You Watch Your Words

TW: Parental conflict, verbal/emotional abuse, comparison, self-depreciation, internalised pain

“That’s it! I’m done talking to you! ”

That’s your mother, in Mandarin.

“You’re absolutely absurd!”

That’s your father. In Cantonese. Then he murmurs something under his breath.

You don’t quite catch it.

Because you’re not that proficient in Cantonese.

Fifteen minutes later, you make your way downstairs, annoyingly aware of the sound your slippers make on the wooden boards.

Porcelain plates. Shattered. Residue on the floor.

You don’t know how to feel.

You stand in the hallway. The harsh kitchen light swallows your view as you feel your eyes tearing up.

You pack up the mess on the ground, reassuring yourself as your heart starts sinking.

Inch by inch.

It is then, when the thought you’ve been trying to loathe, avoid, shut out of your mind, creeps up on you.

You wish Vivian was here.

You wish Vivian wasn’t on that prestigious exchange trip.

You know, if she was, she’d have all the right words flow out of her mouth. She’d know how to stop this, or at least ameliorate the situation.

You continue picking up the shattered porcelain pieces.

Intuitively, you examine the last one in your palm.

Upon impact, it leaves a tiny cut right on the center of your hand.

You head upstairs and leave it in a bedroom drawer. It rests there now.

Undisclosed, like the words you never said.

You watch your words.

You never liked school assemblies. You get there a bit late, when there were only a few seats left. You stare at the back of your friends’ heads, approximately four rows in front of you. The gym floor is dusty and you’re running on a mere five hours of sleep, after cramming for your economics test which is happening last period today. Your eyelids get heavier and heavier as the people speaking behind the lectern continue changing.

The next thing you know, the gym has erupted into thunderous applause while your vision still foggy from your nap.

You look up to see Vivian, her skirt the perfect length, her blazer ironed and her tie in a perfect shape. Her hair glistens in front of the red and gold banners, under the harsh gym lighting that does nothing but make you look like a ghost. You don’t care about what award she’s received, barely listening to her speech. When she’s done, you clap robotically, like the girls next to you, except their eyes are glimmering with reverence. And for a second, you’re glad you’re not sitting with your friends. Because you know exactly what they’d remark.

“Your sister is like, on a whole new level.”

“How does she even do that?”

“She’s like, a lot taller than you.”

“Do you have any of her old notes or papers at home?”

Usually, you would choose to stay silent, or end the topic with a shallow response. You feel the tiniest glimmer of guilt.

You’re her sister, you’re supposed to be proud of her.

But you’ve watched her do the same thing for sixteen years.

When has she not won? When has she not been perfect? When has she not been first choice?

Those are questions you never ask out loud.

You watch your words.

Your English teacher is giving you feedback on your essay.

Possibly not the most phenomenal essay she’s ever read, but you’d poured your heart and soul into it. Planned it for weeks.

“Your argument here is quite original…”

Your eyes light up.

“…but I believe you need far more justification. You’ve simply told me the ‘what’ of the argument, without taking me through how the author has done this with prose and literary techniques. I also see no analysis on audience impact. I think it would be best if you rewrote this section.”

— And then it all drops. That tiny bit of hope you had. You wonder how you could fall even harder — because now, you’re face-down on the ground.

Except you do.

“I have a high scoring essay on a similar argument from a year 11 student if you want a reference — I mean, I was planning to share it with the class anyway. The argument analysis was excellent, I think we can all learn.”

You catch a glimpse of the name written on the front cover of the essay paper.

Vivian Zhang.

It slips out of your mouth.

“This…is Vivian’s essay?”

“Yes — I mean, I’m not meant to disclose anything but I’m sure Vivian won’t mind.” She pauses.

“…Her name’s really gotten out there, huh? You two aren’t even in the same grade.”

“Yeah, it really has.” You mutter under your breath.

Vivian Zhang is my sister. You tell her.

Except you don’t. You never would. You feel an insurmountable amount of embarrassment, your heart sinking deeper and deeper into the earth’s core.

You watch your words.

“Vivian, play us something!”

That’s Uncle Qi, chopsticks clinging against his bowl as he wavers multiple times at your sister.

At first, she makes attempts at avoiding the task — attempts you see right through. She had been practicing pieces for weeks, the generic, well known, Asian-relative-impressing pieces. She had been waiting for this moment.

When she finally sits down in front of the piano, she straightens her back to the perfect posture, her ponytail swishing as her pale, delicate fingers glide their way flawlessly across every right key.

Applause bursts like firecrackers.

In your peripheral vision, you catch your parents beaming with pride. Your father has put his phone down, and your mother has her hands in her lap, an unfamiliar smile plastered on her face. You already know what’s coming.

“Recite us a poem, Vivian!”

“How did you do in your tests this year?”

“Vivian, my daughter wants to know how you got into that program.”

“Vivian, congratulations on winning that competition.”

“Which one are you talking about? Our Vivian won multiple competitions within the past 6 months.”

Amidst the commotion, you think back to your father's attentive listening and your mother’s expression. They fight less in front of crowds. In front of Vivian.

You can’t even remember the last time your father listened to you speak.

Or the last time your mother smiled at you.

Still, you sit there, with a posture so uncomfortable there might as well have been needles sticking up from the base of your seat. You swallow again and again, but all you taste is the sourness of the dumpling vinegar and your own bitterness. You stay silent.

You watch your words.

At night, you sit on the couch, peeling the Mandarin oranges originally placed on the platter for decor.

Your relatives have all left, but the few words they said to you linger unwaveringly in your mind.

“Smile more, you speak too soft!”

“You’re eat too little, that’s why you haven’t grown as tall as your sister.”

“Don’t worry, some children will bloom later.”

But you are sixteen, and you know better.

Vivian has a clear plan for her future. She knows exactly what programs she needs to participate in, what scores she needs for her future University course, what friends she’ll stay friends with and benefit from in the future.

She knows exactly who she is.

And you?

You’re her sister. Her shadow. Her incompetent copy. Her runners up.

You’re your parents’ second daughter. Their disappointment. Their mistake. Their second choice.

The mandarin juice soaks into your cuticles, the usually sweet and sharp scent becoming almost acrid.

The juice soaks deeper, into the cut in the centre of your palm, which you thought had healed ages ago.

You thought you stopped being jealous. The world gave you sixteen years to accept how inadequate you were.

But jealousy is never destroyed. It just shifts forms — into anger, resentment, visceral stinging.

A heart submerged into the earth’s core. A voice, too blurred to distinguish.

Like your father’s under-the-breath murmurs.

Like porcelain pieces, when there’s tears in your eyes.

Like the arguments of your English essay.

Like Vivian’s flawless facial features when she’s on stage accepting awards.

At home, your father snaps: “speak properly!” When your Cantonese falters.

Your relatives urge, “speak louder” when you don’t want to be heard.

Your mother sighs, “speak less” when you try too hard.

Your English teacher: “Speak clearly!”

Every tongue you learn betrays you.

So you learnt the only safe language: silence.

You wonder if you’ll stop feeling one day.

You wonder if your heart will stop sinking, if your head will stop lowering, if your voice will start working.

The compliments will expire as new ones are made.

The certificates will crumple as new ones are framed.

The piano pieces will become harder as your sister advances another grade.

And you, will become nothing but an embodiment of all the things you didn’t say.

You mutter, you cry, you swallow.

No one ever chokes on you.

You watch your words.