Throwaway Daughter

by Ting-Xing Ye

  I went up to my room for a while and tried to play with my dolls, changing them into different outfits, trying new hairstyles, but the images of what I had seen that morning kept pushing into my mind—the eerie red sky, the dim street lights and sudden darkness, the screaming people, so many of them, and their desperate attempt to escape the soldiers’ bullets and the tanks. And on top of it all, the faces of the soldiers were just like my face. So were the faces of the victims.

  Later on in the afternoon, I went outside and lay on the grass. It was pleasantly hot and the sky was clear blue. The image of the dead person in the white shirt slipped in and out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried to erase the memory of the blood-soaked clothes. What would the government say to the parents? I wondered.

  Dad went into great detail with me after I asked him what was going on. He said that the government of China had labelled the demonstrators counter-revolutionaries. “It means they are enemies of the country, and their families are considered guilty, too.”

  “But they weren’t doing anything wrong!” I protested. “I saw them. The soldiers attacked them! Do you mean the family of the person I saw killed are enemies now?”

  “I’m afraid so. That’s how it works over there.”

  “But it’s not fair!” I said, tears coming to my eyes.

  Dad lifted me onto his lap, something I hadn’t let him do for a long time. He held me close to him and rocked the easy chair a little.

  “Dad,” I said a short while later, “is Yangzhou close to Beijing?”

  “No, it’s a long way south of Beijing. Why?”

  “I was just thinking about those people you told me about, the ones who helped you and Mom adopt me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’re okay,” he said quietly. “They’re a long way from … the event.”

  “What about Chun-mei?” I asked.

  “I’m sure she’s all right, too.”

  Our eyes met briefly. I looked away.

  It was the first time I had said the name Chun-mei without anger.

  A few days later Mom asked me if I wanted to go to the Chinese consulate in Toronto to take part in a ceremony to mourn the people who had been killed in Beijing. “It’s the least we can do, to let the Chinese government know how we feel about what they did to their own people,” she said.

  I agreed. I liked the idea, and the way she asked me, which made me feel older and more mature.

  In the days that followed, the June 4th Tiananmen Square Massacre was on the radio and TV day and night. I followed some of the reports. I wanted to know why it happened. Miss McKerrow, my teacher, talked about it in class. There were many protests, marches, and demonstrations all over the world, especially in Hong Kong, she said, pointing to a spot on the map.

  In the halls, the teachers looked at me in a different way, and so did some of the kids. Did they blame me for what had happened? Did they sympathize with me? But why? I wasn’t Chinese. They all knew that.

  JANE

  (1990)

  Megan called out, “Mom, no meat for me, please!”

  “But you love barbecued chicken breast. Take a little bit.”

  “No way,” Megan persisted. “Do you know how many growth hormones there are in chicken nowadays? Tons. We learned about it in biology. All those chemicals can’t be good for us. And Amy says meat has cholesterol that makes you fat.”

  “Yuck,” said Dong-mei. “I don’t want to eat chemicals!”

  I shot Megan a look that she blissfully ignored. Kevin helped himself to a second piece. “Maybe Megan is right,” he suggested in his ironic tone. “She’s only seventeen and she’s almost full-grown. And as for Grace, in a couple of years she’ll be the tallest in the family.”

  Megan had become almost obsessive about food lately, since she had become friends with Amy, a girl as thin as a stick who wanted to go into modelling. To Megan, growing seemed a sort of crime, and getting bigger was sinful. She had cut down on her meat intake, then asked me to do stir-fries with only bits of meat among the vegetables. I went along with her. I knew what she was afraid of. The hormone angle was just a ruse.

  Kevin had put on some weight over the last few years. Nothing extravagant, but he had a bit of a belly now and a comfortable look about him that, frankly, I liked. But every time Megan passed him, it seemed, she’d pat him on the belly and offer some sarcastic remark. “When’s it due?” or “Better cut down on the brews, Dad.” Her snarky comments were a cover for her fear that she’d end up with a shape like her mother’s.

