Bitter Melon

by Cara Chow

  I know what I must do—even if Ms. Taylor hates me for it.

  After speech class, I approach Ms. Taylor. I tell her about how I ended up in her class by mistake, about how I loved it and couldn’t leave. I tell her about my mother’s plans for me and about how I had hidden speech from her, how that blew up in my face last night, and how that precludes my involvement in this Friday’s competition. I leave out that I ditched Princeton Review to rehearse with her. I also leave out that Mom beat me with my trophy.

  I brace myself for Ms. Taylor’s reaction. Will she be angry, hurt, disgusted? I’ve never seen her upset before and am frightened of what that might be like.

  Ms. Taylor blinks a few times. Then she takes a slow, deep breath. “Well, that’s dedication,” she says, more to herself than to me. I can’t tell if she is referring to my dedication to speech or my dedication to my mother.

  “It was wrong of me not to tell you sooner. I accept whatever consequences come my way,” I blurt out.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Frances,” Ms. Taylor says.

  “If you decide to kick me out or flunk me or report me to the principal, I totally understand,” I say.

  Ms. Taylor waves away my proposed punishments with her hand. “Don’t worry about any of that,” she says. “I’m not upset. I can see why you did what you did. I feel honored that you trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

  She’s not mad at me? What has gotten into her?

  “Honesty is the best policy, but keep your actions in perspective. There are worse offenses,” Ms. Taylor says. She places her warm, gentle hand on my back. She’s silent, deep in thought, for about a minute. Finally, she turns to me and says, “It seems a shame not to compete, after how hard you’ve worked. Just come and rehearse anyway.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll talk to your mother. She has your best interest at heart. If she doesn’t approve of speech, then it’s because she doesn’t understand its value. It’s perfectly natural for people to fear what they don’t understand. I’m positive she’ll turn around once I explain what you’re doing.”

  I have a vague suspicion that despite Ms. Taylor’s good intentions, her intervention may make things worse instead of better.

  “Don’t worry, Frances. Everything’s going to be all right.” Ms. Taylor squeezes my forearm as a gesture of reassurance. She doesn’t realize that she is squeezing my bruises from last night, bruises that I have hidden underneath my sweater sleeves. I fight the urge to wince as tears flood my eyes.

  All afternoon, I can’t concentrate on my studies. I keep expecting Ms. Taylor to call. But she doesn’t. By five o’clock, I start to suspect that maybe she has changed her mind. I am simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

  Then, at 5:07, the doorbell rings. I run to the window. It’s Ms. Taylor. I buzz her up the stairs. Assuming that it is Theresa, Mom opens the door. Instead of Theresa, she sees Ms. Taylor smiling back at her, right hand extended for a shake. I stand behind Mom, peering over her shoulder.

  “Hi, I’m Shannon Taylor, Frances’s teacher. I wanted to talk to you about Frances. Do you have a moment? May I come in?”

  Afraid of appearing rude to a teacher, Mom lets Ms. Taylor in. As the two shake hands, I notice for the first time how young Ms. Taylor looks. Next to me and my classmates, she looks grown up, poised, and in control. In contrast, next to Mom, she looks eccentric and naïve, with her rhinestone cat-eye glasses, violet velvet shirt, and black boots.

  “Very nice to meet you,” Mom says, her voice and smile saccharine.

  “Oh, it’s an honor to finally meet you in person,” gushes Ms. Taylor. “How well students do is often a reflection of parental support, and Frances is such a stellar student.”

  She’s hitting all the right targets. Maybe this won’t go as badly as I think.

  “Would you like something to eat, some tea?” Mom says.

  “No thanks. I just ate.” Ms. Taylor looks at me. I shake my head ever so slightly. “But tea would be lovely,” she adds.

  I show Ms. Taylor to the couch. Then I join Mom in the kitchen to prepare the tea as she cuts oranges. She pulls out the long jeng cha, her most expensive tea, used only when special guests come over. She sprinkles the wrinkled dried leaves and pours boiling water into her special clay teapot from Li Hing in eastern China. As the tea brews, Mom gets out the egg roll cookies and lays them on a fancy plate. We bring the food and tea to Ms. Taylor and sit on hard fold-out chairs. Mom pours Ms. Taylor’s tea first.

