by Gloria Chao
I liked to personify the Porter Room because he had become such an integral part of my life, and when I danced, it was like I was conversing with Mr. Porter about my thoughts and emotions. When I stomped my anger into his tiles, he supported me, vibrated with me, and told me, I got you. When I dragged my feet, sweeping them across the floor to paint my sadness into the linoleum, he absorbed my pain and told me it would be okay. But even Mr. Porter hadn’t known what to do with my side to sides.
I spotted Darren first, naturally, since his hair was spiked above the plane of heads. Another reason my mother would disapprove. She hated “the spike,” as she called it. Why they have to do that? Looks so angry.
Darren greeted me with an uptick of his chin (perhaps a we’re-just-friends gesture?). “Hey, Princess Pecan.”
“Hey,” I answered softly. I wanted to joke back, but the words caught in my throat. I was so scared to cross the friend border that I kept myself as far from it as possible—in Awkward Territory, next to the Babbling Brook of Insecurity.
We fell into step, and even though he tried to hide it, I could tell he was walking a little slower so that I could keep up with his long strides.
In Killian Court, a middle-aged East Asian man with thick glasses broke from a pack of tourists to approach Darren and me. He pointed to each of us, then asked in a heavy accent, “Stu-dents?”
I nodded.
“Picture?” he asked, a hopeful smile on his face.
I reached for the high-tech camera cradled in his arms. “Sure. Do you want the dome in the background?”
He pulled away sharply as if I were trying to steal his firstborn son. He shook his head, then pointed the camera at us. It seemed he wanted a photo of Darren and me, but that made as much sense as Lu Pàng playing in the NBA.
The tourist waved a hand, motioning for Darren and me to move closer into the frame of the photo. Darren obliged, even playfully pointing to the MIT logo on my shirt. The camera clicked, capturing my face twisted with bewilderment, and the man was gone before I could puzzle out what had happened.
When Darren spotted my arched eyebrows and wide eyes, he mirrored my confusion. “That’s never happened to you before?”
“I don’t walk through Killian that often.”
“Well, get ready. Because the tourists always want pictures of MIT students, and if they want a picture of me, then they’ll definitely want a picture of the cute . . . I mean . . .” He looked away, embarrassed, as his voice trailed off.
I couldn’t help a small smile no matter how large my mother loomed in my head. “Thanks, but I doubt they came here because of the student body’s good looks,” I joked. If the tourists were anything like my maternal grandmother—whose English vocabulary consisted of “hello” and “MIT”—then they were here because to them, the campus was a must-see, the golden goose. “For the record, I’d rather they want a picture of me because of my brain, not my looks.”
Darren nodded his approval. “Good priorities.” He leaned a tiny bit closer—almost imperceptibly so, but I was hyperaware of him. “And for the record, I agree—nothing more attractive than a big, beautiful brain. Just, you know, in general. I’m definitely not talking about anyone in particular.”
Um, this friends thing might be even harder than I originally thought.
At the Student Center, Darren strolled up to the window. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Oh, no, I—I’ll get it myself,” I stammered, still intent on getting hot chocolate even though I knew how juvenile it would look.
He paused, perhaps debating whether or not he should put up a fight, then stepped aside, probably because of the friend stipulation. “Ladies first.”
I stepped up to the counter. “Hot chocolate with whipped cream, please.” My shoulders hunched, Dr. Chang style, but then I heard my mother’s voice in my head: Stand up straight so you look confident. And so your breasts look bigger.
“Actually, that sounds good,” Darren said to my surprise. “I’ll have that too.”
We paid separately and, with drink in hand, I made a beeline for my favorite couch—the overstuffed, least-pilly love seat. But Darren motioned outside. “How about sitting by the river?”
“The river?” I parroted, hoping he would remember it was freezing today.
“We don’t have to, but it snowed! And this is my first snow in ten years! C’mon!” He waved his arm once, and with it my no swung to a yes.
