So who is to say that crying loudly for two hours at a funeral service is a greater show of love than spending countless weeks, months, and years chauffeuring, tabulating, corresponding, and bookkeeping for one’s mother? I see now that even I myself have misinterpreted my mom’s lack of showy sentiment. She cared enough and loved enough to do all the crap that no one else wanted to do. She took up the nonglamorous tasks, all the very necessary but mundane, tedious chores like writing to insurance companies and filing tax forms.
And maybe this willingness, this stamina, this recognition of the unsung duties and the meticulous follow-through in completing these tasks has roots in a specific Chinese way of thinking. The humility is actually the strength. She attended to these clerical and practical matters as a show of love and, yes, duty, but didn’t expect praise or reward.
When the moment finally did come for my mother to approach the altar to say good-bye to her mother, my pau pau, her siblings cleared a path and waited to see what she would do. They surrounded her, as if to close in on her and squeeze emotion out of her whether she wanted to or not. As I watched from the directly adjacent bench, my mother placed her hand on the casket, emitted the briefest of sobs, like a tiny hiccup, and then just as quickly pulled herself back together. Her sisters were like a chorus waiting for the lead singer’s cue, wanting to unabashedly express their collective sorrow. But my mom, even in her grief, would have none of that ballyhoo. After wavering ever so slightly, she sucked in her tears. Her siblings seemed confused, as if their chance to wail en masse had been within such close reach but had now been cruelly denied.
When my mother lost her footing for a moment, several of her sisters grabbed at her shoulders to hold her up. Their fervor just seemed to irk my mom. She steadied herself on the side of the pew and stood up straight. Shrugging off their clinging hands, she said, “I GOT IT.”
As the crowd dispersed, various relatives were still crying their eyes out, myself included. We were wrung out, slumped over, and otherwise incoherent. We were all a collective, tearstained mess, but where was my mother?
I scanned the room, and eventually spotted her, standing next to the funeral director. She appeared sharp as a tack and was going over some paperwork. Oh, that’s what my mom was doing. I was glad that someone still had her wits about her. Someone had to pay the bill and make sure the family wasn’t getting ripped off.
That was my mother on that very sad day. Looking back, I have gained newfound, albeit very belated, respect for her. My mother is practical. Badass. Even in what must have been her darkest hour.
PART 3
Breaking Out of the Locked Chinese Box
15
My Mom Loves Fiona Ma More Than Me
“Hey, Mom. Check it out. My book is mentioned here.”
I was holding a local magazine with an earmarked page that referred to my writing, but my mom was too excited about something else to notice it. Nor did she seem to hear me. Instead she handed me a clipping she had carefully cut from the newspaper. It was a picture of California state assemblywoman Fiona Ma.
We didn’t personally know Ma. She was not a family friend. But somehow, any Chinese person who has risen to prominence or public celebrity is someone all Chinese people get to take credit for.
“Did you see Fiona’s picture in the paper? She got married! Doesn’t she look great?”
“Um, I guess.”
My mom went on to summarize points from the article, marveling out loud about how Fiona and her fiancé met, and the challenges they might face with her busy schedule as a member of the assembly.
I tried to slink away, not all that interested in hearing about Fiona’s nuptials.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you want to see the picture?”
I ducked into my mom’s office near the kitchen. I took a seat at the desk and tried to figure out why I felt so crappy.
I once got a letter in the mail from Fiona Ma. When we lived in the Sunset District, we had painted the outside of our house, and when we pulled off a strip of masking tape from the façade, a portion of paint from the neighbors’ house that abutted ours had flaked off with it. The area was small, about one inch by five inches, and we hadn’t noticed it.
But our Chinese neighbors did. About a month after we painted the house, we got a letter in the mail from Fiona Ma, who was then San Francisco’s District Four city supervisor. The missive requested, in a businesslike manner, that we settle this dispute with our next-door neighbors.
What was she talking about? Our neighbors hadn’t even said anything to us, and now we were the recipients of this nice-but-vaguely-threatening letter with an official seal from the City of San Francisco.