  “Wow, that smells amazing!” Ms. Taylor says.

  “It’s a special tea from Hong Kong. One bag costs a hundred dollars,” Mom says. I’m embarrassed that Mom would flaunt how much she spends on a guest.

  “Oh! I’m so honored that you’re sharing this with me. Thank you.” Ms. Taylor inhales the steam and takes a tentative sip. “Mm, it’s so fragrant.”

  “Be careful,” Mom says. “If you drink it too fast, you might burn yourself.” Mom emphasizes the word burn and stares at Ms. Taylor in a way that sends chills up my spine.

  Our couch is so old that Ms. Taylor is sinking in it. Her bottom is probably half a foot off the floor. When Nellie sits in it, she looks like Humpty Dumpty in an egg crate, but Ms. Taylor is so petite that she looks like she’s being swallowed.

  “First, I have to take responsibility for Frances’s involvement in speech,” Ms. Taylor says. “Frances meant to attend calculus class and ended up in my class by mistake. She was too polite to walk out in the middle of class, and silly me, I just added her to my list of students. I didn’t even think to check with her or her counselor.

  “But you know, I must confess that even had I known that she wasn’t supposed to be in my class, I wouldn’t have wanted her to leave, because she has such a special gift. Her writing skills are excellent, and she has stage presence, charisma. Her delivery style has that perfect balance between sophistication and authenticity.”

  I look down at the floor, pleased and embarrassed by her glowing praise.

  “Straight As and high SATs are a dime a dozen these days,” Ms. Taylor continues. “What really sets one student apart from another is her extracurricular activities. Colleges aren’t just interested in bookworms. They want to know if the student is well rounded. Speech definitely wins brownie points in the area of extracurricular activities. Without it, Frances’s chances of getting into Berkeley would not be as strong, even if she had taken calculus.”

  Mom lets out a small gasp. “Really?”

  “I’m serious. Anyway, I’m here tonight to invite you to attend Frances’s next competition.”

  Mom startles at Ms. Taylor’s invitation.

  “Again, I have to take responsibility,” Ms. Taylor says. “Frances really respects your authority, and she told me that she had to withdraw from this contest, but I told her to stick it out. I want you to see what she can do, Mrs. Ching. If you just saw her, you would feel so proud.” Ms. Taylor’s eyes are glistening with emotion. “This is no ordinary competition. It’s the Chinese American Association’s first ever speech tournament. Frances has the opportunity to make history.”

  “Really?” Mom says again, quietly.

  “Yes. And do you know who’s going to be on the judging panel?”

  “Who?”

  “Wendy Tokuda, Emerald Yeh, and David Louie, just to name a few.”

  Mom watches the news and recognizes the names of these TV journalists. She has fallen under Ms. Taylor’s spell—I hope.

  “Imagine how that would look on her curriculum vitae. Wouldn’t it be a shame if she had to miss it? Wouldn’t it be a shame if you had to miss it?” Ms. Taylor pauses, letting Mom soak this up. “Theresa’s competing too. It would definitely be a shame if Frances couldn’t join her.”

  That pretty much clinches the win. If Theresa got an opportunity that I didn’t get, Mom would never be able to live it down.

  “Anyway, I have to go now, but can I count on you to be there with Frances tomorrow?” Ms.
Taylor’s bright eyes shine on Mom like a spotlight.

  Mom smiles sweetly. “Of course.”

  “Excellent.” Ms. Taylor rises and holds out her hand. Mom shakes it. “Again, it is such a pleasure meeting you.” Mom nods and bows slightly. Taking that to be a cultural gesture, Ms. Taylor bows too. Responding to Ms. Taylor’s gesture, Mom bows lower, and Ms. Taylor does the same, still clutching Mom’s hand. Once past the doorway, Ms. Taylor bows one last time and departs.

  As Mom closes the door, she mutters, “Idiot. She thinks we’re Japanese.”

  My heart falls. Does that mean that Mom was lying to Ms. Taylor, that I can’t compete?

  “Look at how she dresses,” Mom says. “Those showy glasses, that hippie shirt, those giant, punky boots. What kind of teacher is that? That’s someone who doesn’t take herself seriously. If she doesn’t take herself seriously, how can her students take school seriously?”