  The girls kid me sometimes because I’m just over five feet tall, especially since both of them passed me a long time ago. I’m narrow at the shoulder and wide in the hips—or, as Dong-mei put it tactlessly one day, pear-shaped. I came to grips with my oh-so-un-chic body a long time ago, after more than enough anguish as a teenager, but in my eldest daughter’s eyes I see fear every time she looks at me.

  “Well, relax, kids,” Kevin went on. “It’s your genes that will decide on your size, not what’s put into chicken feed.”

  “What’s genes?” Dong-mei asked, already forgetting her new fear of chemicals and selecting the biggest chicken breast on the platter.

  “We studied that in biology, too,” Megan said. “A gene is a unit of material inside our cells that’s inherited from our parents. It controls what we look like and how smart we are and … stuff.”

  “Thanks,” Dong-mei said. “Now maybe Dad can translate.”

  “Think of a gene as a little computer program that tells our bodies how to grow as we get older. We get the genes from our parents, as Megan said. The same number from each.”

  “So we can’t choose them?”

  “No, dumb-dumb, we’re born with them,” Megan answered.

  “It’s not as if our whole lives are decided ahead of time,” I assured her. “Each of us was born an individual and we all have to work hard to be the person we want to be.”

  But I had missed the call entirely. Dong-mei put down her fork as tears welled up in her eyes. Kevin stopped eating and looked at me, eyebrows raised.

  “All Megan has to do is look at you to see how she’ll turn out,” Dong-mei said quietly. “I got my genes from two people I’ve never met.”

  Kevin caught on right away. “Yes, dear, but—”

  “I’m going to be ugly, then. Only ugly people would abandon their own baby.”

  GRACE

  (1990)

  Winter meant skating, tobogganing, the holidays, and Mom’s campaign to make sure Megan and I had no free time on our hands. In the past, she had always signed us up for crafts, sewing, swimming, skating, even French and Spanish lessons. Sure enough, one day I came home from school to find a pamphlet on the kitchen table, “Winter Made Fun.” Dad sat there drinking tea from a mug, reading the paper.

  “What’s that?” I asked, my bag still on my shoulders.

  “Oh,” Dad said casually, looking at the glossy picture on the pamphlet, “your mom asked me to pick it up for you and Megan.”

  I poured myself a glass of milk and headed for the living room.

  “At least have a look at it,” Mom said later.

  I whined; Megan complained. We weren’t interested. We were too busy. Everything they offered looked stupid and boring. Why couldn’t our parents leave us alone?

  Before I went to bed, she brought up the issue again. “There is one thing you could give a try, something entirely new.”

  Megan was in the hall, and this brought her to the door. “What?” she said.

  “Well, I was thinking of Dong-mei.”

  “What is it?” I asked warily.

  “I was talking to Frank last night on the phone,” Mom began.

  Frank Wu and my parents had become closer than ever since Tiananmen happened. He had come up to Milford on the bus a few times. When my parents were in the city, they’d have dinner with him.

  “He’s teaching Mandarin again this winter,” Mom said. “In the north end of the city, half an ho
ur’s drive from here.” She let the sentence hang. “Your dad would be willing to take you there two afternoons a week after school.”

  “I thought Frank spoke Chinese,” Megan said.

  I wished she would shut up and let Mom talk herself out. But no, she always had something to say.

  “Mandarin is the official dialect in China,” Mom explained.

  “Is it easy to learn?” Megan asked.

  Mom smiled. Here we go, I said to myself. “There’s only one way to find out,” Mom said.

  “I think being able to speak Chinese would be neat,” Megan bubbled. I wished I could stuff a sock in her mouth. I knew she’d quickly lose interest, like she always did.

  “Forget it,” I told my mother, silently cursing both of them, Megan in particular. Would Mother ever lay off trying to keep me in touch with my roots? “No way. I’m having enough trouble with French at school, even after those crummy lessons you made me take last winter. So leave me out of your neat plan,” I said, glaring at my sister.

  “You don’t even want to give it a try, Dong-mei? If you don’t like the lessons, you can always drop them. You’ve dropped out of things before,” she added sweetly. “At least then you can say you tried.”