It was a big WTF moment, and somehow so typical of our then neighbors. They were a Chinese couple in their fifties, and the only time they ever talked to either of us was when the woman would stop my husband, Rolf, on the sidewalk to scold him because I didn’t speak Chinese. To further describe their neighborly ways, they used to leave notes on our car saying not to park in the space between both our houses. They thought they owned that public space on the street. And although they were both able-bodied, they most certainly expected us to reserve that spot just for them. I was irritated enough by the notes they left on our car, but then that official letter in the mail about the house really riled me. Instead of just telling us in person about the small patch of paint, which we would have gladly fixed, they went all insular Chinese Mafia on our asses and got the district supervisor involved.
I wondered if they were related to Ma or knew her parents. Or had they cold-called her office, and we had simply been sent a standard form letter?
Rolf rang our neighbors’ doorbell and asked when it would be convenient to fix the paint patch. Obviously, he is so much nicer than I am. I had advised him against it, saying it would be rewarding their backhanded behavior.
I said, “How can you give them exactly what they want when they’ve gone about the whole thing like such jerks?”
“I don’t have time to worry about it. Let me just do it and it’ll be done.”
So he fixed it. And it was finished. The neighbors were pleased. And I was alone with my seething resentment.
Why did this incident make me so mad? The typical Chinese crappiness of it all caved in my stomach. How many times in my whole life did complete strangers treat me like I was supposed to kowtow to them for the singular reason that we were all Chinese and they were my elders? How many times had I heard in life that I should really speak Chinese? Further, my neighbors’ disregard for basic parking rules, and their passive-aggressive way of invoking Ma instead of talking to me like a human being affected me like fingernails screeching across a chalkboard.
And now here was my mom shoving aside the news of my book in favor of reveling in Fiona Ma’s dream wedding. Fiona. My old neighbors. My parents. They all seemed to be on some kind of wavelength I couldn’t comprehend. A chain of command, a way of doing things, a respect of elders or higher-ups was being adhered to, and I apparently never got that memo because I didn’t care about letters from city supervisors, wedding announcements, or the fact that, once and for all, I don’t speak Chinese. Not Mandarin. Not Cantonese. Yes, that’s too bad. Got it. Filed it.
I just wanted my mom to show a little enthusiasm for my lifelong dream come true, that’s all.
Ah. Foolish mortal.
In my parents’ house, my childhood home, I let my mom go on a little more about Fiona Ma and her dream wedding. I ate it. I walked away. I didn’t know how to express my frustration or my anger. I was a good Chinese daughter and didn’t explode.
My parents always ask why I don’t stay longer.
In my mom’s office near the kitchen there’s a corkboard where she has pinned up, along with Fiona’s clippings, photos of Other People’s Kids. I capitalize the letters of that phrase because they are of supreme importance, apparently. My mom is thorough in recounting who just graduated from Stanford, who is going to be a dentist, and
whatnot. Although I don’t recognize all of them, my mom sings their praises with regularity. Among these accomplished children of other people, one picture stands out. It’s a glamour shot of some girl named Crystal. My mother frequently insists that I know who she is, even though I am certain that I do not.
“Sure, you know her!”
“No, I don’t.”
“She’s our friend’s granddaughter!”
“Okay.”
“Isn’t she pretty? And now she’s older, and really, really pretty. You should see her now.”
The photo is actually attached to a handle and backed on cardboard. It’s a fan. Because, you know, who doesn’t need a personal cooling implement for those countless, sweltering days in San Francisco? And if that accoutrement is emblazoned with the pretty face of your pal’s granddaughter, I guess it’s just a win-win.
My mom talks about Crystal kind of a lot. Crystal, if you’re out there reading this, don’t you think that’s kinda creepy?