  What she is saying about Ms. Taylor is untrue and unfair. But Mom is relentless. “And her manners, so nicey-nicey, so fake. She barely even drank my tea. How wasteful, not to finish a hundred-dollar tea. And she didn’t even eat my oranges, after I went through all the trouble slicing them.”

  Ms. Taylor probably took Mom’s words and actions at face value. She’s probably driving home right now, thinking that the meeting went well, not realizing all the trash Mom is talking about her.

  “I sensed all along that something in you had changed. Now I know where the source of that change lies. You’re so foolish, lying to me to follow her. How you squander your trust. But she’s not on your side, Fei Ting.”

  A chilly fear runs down my spine. At the same time, I feel impatient. Am I competing or not?

  “But she has a point,” Mom says. “I believe she was telling the truth about the benefits of this speech thing you’re doing. I know of the Chinese American Association. Nellie’s husband is a member. It would be good for you to attend. You don’t realize it now, but this woman is using you. But that’s okay. We can use her back. We’ll go tomorrow. That will make us even.”

  I fight to contain my excitement. I get to compete tomorrow!

  “Hopefully, she’s not exaggerating your talent and you won’t make a fool of yourself,” Mom adds. “And if you don’t get into Berkeley, you’ll have yourself and her to blame.”

  Her last sentence punctures some of my enthusiasm. Speaking in front of Mom will be harder than speaking in front of strangers. What if I totally mess up? It will provide her with endless ammunition for humiliating me.

  But I can’t think about that now. I have a chance to compete. I must rise to the occasion.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nellie is driving Theresa, Mom, and me. I’m wearing what has become my speech uniform: black flats, black tights, a black sheath skirt, and a white button-down long-sleeved blouse. Theresa is wearing a similar outfit, only hers has white tights and a brown pleated skirt. Mom is wearing her respectable work clothes: camel slacks and a lavender cardigan sweater. Nellie is wearing her favorite outfit: a hot pink jogging suit with black jaguar patterns. Her over-permed hair looks like an Afro.

  Nellie drops us off to search for parking. Theresa, Mom, and I step out into the whipping night wind and then into the Chinese American Association Building on Stockton Street in Chinatown. It’s a big, heavy-looking building with two big doors out front. Mom struggles to open one, and Theresa has to help her.

  The inside of the building reminds me of a large church. It is austere, with a high ceiling and yellow chandelier lighting. There are rows of metal fold-out chairs facing the stage, with an aisle down the middle. In front of the chairs is a long metal fold-out table, where the judges are seated. It’s hard to recognize them from behind, but as they turn their heads to speak to each other, I can tell they’re Emerald Yeh and Wendy Tokuda. Off to the side are TV cameras from Channel 26 and journalists with cameras from the Chinese newspaper. The sight of famous people and cameras causes a lump to form in my already constricted throat. Mom notices them too. A sparkle flickers in her eyes. On an adjacent table are the large, medium, and small trophies, indicating first, second, and third place respectively.

  Several feet in front of the judging panel is the stage. It’s huge, elevated so that climbing onto it would be impossible. There are twelve chairs forming a half circle. This will be different from the state tournaments, where we can sit back in anonymity until it is time for us to compete. Like Ms. Taylor said, we’ll be herded in like cows, then lined up like prisoners for the firing squad. Theresa and I look at each other and simultaneously swallow.

  “Mrs. Ching.” Ms. Taylor is waving and walking towards us. She is all in black, black blouse and blazer to match her black pants, platform boots, and glasses. She looks businesslike, with an artsy edge. She reaches for Mom’s hand with her winners smile and says, “I’m so happy that you made it.”

  Mom smiles back. “Thank you for inviting me.” Though Mom is smiling, instead of happiness, all I see are teeth. “I must thank you for all you’ve done for Frances.”

  “That’s very kind, but honestly, Frances’s accomplishments have more to do with Frances than with me,” Ms. Taylor says. Then she turns to Theresa. “Where are your parents?”

  “My dad’s out of town on business, and Mom is looking for parking,” Theresa says.

  “Well, let’s go backstage to prepare,” Ms. Taylor says to Theresa and me. Mom begins to follow us, but Ms. Taylor stops her. “You can sit in any of those chairs,” she says to Mom. “The competition will be starting in about twenty minutes.” Ms. Taylor smiles graciously to soften her words. Mom nods, but in her eyes, I detect the slightest glare. As the three of us walk backstage, I can feel my mother behind us, her hot eyes boring into my back as we abandon her.