While I bundled up, he held the door open, waiting patiently until I walked beneath his outstretched arm. As soon as I stepped outside and the wintry chill hit, I regretted my decision.
We made our way to the benches lining the Charles. I grasped my cup the entire way, desperate for some warmth to seep through the gloves onto my frozen hands.
After sweeping snow off the seat, Darren motioned for me to sit. While I balanced precariously on the edge, not wanting to bathe in a pool of melted snow (and worrying what germs were on there), he sat like a normal person, favoring a comfortable butt to a clean one.
“You seem pretty comfy for a Southern Californian.”
“I’m frozen on the inside. But it’s worth it. This is one of my favorite places.”
I followed his gaze to the frozen river dusted with snow. I hardly ever looked at it despite having a view from my dorm. How had I missed its beauty for so long?
“Chow Chow used to be one of my favorite places,” I said, “but recently it’s been more stinky tofu than home. It’s been exhausting seeing my parents every weekend.” Especially with all the secrets. Last visit, I had been so stressed answering my mother’s questions I accidentally ate a clove of garlic, mistaking it for a clump of onion. I couldn’t exhale out of my mouth for two days after without gagging at the smell. “I thought I’d be more independent in college.”
“Yeah, I picked up on their protectiveness,” he said with a lighthearted chuckle.
“They’re just so traditional.” I peered at him over my cup. “Do you struggle with that?”
“Sorry, I can’t relate. My family has been in America for three generations. I don’t identify as Japanese. I mean, I am . . . but I’m also American. My parents’ pressure to keep me close to home isn’t related to the culture, at least not that I know of. I think they were just scared that once I left I’d never come back, and since I’m the first to leave the nest, they had an especially tough time.”
“Was that really hard for you?”
He chewed his lip for a second. “Yes, but not any more than expected. It made it easier that I was going away to MIT, which they’re proud of, and because of the financial aid. And they sort of knew all along that they weren’t going to sway me, no matter what. It wasn’t as difficult as it seems for you. At least, from what I’ve heard.”
I leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees and my cup dangling between my legs. “I have such a . . . complicated . . . relationship with them.” I took a breath, then said words I had never admitted out loud before. Words I’d barely admitted to myself. “I don’t agree with them sometimes . . . a lot of times.”
The Pavlovian guilt started to wash over me. I waited, half-expecting the ancestors to send me a warning sign, maybe in the shape of a blizzard, but the only movement was Darren tilting his head to urge me to continue.
“They think that just because they’re older, they know what’s best for me and my future.” I paused to glance at him, then clarified. “Specifically, my career. But they don’t know me well enough to know what I want.” Hell, I barely know me well enough.
“What do your parents want you to do?”
I hesitated. For a second I was transported back to the courtyard, when he had first asked about my dreams. I still felt the urge to run, but then his warm, caring gaze met mine, and I caved. “They want me to be a doctor.”
His eyes widened. “Uh-oh.”
It was only two sounds, not even a real word, but it sent all the walls up. I waited, my muscles frozen in anxious anticipation.
He faux coughed, fidgeted, then finally said, “You, uh, use your hand sanitizer a lot. And when we were on the Saferide, you touched the handle with as little surface area as possible, which wasn’t all that safe, by the way. And . . .” He (finally) trailed off, probably because my cheeks were flushed—their contrast to the cold air was jarring.
His voice softened. “I mean, hey, I get it—all the studies show how effective hand sanitizer is. I should really carry some with me too. But, uh”—he nudged me—“you seem to have a thing about germs?”
I surprised myself by laughing. “Okay, you made your point.”
The teasing crinkle appeared. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re perpetually clean and you always smell like pomegranate. Seems like there’s only upside.”
“That’s because you haven’t fully seen in here,” I joked, tapping on my temple. I was so used to hiding this part of me that it was instinct to deflect. Though really, all I wanted was to tell him more, just to hear him say over and over in different ways how all of this was okay.
“Yet,” he said. “I haven’t fully seen in there yet.”