Why do Chinese people find it easy to praise other people’s kids and yet make their own children feel like we are not good enough? I know it’s not just a Chinese thing, but nonetheless, the mind reels. I wonder what primal, cultural, or parental need is getting satisfied by having fantasy surrogate children like Fiona and Crystal. Some might say it’s the Chinese tradition not to praise your children or else they will become lazy or will stop striving for the highest level. But more significant, I think, is that Fiona and Crystal can never hurt my mom. Maybe it’s safer to love them.
And besides, for all I know, Crystal’s parents might have a picture of me on their bulletin board, and Crystal’s wondering who the hell I am. Maybe she’s thinking, Dang it! I’m Miss Teen Chinatown so why are there press clippings about this stupid writer all over my mom’s wall?
Who knows. What I do know is that my parents have tons of friends, and all their yearly Christmas cards are all over the house. My mom and dad never throw anything away, so the Christmas cards from past years are taped up, pinned up, and stuck into the corners of cabinets where the glass meets the wood. I have grown up with some of the families and have certainly heard of everyone’s accomplishments.
Interestingly though, there are some kids who, mysteriously, are never included in the family photos that we receive. There are disabled kids, delinquents, and ne’er-do-wells. I know they exist because I’ve seen them from a distance at events, slumped in wheelchairs or moping in the corners, and also I’ve heard my mom gossiping on the phone about them. But strangely, there is no photographic proof that includes or even vaguely links them to their relatives. Year after year, there is no trace of their existence in holiday photos. They’ve been “disappeared” by an invisible Chinese shame police.
Chinese people love to project success, and nothing less. If you’re unaccomplished, nothing special, or not too easy on the eyes, don’t think you can’t be deliberately omitted or photoshopped out of the family tree. That’s just one more reason to graduate from a top college—so you can be worthy of the Christmas picture!
If you’re not an A Plus, with achievements worth bragging about, apparently you just don’t make the cut. Your imperfections have been duly noted. You are an inconvenient truth, like global warming. The fact that you are alive and not going to Stanford is a minor annoyance. The holiday photo gets snapped, and the card is mailed to all the friends and relatives, but you have no say in the matter.
And what does my parents’ holiday card look like? For the last three years in a row, it has been a photo of my mom and dad, with my daughter, Lucy, in the middle. No one else. There were three different photos, taken on separate occasions. It hardly seemed a coincidence that my husband and I were repeatedly left out of the picture.
When I made fun of the cards, my parents didn’t offer much in way of an explanation. All my dad said was, “Well, you weren’t around on the day we took the photo. On any of those days, I guess.”
16
Nothing Is for Free . . . Except Breast Milk
When I was pregnant, my spouse and I attended a parenting preparedness class. The teacher asked people in the room to state their names and volunteer tidbits of baby advice for the benefit of the group. We all thought long and hard. Everyone was heartbreakingly earnest. One person advised to hug and kiss your child a lot. Another insisted on the importance of fostering creativity and communication. Someone urged us to help future generations follow their dreams. We all felt warm and fuzzy, snuggling in our collective cocoon of misty-eyed affirmations.
Then a Chinese guy in the group stood up and shouted like a dictator, “You make sure you teach your kids that NOTHING IS FOR FREE!”
The rest of us were stunned out of our soft-focus stupor. He added, “You work hard, or you get what you deserve!”
And that was his baby advice. When he sat back down, everyone had recoiled from their previously open smiles, and some people whispered unflattering remarks about our fellow classmate. But not me. I knew he was just being totally Chinese. He was saying, you want an A on your math test? Then get off your ass. Want a perfect score on your SAT? Then get off your ass. He was saying, work hard if you want a Mercedes, a three-bedroom house with Tara-like pillars, and filet mignon in your belly. Nothing is for free. The unspoken message in his words was, in China you work your ass off but you still get nothing. Here you have opportunity so don’t piss it away. When Communists destroy your family and house, imprison you and send your children away from you for hard labor in the countryside, then your Montessori-educated ass will have something to cry about.
So very Chinese.
