by Cara Chow
“Probably the best example to illustrate this is my own family. When I was three, my family left a comfortable life in Hong Kong to come to America. Britain would return Hong Kong back to China in 1997, and my mother wanted me to grow up in the land of opportunity and democracy.
“A few years later, my mother was forced to raise me alone. We were in a foreign country, with no money, no job, and no family to help us. For my mother, the easy way out would have been to return to Hong Kong. But she was determined to give her only child a better life. So she worked four part-time jobs, serving cocktails, proctoring tests, and filing for law firms, while taking evening ESL classes. Eventually, when her English skills improved, she got a job working full-time as a bank teller. She believed that I could get a better education in a private school, and she wanted to save for college, so she worked her way up to customer service representative and worked overtime and sometimes double time in order to afford the tuition.”
Suddenly, everything I am saying about my mother feels much more real, even though I’ve said the same words many times. For a moment, I get choked up. I take a deep breath and continue.
“She has stayed at the same job for the last fifteen years, giving her best in spite of poor health, unforgiving customers, unreasonable managers, meager raises, and increased workloads due to mergers and layoffs. Every day she misses her family and friends in Hong Kong, but she never visits and she seldom calls. Any dollar spent on airfare or the phone bill would be a dollar siphoned from my tuition. My mother endures these hardships because she believes in my education. She always said that education was the most important thing. It is the key to greater wisdom. It is also the key to achieving the American Dream.
“This is why she pushes me to strive for greater goals and never to rest on my laurels. This is why she emphasizes focusing on academics and forgoing the distractions of after-school jobs and dating. This is why she insists on doing all the housework, though she is exhausted every day after work, leaving me more time to study and do my best.”
How is my mother reacting to what I am saying about her? Is she moved? I want to sneak a peek at her face, but I’m too afraid.
“My mother’s perseverance and hard work are an example and inspiration to me,” I continue. “After I graduate from high school, I hope to attend a top university.”
I almost say “UC Berkeley,” which is what I had written before applying to Scripps, but fortunately, I catch myself in time.
“Afterwards, I plan to attend medical school and become a doctor. My medical knowledge will improve her health. My future income will support her, so she won’t have to work and suffer anymore. When I feel tired or daunted by my quantity of schoolwork, I remember that my hardship can’t be half as hard as my mother’s and that someday, when my hard work pays off, so will hers.
“I suspect that how my mother and I feel may be how other Asian immigrant families feel as well. Why do we think this way? Where do these values come from? Much of our sensibilities about family and education come from Confucianism. Confucius taught that the remedy for social chaos was for each individual to live a virtuous life and to follow the moral ‘dao,’ or way. His instructions on what constituted moral behavior were based on relationships between emperor and subject, father and son, husband and wife, elder brother and younger brother, and elder friend and younger friend. The former had to provide just leadership and good example. In return, the latter had to respect and obey the former and never usurp his authority. In so doing, members of society could maintain harmony with each other and with the heavens.
“Most American teens would find these expectations to be oppressive. In the pursuit of individualism and focus on the self, they have lost focus on their families and feel no obligation to reciprocate their parents’ financial and emotional investment. They care more about their peers’ opinions than their parents’. Parents defer to their children instead of the other way around, so they don’t discipline or push them. Nothing is denied to them. As a result, they become complacent. Their energies become diffused, even stagnated. This is true not only of American teens but of American society. We are currently the richest and most powerful country in the world. Meanwhile, Japan is creating better technology, and European countries are planning to consolidate their economies. At the top, where life is comfortable, where else can America go but down?
“Fortunately, America is still the land of opportunity, not only for those who have been here for generations but also for newcomers. With other cultures come other ideas, newer and better ways of doing things. The drive, talents, and success of immigrants should not be seen as a threat but rather as a source of inspiration. We represent the changing face of America, a new horizon that recedes as we reach further and further towards progress.
