always warm and delicious. When I was a child, I thought I could live on them.
The literal translation from the Mandarin doesn’t work in English. “Oil stick” doesn’t sound appetizing. It doesn’t do them justice. A marketing campaign for them in the States would be pure folly: “Come get your fresh, hot oil sticks!” Every night I went to bed hoping to find a hot plate of them on the breakfast table.
In Mandarin, we call them yóutiáo. These are crispy, sugary, strips of dough fried in oil to perfection. The English translation of “oil stick” refers to the fact that the dough is rolled, then cut into slender strips (or sticks) before being dipped in hot cooking oil. Millions of them are consumed at breakfast tables across Asia every morning.
The closest thing I can compare them to would be the American doughnut. But yóutiáo are more doughnut cousin than doppelgänger. They’re twisted and cut to look more like an elongated cruller. Any time I walk down a Chinatown street and see the fried dough in a window, I’m taken back to my childhood in Taitung City.
I grew up on the coast of Taiwan. We lived on the southeast side of the island, in an area that fronted the East China Sea. Mother and Father met in Taipei, but they raised Yu and me in a two-bedroom house in a small section of Taitung City. Taitung City is more seaside hamlet than metropolis. You’ll find the hustle and bustle of any small- to medium-sized city, but with added benefits like pristine beaches, waves, and sand dunes.
My childhood was yóutiáo and classical music. And battling with my sister, Yu, over yóutiáo and classical music. In my memory, I see Mother hovering over our kitchen table and tending to Yu, Father, and me. She pivots between kitchen and table as if floating between worlds. Bringing hot food, serving and clearing. Taking care of us.
My father only cared about quiet. He wanted peace so he could write. He loved the calm, so he did anything to
ensure it. His job was to sit silently at the kitchen table and read while jotting down story ideas. He’d sit reading and writing until Yu or I acted out, then he would glance over, a disapproving scowl on his face. If he didn’t like what he saw, that was all we got. The look was his shorthand. If the scowl didn’t work, Mother would intervene to save us from Father’s temper. We knew what he could do if he was pushed.
I always stole a few extra oil sticks before Mother cleared the table. I’d secret them away in my napkin before ferrying them to my backpack for later consumption or trade. Each morning, I felt a rush of adrenaline at putting one over on my parents, and relished my dark enterprise. With yóutiáo, I rode a wave of popularity on the playground.
• • •
Parenting styles, particularly Western vs. Eastern, have always fascinated me. In the West, parents are expected to give their children a life with lots of unstructured time—play. To Western sensibilities, play = good. The converse also holds true. The more you ask of your children (setting goals, measuring achievement), the more it hurts them. Too many goals = bad. And parents of Western children who don’t offer their children the requisite amount of play are often vilified by their peers. These beliefs were never held by my parents.
No three-year-old voluntarily picks up an instrument. No toddler has desire. Except to eat, poop, play, cuddle, and sleep. My parents chose my desire for me. Age three is when they first put a violin in my hands. This fact alone elicits sympathy from most people who hear it. The common belief is that forcing a child to learn an instrument is cruel. That teaching music to a toddler is tantamount to abuse—like locking a baby in a hot car with the windows rolled up.
Eastern cultures pride themselves on musical appreciation. Classical music, in particular, is revered across Asia. As a result, Asian parents want their children to be immersed in music. My mother and father were no exception. They loved music and wanted my sister and me to experience it. I don’t ever remember not holding a violin as a child.
You know the stereotype. Every Asian fetus gets a violin on emerging from the womb. This is the belief Westerners hold about Asians and musical achievement. We’re machines. Brainiacs and test-takers. We’re bred into torturous lives of musical achievement. Rehearse! Perform! Win! During my childhood, it was different. Music was never forced. It was embraced.
Music was the best part of growing up. Everything we did in my family revolved around music: rehearsals, recitals, concerts, and listening. Always listening. We listened at home, in the car, at school, and on our headphones. One of my very earliest memories is of Handel’s Water Music playing during bath time. I remember listening to Beethoven and Wagner while lying on the floor of our living room. And Auntie would play songs in our kitchen on her violin when she and my uncle came cover. Vivaldi also played in our kitchen. Not the man himself, but his music! I never hummed advertising jingles. I hummed The Four Seasons. I never knew a day without classical music.
Musical instruction is offered to children in Asia during childhood because it’s the best time to reach them. The best way to understand this principle is by using an analog: learning a new language. Speaking a foreign language is hard for the average adult. Even a relatively simple language like Spanish will fray the nerves of the average thirty-year-old. Whether you take classroom instruction, audio lessons, or watch videos, your progress will be glacial. Surrounding yourself with native speakers won’t help either. You’re just not a child any more.
Neuroscience has proven it. Children are optimal learners. In childhood, the brain can absorb and assimilate volumes. There’s an optimal time during childhood to introduce your children to an avocation. A sweet spot.
The key years for childhood learning are from toddlerhood to prepubescence. Children from ages three to thirteen sit in this sweet spot. In Eastern cultures, this age range is understood. Because the window for influence is short, music instruction is offered to children at this time. Asian parents know they only have a ten-year window to influence the adult their child will become.