  I’d heard that last sentence so many times it was engraved in my memory, and I said it along with her in my head.

  “And Frank is such a nice guy,” Mom quickly added.

  “Yeah,” Megan said. “At least we’ll know our teacher. Come on, Grace, you’d be able to write your own name in Chinese.”

  “So? Who cares?”

  “In the spring you’re going to study about China in school,” Mom said, never giving up. “Wouldn’t it be fun to know a little about the language? And you like Frank, don’t you?”

  “I want to try it,” Megan said. “And don’t forget, Grace, that in two weeks I take the test for my permanent driver’s licence. If I pass, you and I can go to the city by ourselves.”

  Suddenly Megan’s enthusiasm made sense.

  “We’ll have to see about that,” Mom said doubtfully. “Anyway, Dong-mei, think about it, will you? If you take Chinese, your dad and I won’t ask you to sign up for anything else, like piano lessons.”

  “Okay,” I said. “If Megan can take me when she gets her licence.” I could drive a bargain, too.

  “It’s a deal,” Mom said, trying to hide a smile.

  I took my lessons at the Hua Sheng—Voice of China—language school, above a store that smelled of rotten fruit and dead fish. I stuck with it for the first year, after wavering a bit in March, when Mom hinted that it was either Chinese or piano lessons. I hoped that, after the break for summer holidays, I could drop out.

  It was Dad who changed my mind, using the simplest and most effective method—bribery. He paid me to keep going. If Mom had found out she’d have thrown a fit. Dad warned me never to let on that he was beefing up my bank account, and occasionally treating me to a cheeseburger and a strawberry milkshake on the way home, as I struggled with my brush pen and vocabulary exercises.

  By then, Megan’s commitment to me and the Chinese lessons had faded. She auditioned for the Drama Club musical and landed the part of the dumb girlfriend of a brainless guy with a leather jacket and greasy hair. She was thrilled, but I was pretty sure she got the part because of her long blond hair and pretty face. Her commitment to the musical meant that more and more often Dad and I made the trip to Toronto on our own.

  By the time I had logged two years with Frank Wu, with his weak chin and caved-in chest and goofy laugh, I could carry on a conversation in Mandarin and read and write a couple of hundred characters. And, to my surprise as much as my parents’, I began my third year with no whining and excuses.

  I liked being able to talk in another language—really talk, about everyday things, not chant brainless phrases that weren’t connected to anything, like we did in French class at school. I had to give “Flank” credit. He drilled us and forced us to talk to him and each other in Chinese.

  Being able to mumble remarks that no one understood, and sometimes swear at people without their knowing, was an added benefit. Many times, I basked in the sense of superiority it gave me. I was probably the only person in Milford who could speak Mandarin.

  There was one thing I didn’t like, and never really got comfortable with. It came up in the second lesson. We sat in hard-backed chairs, with winter rain beating on the window, listening to Frank drone on about the writing system. My mind wandered and I looked around at the other students.

  “Many Chinese characters,” Frank lectured in his fluty voice as he stood at the blackboard with a piece of chalk in his hand, “have two parts, either top-and-bottom or left-and-right. In most cases these parts are words themselves. Example.” He spun around and wrote three characters on the board. “Man, or male. This character means field, a piece of land. This one is strength or power. When you put field on top of strength, it forms a new word, man.”

  “Sounds like a guy made up this writing system,” joked Elaine, a twenty-something African-Canadian.

  Frank smiled when Tony, a Canadian-born Chinese, said, “It’s all neat and logical. It makes sense, and it’s easy to remember.”

  “How about the word for female?” Peggy asked. She was a recent arrival from Hong Kong. “Is it logical, too?”

  Frank scratched his head. “Well, it looks like this.” And he wrote a simple character on the board.

  “Just like that?” I asked. “Three lines?”

  “Strokes, Grace. The lines are called strokes.”

  Peggy giggled. “The strokes look like the gentle curves of our bodies.”