“But our success should not be measured only by test scores, college attendance, or annual income. My mother would not be seen by most as successful. She is not featured in Forbes or Fortune. But where would the suited figures on the covers be without workers like her? Where would our heroes be had they not had parents to guide them? When President Bush speaks about the thousand points of light, I think about my mother and others like her, who make up the backbone of our families and the foundation of our country. Thanks to them, our future is still bright.”
Then I bow my head, as Ms. Taylor taught me, signaling the end of my speech. With my eyes closed, I feel the rumbling of applause, which builds to a loud crescendo. I open my eyes and see everyone looking up at me, their hands coming together enthusiastically. Then I look at Ms. Taylor. She nods at me as she claps, as if to say, You did it. I smile back with pride.
Then I look at my mother. She has a strange look in her eyes. Her hands are coming together much more slowly than the others’. Unlike Nellie, she isn’t standing or cheering. Did she like my speech or did she hate it? Is she proud or disappointed?
The last speaker gets up from his chair. The way he walks reminds me of a tree that may fall over. I expect his speech to be as awkward as his gait until he begins speaking. His voice is deep and sonorous. I can see him singing bass in an opera. His speech is about Asian stereotypes and the lack of Asian American representation in sports and the media. This topic will appeal to the judges, who are Asian Americans in the media. To make matters worse, his speech is well written, and he is confident and likeable. To further seal my doom, he is the final speaker, the one who will leave the judges with the lasting impression. Stutter, trip over your lines, I think.
Just as I think this, he stops. A long pause ensues as he struggles to remember his next sentence. I notice the slightest tremor in his knees. He makes a couple of false starts, stuttering a little, before finding his way and continuing.
Suddenly, I remember the brown-haired girl in my first competition. I remember Sally Meehan and her eye rolling. I flush hot with shame, as if everyone in the audience can hear my thoughts.
The last speaker finishes his speech without further problems. Afterwards, all the speakers assemble with the coaches in the back room. Ms. Taylor embraces Theresa. “Look at what you’ve done. I knew you could do it,” she says to Theresa. Then she wraps an arm around me. “Excellent as always, but this time I felt an extra oomph in your delivery. You definitely got ’em hooked.” I am glad that she’s pleased, but if I did so great, how come I don’t get a hug too?
We wait for what feels like a half hour. What’s taking the judges so long? Finally, the lights dim and brighten again, and we assemble back at our seats onstage for the awards assembly. The trophy table has been moved onto the stage. The vice president of the Chinese American Association is standing behind the podium, and his assistant is standing behind the trophies.
“Third place,” the VP announces, “Tiffany Haffner!”
I look at Tiffany, the first speaker. She has Asian features but hazel eyes, light brown hair, and freckles. It never occurred to me that someone who’s half could count as Chinese.
“Second place …”
It will be either me or the last speaker. I brace myself, just in case it is me.
“Stewart Chan!”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Stewart Chan walks over to the VP like a man on stilts.
“And first place …”
Suddenly, I am gripped with fear. What if I’m wrong? What if it’s not me? What if I win nothing?
“Frances Ching!” In a daze, I stand up and take my trophy and check. I barely feel the VP’s hand as it squeezes mine. I am acutely conscious of people looking at me, of the applauding judges and audience members, of the video cameras and flashes from the Chinese TV and newspaper journalists. As I shake the VP’s hand, the flashes from the cameras blind me. All I can see are spots. Tiffany and Stewart stand on either side of me. We all hold our trophies as more flashes of light blind us. After the photos are taken, we congratulate each other. Stewart shakes my hand vigorously.
“I really liked your speech,” he says with a big smile. “It made me think about things in a different way.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, averting my gaze. Quickly, I excuse myself and join Theresa, Nellie, Ms. Taylor, and Mom, who are just a few feet from the stage.
“Congratulations, Fei Ting! I knew you would win!” says Nellie. She is patting my shoulder so enthusiastically that it hurts.
“Me too,” Theresa chimes in. She is sincerely happy, even though she didn’t win anything. In fact, she seems happier than I am. How can that be?