  In the room behind the stage, Ms. Taylor is doing her pre-competition huddle with Theresa and me. I am familiar with her speech about inner versus outer success, but this time, she adds something new.

  “I know it’s hard, but try to forget that your mothers are out there.” Ms. Taylor notices the skeptical looks on our faces. “Okay, think of it this way. Even if you totally bomb, they won’t love you any less. They’re your mothers. They love you unconditionally. That means for who you are, not what you do.”

  That’s the first time I’ve ever heard the idea of unconditional love outside the context of religion. In theology class, I always hear about God’s love, about his loving us even though we’re sinners. But the idea that real live parents could be unconditionally loving is completely foreign. Often Mom and other Chinese parents say “dai sek.” “Dai sek” describes children who are polite or affectionate, who excel in school, who serve their parents before themselves at banquets, or who send money back home. How can anyone be loved not for what they do but for who they are? Isn’t who you are defined by what you do?

  The lights in the room dim and brighten. This is our signal to line up for the cattle call. Theresa is assigned to be speaker number ten out of twelve. The only assignment worse than number ten is mine, number eleven.

  Ms. Taylor leaves with the other coaches to sit in the audience as the competitors form a single line in reverse speaking order. The speaker in front of me is probably the tallest Chinese person I have ever seen. He is well over six feet tall. My eyes come up only to the shoulder blade portion of his argyle sweater. His hands remind me of baseball mitts. His coarse, straight hair sticks out in all directions. We march onto the stage to our chairs. Theresa and I sit as Ms. Taylor told us to, with our ankles crossed and knees together. Onstage, one must sit discreetly when wearing a skirt. Within minutes, my inner thighs are trembling from fatigue.

  As I watch and listen to the speeches, I can’t help feeling a growing sense of smugness. As Ms. Taylor said, there are no Derek Collinses here. None of my competitors has my writing skills or stage presence. A couple even have Cantonese or Taiwanese accents. No one else here could make the semifinal cut in a mainstream competition. Not only can I place, I can
probably win by a landslide. Finally, Mom won’t be able to compare me to someone else and say that that person is better than me.

  Before I know it, it is Theresa’s turn. Theresa takes mincing steps towards the front of the stage. She bows her head, then looks out at the audience and begins. Her voice is quiet and shaky at first, as if she is fearful of taking up space in the room. Then, gradually, she picks up momentum. Her body becomes less crouched and more open, even taller. Her voice becomes less mouselike and more audible. She stutters less. At the end, I can sense that she’s smiling, even though her back is towards me. Then she bows her head again, signaling the end of her speech. Applause follows.

  Suddenly, I hear shrill whistling from the back of the audience. Nellie is standing up alone in the sea of seated people, clapping and cheering one moment and whistling through her fingers the next. “Good job! Good job, Theresa!” she screams as she jumps up and down. With all her whistling and screaming, her hot pink attire seems only appropriate. My first reaction is embarrassment. Here Theresa is trying to make a good impression, and her mother is ruining it with her unrefined public behavior. I look at Theresa to exchange commiserating glances. But instead of being embarrassed, Theresa looks pleased. She locks gazes with her mom and smiles. Then she smiles at me as she walks to her chair and sits down.

  Now it is my turn to begin. I stand up and take my position. I look out at the audience and remember my long-ago fantasy about speaking onstage. Strangely, this moment echoes my daydream. I am onstage. In the audience, Ms. Taylor is sitting in the front, and Mom and Nellie are in the back.

  Then my thoughts dart back to my first speech competition, when Derek helped me. I picture him nodding at me, encouraging me to go on. This gives me confidence, and I begin.

  “Recently, in Newsweek, there was an article titled ‘Asian American Whiz Kids.’ The article noted the high success rate of Asians in academics. It posed the question of why Asians are so successful. Is it genetics or is it due to social factors? Or are nonimmigrant students merely doing less well than their predecessors? Have they grown complacent? I would argue that the success rate of Asians in academics does not stem from superior genetics, but rather from a set of values that includes education and loyalty to family.