  “Or not,” Susan hissed under her breath. She was middle-aged and a bit chubby.

  I said, “Is that what the word is based on, our bodies?”

  Frank flushed, probably regretting the whole idea of the lesson. “Perhaps you won’t like the answer. This character came from an old ideograph of a person kneeling in subservience.”

  Elaine groaned. “I might have known.”

  “But,” Frank said, “to make you feel better, let’s do this.”

  He added a few strokes to the top of the word female, like a hat. “Now you get a new word, an, which means peace. Now, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Is that the same an as in Tiananmen Square?” Susan asked.

  “Yes. Tiananmen—the Heaven Peace Gate or Gate of Heavenly Peace.”

  “Not much peace there in 1989,” I said. “Nobody knows how many people were killed.”

  “And no apology from the government,” Susan added.

  “Come on, no politics,” Tony complained. “You can discuss it after class.”

  “All I was trying to do,” our teacher said, “was help you find a way of remembering the characters. There are thousands of them. Every little trick helps. Now look at this. If we put the word son beside the word for female, we get hao, which means good.”

  “Why is that?” I said. “Woman plus son means good? The Chinese don’t like daughters? Is that why the orphanages are full of girls?”

  PART FOUR

  Milford, Ontario, and Shanghai

  GRACE

  I was sixteen when I learned I was a “person of colour.”

  Dad was watching some panel discussion on TV where half a dozen people sitting at a big round table competed to see who could be most profound. Or boring. Each one talked as if he or she had a lock on the world’s supply of knowledge. Each was of “non-European descent”—a term used by the moderator, an author with a crooked nose and long frizzy hair that fell to the shoulders of his black leather vest.

  “When’s this over?” I asked.

  “Soon. It’s a pretty good discussion of identity politics.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said, sitting down. I had no intention of asking what identity politics meant. My show would start in ten minutes.

  The men and women pounded each other with words. Big words. The only thing they agreed on was that s
ociety didn’t treat “persons of colour” equally. My father didn’t seem to realize that they were talking about me.

  In Milford you could count on two hands the families of colour. Growing up a Parker, I had never thought of myself as ethnic, part of a visible minority, a hyphenated Canadian. I knew but I didn’t realize, if that makes any sense.

  One of my elementary-school teachers, during a history lesson that stressed multiculturalism, asked me how long my parents had lived in Canada.

  “They were born here,” I told him.

  “And where did their parents come from?”

  “Same thing,” I replied, feeling the eyes of the other kids crawling on my back. The teacher began to prattle on about how much “other cultures” had contributed to Canadian life. He meant well, I guess.

  By the time I was in high school, I was fed up with people who needed to label me in some way before they felt comfortable. I hated the Chinese-Canadian tag and resented being lumped in with kids like Amy Diep, whose family were Vietnamese “boat people,” or Winston Song, whose mother could be found at any hour of the day behind the counter of the family’s milk-store-plus-gas-station, selling ice cream bars and magazines, asking kids (like me) for I.D. before she’d sell them a pack of smokes, and contributing to the town stereotype that all Koreans owned a variety store. Once, I told Bobby McKay to piss off when he asked me to help him with his “Flags of the World” geography project. He was doing Japan.

  At the same time, though, I envied the Songs, the Dieps, and the Lee family because they were all just that—families. Their parents spoke with accents. They ate their own kinds of food at dinner, and the better-off ones took trips “back home” to visit relatives, returning with lots of loot and photos of temples and gardens.

  I was neither and nothing. A yellow face in a white family where freckles were the norm. Even my hair, according to a murder mystery I had watched on TV, was different, not just in colour but shape and texture. I didn’t fit. I was a Parker but I wasn’t. There were times when I felt like I didn’t really belong to our family, mostly when I looked at photos of the four of us. Mom is fair haired, plump, and pear shaped, and she’d kill me if she heard me use that description. Dad has red hair, or used to, and freckles on his face and arms. Megan is in between, and very good looking. More obvious than my “ethnic” appearance is my height. I’m five-ten while all three would have trouble topping five-eight.