Then I recall Nellie’s reaction, her cheering and jumping up and down, when Theresa finished her speech. My mother, in contrast, was stone still, except for her arms, which clapped as if they were too heavy. If you judged only by appearances, it would seem that Theresa had won instead of me.
I wrote that speech for my mother. I sang her praises publicly, in front of her. But she wasn’t even listening.
“Theresa, how do you feel about competing in your first tournament?” Ms. Taylor asks.
“It was fun,” Theresa replies.
I know Ms. Taylor is happy for me, but I wish she would talk to me first instead of Theresa. I did better than Theresa. Why is she getting most of the attention?
“Frances,” Ms. Taylor says, “I think some people want to meet you.”
I turn around and see Emerald Yeh and Wendy Tokuda.
“Congratulations,” says Emerald Yeh.
“Great job,” says Wendy Tokuda. I shake both of their hands. I reciprocate their smiles, but mine never spreads farther than my mouth.
On the way home, Nellie says, “After listening to Fei Ting’s speech, I can see why she keeps winning. She has real potential.” The Chinese word for potential is “teen choi.” “Teen” means “sky” or “heaven.” To have potential is to have a gift from the heavens.
“That tree of a boy would have won if he hadn’t messed up in the middle,” Mom replies. I flinch at her remark. I am grateful for the cloak of darkness. I don’t have to mold my face into a look of happiness or nonchalance.
I was happier winning third place in the previous tournament than I am winning first place in this tournament—even though this is being covered by journalists, and even though I am shaking the hands of Emerald Yeh and Wendy Tokuda. I try to figure out why, but no answer comes to mind.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Mom and I go to Tai’s Bakery. On the way out the door, Mom picks up the Independent, the free local newspaper, from the doorstep and tosses it in the trash. As we approach the glass door, I notice a few seniors enjoying buns and tea at the square tables against the mirrored wall. Under the morning sunlight, the hard black-and-white-checked floor looks old and scratched up. As we walk in, Mrs. Tai greets us.
“Congratulations, Gracie!” she says.
Mom stares at her, a blank expression on her face.
Mrs. Tai holds up the Gum San Bo, the local Chinese-language newspaper. On the front page is a picture of me, the vice president of the CAA, Stewart Chan, and Tiffany Haffner. “What a smart girl!” Mrs. Tai says. Mom takes the paper from Mrs. Tai and begins reading. I peek over her shoulder, but I can’t make out anything except for “one,” “and,” and “but.” Once Mom is done reading, she hands the paper back to Mrs. Tai. Mom holds it with a certain reverence, as if that floppy piece of paper were embroidered silk. “Thank you, Older Sister,” Mom says.
Mrs. Tai pushes the paper back to Mom. “I got an extra copy for you, in case you don’t already have one,” she says.
Mr. Tai walks in from the back with a hot new batch of buns. He is wearing his usual white undershirt and worn brown slacks. The steamy, sweet scent of fresh baked pastries fills the air. “Hey, you think she’s in the Independent?” he asks Mrs. Tai. Mrs. Tai walks to the back room. Moments later she returns, waving another newspaper. She hands it to Mom. A similar photo sits right above a very short article, this one written in English.
“I’m assuming you already have this one,” Mrs. Tai says.
Mom pauses, obviously remembering how carelessly she threw it away just moments ago. “Of course,” she says, recovering her composure.
Mr. and Mrs. Tai give us the usual, a dozen gai mei bao, but this time, Mr. Tai adds a couple of extra buns.
Mom says, “That’s too many.”
“On us. As a congratulations present,” Mr. Tai says.
“No, no, no, no,” Mom says, pushing the pink box back towards Mr. Tai.
But Mr. Tai pushes it back towards Mom. “You’re one of our best customers. We want you to have it.” Then he winks at me.
Mom rushes home from the bakery. I almost have to jog to keep up with her. Once home, she digs through the trash to find the Independent. I fight to contain my glee. There is a large wet spot on the paper left over from a used tea bag.