And he wasn’t just talking to the white people. I felt he was talking directly to me. I spent my whole life trying to hug everyone in my family because I was just a sheltered, spoiled, little lovebug. My attempts to rub my chubby face on everybody’s tits just made them, well, uncomfortable, to say the least.
Speaking of which, it was just a few months later when a newborn little somebody was doing the same thing to me, that is, rubbing her face all over my boobies, looking for some damn milk.
It was mere hours after I gave birth to a gigantic baby the doctor had dubbed “the Hulk.” I was delirious from lack of sleep, a morphine drip, and the fact that a team of doctors had just unzipped my abdomen and removed a nine-pound, eleven-ounce human being from my body. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, it was time for my hospital-appointed training session on how to milk myself. It was then that the lactation specialist entered my room and unceremoniously pulled open my nightgown. “Oh,” she said with pleasant surprise, “you have African American boobies.”
This struck me as a weird thing to say to a sleep-deprived woman with an intravenous feeding tube, catheter, and no pants on. But that’s what she said, right in front of the team of doctors, nurses, and relatives who had all come to fuss and take pictures of Baby Hulk and my zitty, sweaty, bleeding-from-the-crotch self.
The boobie nurse felt me up like a lusty, somewhat clinical sailor, and all I could do was lie there and thank my maker for the morphine drip, compliments of Brown & Toland. I am very modest, you see, and am usually reluctant to whip off my high-school-era minimizing brassiere within the peripheral vision of my best girlfriends or even my own mommy.
Was the nurse saying my breasts were big or small, or a different shape than she expected? Having recently had my gut slit open via C-section, I was still reeling from the sight and sound of my amniotic fluid gushing onto the operating room floor. I was trying to think of a tactful way to apologize to the doctor for drenching his Bruno Maglis with my innards, and I simply was not ready to discuss the racial differences of boobies. Nonetheless, lying there, I wondered whether I needed to give a little speech about how I was proud to be a Chinese American. How my boobs were proud to be Chinese American, too.
She pulled my top open farther so that even the janitor who’d come to empty the trash could see my African American boobies. Watching him carry out a bag that said CAUTION: BIOHAZARD, I was j
arred back to my breast-feeding lesson. The lactation specialist then ordered me to “squeeze it like a hamburger.” Breasts aren’t even shaped like Whoppers or Quarter Pounders, but I’m a people pleaser, so I tried to do as I was told. I pinched and compressed my flesh without success. In my anguish, I reminded myself that I needed to feed my infant. Bilirubin buildup was threatening to turn my baby the color of a pumpkin, and she was already in the butternut squash spectrum.
So I had African American boobies. Whatever the definition, there ain’t nothing ghetto fabulous about cracked nipplage, latching on, or pumping and dumping. Breast-feeding is all fun and games until someone gets an eye poked out with a giant, swollen, thumb-length nipple.
Eventually, like many unsung mothers throughout the ages, I finally did figure out how to get the milk out of my engorged breasts and into the mouth of the Hulk. Nonetheless, as relieved and happy as I was about the mammalian success of my body parts, I was still miffed about the racial misidentification of my rack.
If you have ever been unfortunate enough to sit through the entirety of Steven Spielberg’s movie A.I., you may recall that, after all human beings have been extinguished from the planet, aliens revive Haley Joel Osment’s bloated robot corpse from the bottom of the ocean because he is the only half-decayed remnant of a creature who has any memory of what real humans were like. In my postpartum delirium, I wondered if I, too, could be revived millennia from now by benevolent aliens seeking a glimpse of African American breasts. Or maybe the aliens would just choose to reanimate an African American woman instead of me, having used their outer space powers to ascertain that my breasticle anomaly wouldn’t be worth bringing me back to life because, based on their records, all indications pointed to the fact that in my heyday I was a persnickety buzzkill.
I still think back to those early days when I was a new mom and figuring out how things were supposed to work. That was almost a decade ago, and when I’m lying in bed next to Lucy now, I am glad we are still close. The other night, she reached across my chest and gave me a squeeze.
Tiger Babies Strike Back Page 8