I tried to will my heart to stop beating so damn fast. “You know, it’s ironic—I think it’s my mom’s fault I’m this way. She used to bring our own utensils to Chinatown, saying that their silverware was too dirty.”
“Yet somehow she trusted the food they made?”
“Just one prime example of Mǎmá Lu’s airtight logic.”
He chuckled, then said, “Well, if doctor isn’t your dream job, what is?” The warmth in his voice alleviated the heaviness of what he was asking.
“I would love to open a dance studio. I think.”
He beamed. “I was going to guess something with dance. The way your face lit up when I mentioned piques . . .” He placed a hand over his heart. “It made me want to learn.”
My leg jiggled. “I actually dreamed of opening a studio when I was younger, when I was too naive to know my parents had already planned out my life.”
Darren scooted to the edge of the bench to face me. He placed a hand on my knee, and I froze like the surrounding ice. “I think it’s selfless how much you care about your parents, but I think you deserve better than sacrificing who you are for their sake.”
“It’s not selfless when I do it out of fear. Or guilt.”
He leaned back, sending snow flurries in the air. My leg felt hot where his hand had been. “I don’t think it’s that black-and-white,” he said.
“It’s not a panda?”
His lip quirked up on one side (the right, never the left). “No, not a panda.”
“Well, whatever it is, make it disappear. Then this would be easy.”
He waved his arms like a conductor. “Kiemasu!”
I shifted away, startled.
He laughed. “It means ‘vanish.’ There was this Japanese magician my sister and I loved as kids. We used to practice terrible magic tricks and yell ‘kiemasu’ at each other.”
I committed the new word to my vernacular. “Can you show me a trick?”
He swept his hand over his hot chocolate, yelled “kiemasu,” then shook the cup, the absence of sloshing proving his trick successful.
I laughed, deep and unladylike.
He grinned at me, so huge I could see most of his teeth, and my eyes immediately homed in on his slightly tilted lower canine, the one that became visible only with his biggest smiles. “I think ‘kiemasu’ sounds better than ‘abracadabra,’ don’t you?” he asked.
“Definitely. And it’s better than ‘bújiànle,’ too, for the record.”
“Do you speak Chinese fluently?”
I nodded. “And I had to go to Chinese school every Sunday from ages two to fifteen to learn how to read and write.”
“I’ve always wondered, do you translate everything in your head first?”
I paused for a second. Wo xıhuān shuıjiao. I like dumplings. “No. I guess you could say I think in Chinese and English. Meaning, I don’t stop and translate, like I did in high school Spanish.”
“Wow. That’s amazing. Sometimes I wish I had grown up speaking Japanese . . . though I’m glad my parents didn’t send me to school without knowing English.”
“It doesn’t have to be so black-and-white,” I said, nudging him lightly. “And you already know ‘kiemasu.’ ”
“Yup, that and ‘arigato.’ Just a couple more lessons and I’ll be hosting my own Japanese magic show. Together we can be the Nutty Magic Duo—I’d let you saw me in half. And”—his right eye crinkled—“I’m sure your mom would totally approve of you being a magician.”
We laughed together—loud, long, resounding belly laughs—before falling into a comfortable silence.
The wind swirled snow flurries around the icy lake and in my heart. I could feel some of the resistance planted by my parents melting away, and it was terrifying.
Voicemail from Nǎinai
Mei Mei? Study hard and go to acupuncture, okay? I hear about your bad grade. Remember, seven eggs a day will improve your memory. And eat your vitamins.
CHAPTER 17
ANCESTOR LU
AS XING AND I WAITED in line for our museum tickets, he thanked me for accompanying him to the limited-time Terracotta Army exhibit. “I’ve been dying to see these my whole life. Remember when Mom used to tell us about them?”
“Of course.” I could picture us clearly, sprawled across Xing’s childhood bed, looking at pictures of clay soldiers and listening to Mǎmá tell us about Emperor Qin Shi Huang and his desire to protect himself in the afterlife. “I’ve always wanted to see them too.”