I am who I am because of this principle. I became a professional classical musician as a result of it. My parents recognized how they could influence my adult life. And they did. I’m grateful for their intervention. Every day, I get to do what I love. I wish everyone felt about their jobs as I feel about mine.
My early exposure taught me to appreciate all kinds of music. I’ve never been a classical snob. Good compositions move me. I don’t look down on jazz, rock, metal, or pop. I don’t sneer at banjos, harmonicas, or accordions. Music doesn’t have lower life forms. I listen to rap, rock, and country. I love R&B and gospel. I appreciate the pop divas on Top 40 radio as much as compositions by Handel or Haydn. Gangnam Style and the 1812 Overture are both on my playlists.
• • •
Back in Taitung City when I was young, our family would take beach trips. When the rainy season let up, Yu and I would pack into the car with Mother and Father for weekend escapes. We’d head to the beach with a day’s worth of food and activities packed in the trunk.
Once Yu and I hit the sand, we’d run around the beach and never let up. We’d roll in the sand and make sand castles. Father would splash in the waves with us for hours at a time and the day would fly by. We would have so much fun that we’d forget to eat. Mother would call after us, then force us to sit down and put something in our stomachs. Later in the day, we’d return to the sand and the water for more games.
Sometimes we hid from our parents in the sand dunes as the sun set. When dusk came, Father would grow worried and yell after us, looking for us in the distance. He wanted to find us before it got dark. He’d trundle out to the sand in his floppy hat and sunglasses and climb the dunes looking for us. But we’d circle around the dunes faster than he could find us, or we’d see him coming and purposely run out farther than he could see.
Once night fell, there was no hope of catching us. We’d yell out to him from the darkness, taunting him, hysteric with laughter. He’d follow our voices, but as he drew near, we’d peel off in the other direction. Then, we’d call out to him again from our new hiding spots. We drove him crazy.
Sometimes I stayed out in the dunes after Yu had given herself up. I would sit and wait until I heard the desperation in my parent’s voices. I wanted them frantic with worry about me. Then, and only then, would I come in. I fantasized I was gone.
I liked it when my parents were worried. I’d do whatever I could to get them to think about me. Back then, I sometimes prayed for death. I imagined death swooping down on me like a fabulous raven from above. I wanted it to carry me away from the pain. Maybe Mother and Father would’ve been happier with just one of us. I wanted someone to worry about me.
IVORCED, FIFTY-SOMETHING, SMOKER, WOMANIZER, PUSSY HOUND.” JEFF PAUSES. “And the best violin teacher in New York City.” His description of Tony doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
I nod my head as Jeff talks, my drink encircled by my left hand. I lift the glass to my lips and realize it’s empty, so I look for a waitress.
“I’m sorry. Excuse me.” I stand and crane my neck around the bar. I spy a busboy and mouth “one more,” pointing to my drink, then turn back toward him.
“Sorry. You were saying?” I fold a leg underneath me and plop back into the booth. “Lessons? Go on.”
“Tony Alobardo is a musical life changer, Li Hua. You’re going to love him.”
“Is that right?” I’ve heard enough. I started violin at age three, but after my eighteenth birthday, I stopped taking lessons. Professionals don’t need instruction—just practice.
You probably think it’s fun playing to packed concert halls. That playing to fans from around the globe thrills us. Curtain calls and jetting around the world are fun. But they’re a fraction of what we do. The life of a touring classical musician isn’t so glamorous.
Imagine the life of a rock star. Now, take away anyone under fifty years old. Remove the groupies, the drugs, the press, the roadies
, and the first-class accommodations. Add in high-school gossip, bulky luggage, and uncomfortable clothing. That’s what being on tour as a classical musician is like.
“You don’t need the lessons,” Jeff says, as if reading my mind. “What you need is more direction and discipline. A teacher can help you with that. Maybe you can get more inspired about your work with the orchestra. For your career, Li Hua.”
I practice too much already. Unless I’m tired. Occasionally I’ll skip practice if I’m going to a friend’s, or to a party or club. I spent the last decade practicing seven hours a day. Every single day. I never skipped a single one. No one’s made more personal sacrifices for their music than I.
“How can I make this clear? Zheng and I are asking you to work with a teacher,” he continues.
Oh. It finally hits me. This isn’t a friendly before-work drink. It’s a critique. “Mmmm-hmmm,” I say, sipping my drink.
“Good music teachers help you grow. For someone with your god-given talent, you could go anywhere next year.”
“Why do you say ‘next year?’” I’m thrown by the future speak.
“There’s more to life than our orchestra,” he says. “When you take violin from Tony Alobardo, you’re not getting a music teacher. You’re getting a life teacher. Someone who can prime you for your next career move. Academia. Lectures. Professional recording.”
Most of the bars near the orchestra hall on the Upper West Side are Irish; noisy, welcoming, and unpretentious. I prefer them. We’re sitting at O’Shea’s right now. Or is this O’Flannegan’s? Maybe this is O’Leary’s. Possibly McGinty’s. Yeah, McGinty’s, that’s where we are. Wait. This could be McWellen’s. I only know bars by the anecdotes they evoke. Never by their names or addresses.