Then the phone rings. Mom picks it up. It’s Nellie. I can hear her talking loudly in excited tones through the receiver, though it’s against Mom’s ear. “What? Are you kidding me?” Mom says. “Now? Can we run over and catch it? It will probably be on again on the six o’clock news, won’t it?”
Wow, I’m on television! Ms. Taylor made a big deal out of this tournament, but I thought she was just exaggerating. Mom tenses her shoulders, frustrated over missing my televised appearance. “Okay,” Mom says. Then she hangs up.
“What is it?” I ask. I pretend not to know because I want to hear her say it.
“You were on the Channel Twenty-six news,” she says. “Fei Ting, you were on TV.”
After breakfast, Mom takes me on more errands. We go to the produce market, just down the street from the Tais’ bakery. The outside smells of oranges, apples, and cabbage. The inside smells like beef jerky and dried cuttlefish. Lynn, the shopkeeper, smiles at me as she rings Mom up. “I heard from Mrs. Tai about Fei Ting’s win,” she says to Mom. “What a smart girl.”
“Oh, good at school things. I’ll be lucky if she ever learns to be good at anything practical,” Mom says. A part of me cringes at the deflection of Lynn’s compliment. Then I look closely at Mom’s face. She has the faintest blush of pride.
Then we proceed to the butcher’s, just two doors down. Unlike the produce place, which is painted green, this place is painted red, matching the cha siu coloring on the barbecued pork. In the display window are three crispy fried ducks hanging by their necks and a whole roast pig. The entire place smells of duck, pig, and grease.
As Mr. Lai chops up the pork for Mom, she looks at him expectantly. She is waiting for him to mention my win. Unfortunately, she is unlikely to get any recognition from him. Mr. Lai has always been a curmudgeon. The only reasons his business is so successful are that his meat is tasty, his prices are low, and he is the only butcher in the area.
But like a glutton for rejection, Mom keeps waiting, hoping. Finally, she can stand it no longer. “Mr. Lai,” Mom says, “do you know that Fei Ting won an award?”
Mr. Lai pauses for a moment, focused on his cutting, before he says, “Oh, really.” He doesn’t even attempt to feign interest.
“Yes,” Mom says. “First place”—a splatter of pork juice hits her in the face; she blinks and wipes the drop of grease from her cheek—“in a speech contest.” Still no response from Mr. Lai. “It was sponsored by the Chinese American Association.” Her voice sounds tentative, just like when she talks to my teachers.
Mr. Lai wraps the pork in pink paper and tapes it closed. “That’s two fifty,” he says.
“Okay,” Mom says. Her head is bowed. Quietly, submissively, Mom pays Mr. Lai and takes her bundle.
“Mr. Lai is mean,” she says to me as we walk home together. She carries the meat as I carry the vegetables and pastries. “His heart is like a rock. He must have kids too. He should know what a big deal this is.”
Then Mom stops walking. “You know what?” she says. “Maybe his kids are losers. Maybe they smoke and don’t study. That’s why he didn’t compliment you. Because he’s jealous.” A slow smile creeps up on her face. “Maybe his kids went bad because he’s a bad father. Look how mean he is to people outside. Imagine how mean he must be at home. I feel sorry for his kids. I feel sorry for his wife.” Her smile widens with triumph. “Serves him right. Don’t feel bad, Fei Ting. We don’t need him. I’ll take the bus to Clement Street if I have to. I’m not going to spend another dime at his greasy shop.”
I am totally moved by her show of support. For the first time, she is 100 percent on my side. We continue walking—no, make that marching—home.
Once we reach our apartment and load up the fridge, Mom takes the two articles. She goes into the coat closet, which, despite its skinny shape, holds more stuff than someone else’s twice-as-big closet because of Mom’s organizing ability. She pulls out two picture frames and sits at my desk, carefully arranging the articles so that they are centered in the frames. She is meticulous about this, moving each article a couple of millimeters this way and that, her shoulders tense and fingers slightly trembling, as she strains for the perfect position. When she is satisfied, she hangs them side by side on the wall facing Popo’s picture. She is careful to keep them lower on the wall than the picture, out of respect for Popo.