I Want A Chinese Friend

The rain pecked the window drawing my attention from the deep daydream that was repeating in my head. The smell and the mood of rain awoke the drowsiness and the negativity hung heavy on my heart. My mom had taken time off work to try the mother and daughter bonding. It was a surprising choice as she is a workaholic. It was her first day off in two years. I should be happy but the patter from the rain keeps luring me back to my depressed state. From my deep reoccuring sighs and my stares, my mom suggested we go pick out outfits for each other. As she always said shopping and spending money relives the stresses of everyday life. So, we headed off to the mall.

Ni hao.” I only hear Chinese at home spoken by my family. However, I was shopping at Tj Maxx. It could not have been my mom because why would she say hi when I came with her. Hi is a greeting so who can it be? I was flipping through the hangers of the clearance sweaters when I made eye contact with a girl: long black hair, brown eyes under monolids. 

***

What is a home?

My living room remains untouched and our kitchen is lonely. While others are pampered with the dozen smells of sweet, bitter or sour, no signs of life show in ours. The fridge is empty with half a jar of peanut butter to accompany the eggs. Moving to the bathroom, the only sign of habitation is a semi- stained bathtub with soap sitting near the drain. Pleasant memories and hardships have not occurred at this house. We sleep here. It is a house not a home.

My home is a restaurant. During Thanksgiving our neighbors are celebrating with turkey, but my family is pulling out the electric hotpot at the restaurant. The traditional way of feasting in China is being surrounded by your loud drunk family while enjoying some hotpot. So while in America, the same tradition follows. The hot pot is positioned in the middle of the table with uncooked vegetables, seafood, and sliced lamb around it. There are two sides for efficiency and differences in taste. One side is the plain chicken broth and the other side is how it got its name. “Hot” Pot. When the pot boils, we throw the food in. The spicy side tenders the lamb with a juicy kick awaking my salivating pores.

Would China feel like home?

 “Mi Mi, the egg rolls!” I quickly rushed to pull the egg rolls out of the fryer. They are burnt as the black crispy edges fades up the roll. Packaging them up, I head back to my English homework. The interruption causes me to reread the passage again. The phone rings. “Mi Mi, answer the phone!”

What is a normal life?

A customer enters. I wish I was like her. Blonde haired. Blue eyed. I wish I was not Chinese. 

Younger kids were learning how to tie their shoes. I learned how to hold a butcher knife and chop broccoli. The family business is my parents’ third child. They nurture her as she takes our time away. She provides for the food in our stomach, and the items that bring us joy. She is a part of me.  

When I got on my first plane and left my home, I was introduced to her. I was Chinese. Now I am Chinese-American. Written within that hyphen are the letters m-o-n-a-c-h-o-p-s-i-s: the persistence of feeling out of place. 

That hyphen causes questions. I’m obligated to give answers. Some answers may be unsatisfying. A frequent question asked is , “Are you Asian or Chinese?” Or if people ask me, “Where are you from?” and I answer, “Pennsylvania.” They proceed with the follow up question. “No, where are you really from?” If I had a penny for each questions asked, I would be the next Jeff Bezos.

Yes, you have to take your shoes off at the door. No, my family won’t disown me if I don’t become a doctor or lawyer. Yes, I can see perfectly fine with my squinty eyes. No, Vietnamese, Chinese, and Japanese are not the same.

I desire a Chinese-American friend.

One day, an older Asian American gentleman walked through the door.

“Your total will be $12.79,” I said.

From his accentless English, I imagined that he did not speak the native language. 

Out of nowhere, my mom excitedly exclaims, “ Mi Mi, Nǐ zhīdào tā shuō zhōngwén?”

“Um, no but ni hao. Nǐ cóng nǎlǐ lái?” I asked.

“Taiwan. When I was eight, I came to the U.S.”

I have so many questions to ask. Which one? 

“Do you fear losing your Chinese culture being immersed into the U.S from a young age?” Trying to sound mature and professional but wanting to say, “Are you afraid?”

“I’m disappointed.”

“I do not follow. What do you mean?”

“It has already happened. When I go to dinner with my Chinese friend, the waiter speaks Chinese to her, not to me.”

The collar of my shirt turns into a python constricting my neck, prompting swollen welts. Gasping for breath, I gaze upon the glittering scales. The beauty it has bestowed, never stopping on one color, the scales undeciding. As I was losing vision, I used my nails to gouge into my opponent. Blood bursts from the confines of the skin as the python’s smirk was the last thing I saw.

Red’s the lucky color in China. It’s the rich color of blood that spills when losing a tooth. My culture is a loose tooth, separating from the gums. When it falls out, I can still eat and I have plenty of other teeth, but my tongue will still keep going back, rubbing the sensitive gums of the hole that the tooth had left behind. Eventually it will fall, but time is borrowed.

I desire a Chinese-American friend.

***

I was speaking the native tongue with my mother, socks in hand, when suddenly, “Ni hao,” floats out of nowhere. 

Slowly turning, I see a black haired girl around my age speaking Chinese. I had a choice. 

“Ni hao.”