The memory helped ease some of the guilt, but there was still a whole buttload left. I had thought maybe it would get better the more I saw Xing, but obviously that made zero sense. The fewer times we met, the easier it would be to explain away if my parents ever found out, so each additional visit was diving further “into the fire pit,” as my mother always said (and yes, she had used that in reference to Xing choosing Esther).
Esther was busy with work (as a dentist, I’d learned recently), and while I wanted to meet her for Xing’s sake, I was relieved. I wasn’t ready to put a personality (especially a good one) to her face. I was weighed down by enough guilt for just seeing Xing. If meeting Esther had been added to my sins, I would have—poof!—combusted on the spot, destroyed by my own biānpào secrets. Every Chow Chow visit, I felt like a spy—a terrible one who sweated through all her clothes. But every time my thumb hovered over the delete contact button or I considered turning down an invitation to meet up, I heard Xing’s laugh, our chopsticks clicking together, and I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it.
At least we’re doing something Chinese today. Learning about our culture, I tried to convince myself.
After Xing waved my Hello Kitty wallet away and paid for both of us, we strolled through the introductory hallway in silence, reading about the discovery of Qin Shi Huang’s tomb. Was Xing also hearing our mother’s voice, imagining her reading to us from the Xiao Kēxuéjiā (Little Scientist) books of our childhood?
In 1974, a farmer dug a well and found the collapsed tomb and broken terracotta warriors, I heard her say as I looked at black-and-white photos of the excavation site. The paint from the soldiers flaked off when exposed to air, she said as I looked at a replica of what the soldiers would have looked like in their original colorful glory. Since the technology is not there to preserve these relics, most of the tomb has not been excavated yet, she reminded me as I stared at an aerial photo of the mausoleum, the giant unearthed mound screaming, Think of all the treasures in there!
I desperately clung to these memories, to this version of my mother, the one who just wanted to spend quality time with me. No clucking tongue. I wish I knew how to bring her forth.
When we stepped into the room with the life-size terracotta warriors, Xing and I both froze, taking it all in. The sculptures had clearly been broken into many pieces and put back to
gether, the break lines still prominent despite the rehab. Their dusty, pewter-colored faces were more lifelike than I would have predicted, with wrinkles and expressions sculpted in.
Xing pointed to the warrior in the display case to our right, the one wearing sleeveless armor and long trousers. “Doesn’t that one look like us? Maybe we’re related to him.”
Every face was different, unique, based on a real-life soldier. I took in this warrior’s slightly bulbous nose and pronounced cheeks. He was so familiar, what I would picture my ancestor to look like. I felt tied to these artifacts, as if a piece of me were in them as well. Perhaps that really was the case with this soldier here. Possibly a Lu. I knew he was inanimate, just a lump of molded clay, but when I stared into his blank, pupilless eyes, the shadows from the dim lighting made it appear as if he were staring into my soul, judging me and all my secrets.
I spoke to the glass. “Sometimes I’m so proud to be Chinese, and other times I resent it so much. The obligations. Duty to family. Xiàoshùn.” Each word felt like charcoal in my mouth—bitter and out of place.
“I know what you mean,” Xing said. “Sometimes I wonder if Mom and Dad are particularly tough because they immigrated here. Maybe they feel like they have to hold on to traditions tighter to make up for leaving.”
I nodded as he spoke. “And since they’re not there,” I realized, “they can’t evolve with the times—they’re still holding on to traditions they grew up with from an entirely different generation.”
I turned away from my possible ancestor to face Xing. He had traces of resentment around his eyes, the same shadows that had first appeared the night of the disownment and never left, only took root.
“I think I understand your position more now. Because of, you know.” I couldn’t even say it out loud, how I wasn’t going to be a doctor. There were a million different possible careers out there. All I had done was decide one wasn’t for me, and yet it felt like a crime. Because it was. To them. “I was always more hesitant than you to question Mom and Dad or disobey them. But I guess sometimes you’re put in a position where you have no choice.”
