Other

            by Jennifer Cain

 

Name, date of birth, gender, ethnicity.  The personal information questions on forms and surveys are always the same.  The first three are a breeze to fill out.  Jennifer Cain, 8/13/88, female.  Yet from the day I bubbled in my first Stanford Achievement Test in the fourth grade, to this fall when I filled out my college applications, I have always felt slightly anxious as I anticipated the fourth question, and hesitant once I reached it.  I never considered darkening the circle next to Asian American/Pacific Islander.  After all, I don't speak any language other than English, and I find it easier to eat with a knife and fork than with chopsticks.  Yet, I never felt it would be right to simply say I was Caucasian.  That would have meant ignoring the journey that growing up in a biracial household has afforded me.

For a time my two halves either coexisted in perfect harmony or didn’t come into contact with each other.  Either way, I never felt the betrayal or conflict that would pull and tear at my insides in years to come.  I knew how to sing “Loang Zhu Lowe Fu” (a Chinese children's song about one tiger without a tail and another without an ear) just as well as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”  Some Saturdays we would have pancakes for breakfast at the Rockridge Cafe, and others we would venture into Oakland Chinatown for Dim Sum.  Christmas entailed red ribbons and candy canes. Chinese New Year meant red envelopes and moon cake.

 

On Thursdays my mother would drive me to Piedmont to take Chinese lessons.  I loved writing out the Chinese characters.  They were like tiny pictures, and so much more beautiful and intricate than the cursive we were learning at school.  When I got home, my mother would help me fill in the rows of blank boxes on my homework with the appropriate characters.  She had forgotten how to read and write some of the words, and we would struggle through the puzzle together.  As she tucked me in at night I would say, “Wa I Nee,” I love you.

 

But I guess the early years of childhood bliss don't last forever.  For some it comes to an abrupt halt when they learn that the tooth fairy isn't really the one who has been leaving shiny quarters beneath their pillows, and for others when they find their favorite goldfish belly-up in their glass bowls.  The end to mine came in a slightly different form: Mary O'Brien. 

Mary had bleached blonde hair and crystal blue eyes.  When she got her ears pierced and came to Ms. Scott’s third grade class with diamond studs, she became the envy of all the other girls.  Each week more and more girls arrived with pink hearts and silver stars dangling from their earlobes.  Never before had I even considered getting my ears pierced.  Now I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Each day I would return home to beg my mother to let me get them pierced too.  “Not until you’re twelve,” she would say, fixing her gaze on my pleading eyes. “I didn’t get mine until I was sixteen.”

“But I need to.  Everyone else’s mom is letting them,” I would throw back angrily.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to change her mind.  She knew that mine had been made up by somebody else.   

“I’m not everyone else’s mom,” she would say firmly.  

During Mary’s reign it became clear that my mom wasn’t like anyone else’s, and that I was therefore different too.  Her accent, barely noticeable when we were home, seemed to become ten times stronger in public.  She not only didn't let me get my ears pierced, but she saw sleepovers as a privilege, not a right.  Whereas other mothers dressed in Anne Taylor with matching clutches, my mother dressed in sweats and a mismatched fanny pack.  One day during recess Mary came running up, light pink cheeks flushed against her pale skin.  “Suzy said she thinks your straight black hair is funny looking.”  She was practically gloating, as if she had just proven a point.  I could feel Mary’s glistening eyes boring into me, asking for a response, but I couldn't think of anything to say.  All I knew was that I had discovered what made my mother and me different: we were Chinese.

It seemed I would have to choose between my two parts.  I would have to be Jennifer or Jeanie, the Chinese name my great aunt had given me.  I couldn't be both.  My world had come crashing in on itself.  Once a smooth piece of paper, it crumpled into a dense ball of confusion, before tearing itself into bits out of frustration.  From then on I could hear from a mile away when someone mimicked Chinese, and I felt a twang in my chest each time someone pulled at the corners of their eyes.  For the first time I was embarrassed by my mother, and of myself.  I tried desperately to hide my Chinese half in my effort to fit in.  For my heritage project I researched Ireland, as did two-thirds of my Roman Catholic class.  I no longer wanted my friends to come over to my house, where I would have to worry about my mother saying “umbera” instead of umbrella or “inference” instead of influence.  Where I would see their faces knot up in disgust when she served stir-fried vegetables and shrimp for dinner, instead of serving pasta.  I would much rather escape to their houses, where we were allowed to paint our nails, with the Spice Girls blasting in the background.

 

“Mom, you don’t have to come.”  School had just gotten out and the track team was assembling under the basketball hoops.  I had spent the majority of the previous night trying to convince my mother that the coach didn’t need any volunteers to chaperone the throng of stubby-legged elementary school runners.  My mother looked down at me in disbelief and irritation.  “Jenny, your coach asked for help, and that’s what I’m doing.  I’m already here, so don’t worry about it and just go have fun.”

The walk down to King Middle School track went smoothly.  Everyone cooperated, stopping and holding hands before crossing the street, not running too far ahead or lagging too far behind.  When we arrived at the dusty track I lined up behind one of the white lines painted across the lanes, preparing to run the mile.  Just before our coach signaled for us to start running, I saw Mary and Suzy head over to the pull-up bars bordering the track.  I squinted at the light reflecting off the gold tiara resting elegantly on Mary’s head as I ran past, wondering what they were whispering to each other as they swung from the rusting bars.

I circled halfway around the track before glancing back towards them, across the grassy field that the track encircled.  My heart was already beating quickly, but the sight of my mother approaching Mary and Suzy made it speed up even further, pounding heavily inside my chest.  I watched as she planted herself, hands on her hips, in front of their dangling arms and legs, and then motioned towards the track. 

When we were done with the mile my mother and the coach began circling up the team, getting ready to walk back to the School of the Madeleine.  Mary came up, puffy faced and teary eyed. “Your Mom is too strict,” she said angrily, before whipping around and heading towards Suzy and a group of other girls.  I felt tears building up in my own eyes as I watched Mary whispering amongst the others, as she pointed at my mother and glared at me.   

By the time I climbed into the car for the ride home I was no longer flushed from running, but from frustration.  “Mom, why did you have to make Mary cry?  Now everyone’s going to hate me.” 

My mother tore her eyes away from the road long enough to throw me a look of confusion. “I just told her she should be running instead of goofing off.”

“Yeah, well she said you yelled at her,” I insisted.

“I did not,” my mother said.  Her voice had risen, but at the same time I could see the hurt in her eyes.

Why did my mom have to do something?  Why couldn’t she have just been like the other parents and left Mary alone?  “Because she’s Chinese,” I mumbled to myself, slouching in my seat and looking at my mother from beneath furrowed eyebrows.  I wouldn’t admit that the knot in my chest wasn’t caused by the person whom I was accusing, but by the person whom I was defending.

 

I convinced myself that I was right in renouncing my Chinese heritage by finding something wrong with whatever my mother did.  I took down my high ponytail when she failed to put it up without bumps.  I resented it when she was the only parent to come to my ballet class on parent observation day.  I found myself constantly at odds with her, challenging what she asked me to do and questioning her reasoning. 

 

My mother sat next to me on the piano bench as I stared down at the black and white keys.  “Right hand first, then left hand, then together,” she instructed.  I squirmed anxiously on the bench and glanced over at the clock across the room.  It seemed to be ticking at least ten times too slowly.  I hurriedly played the right hand, the left hand, and then stumbled through hands together.  “That’s good, Jenny.  Now do it again.” 

“Why?” I demanded. “Isn’t it good enough?”

“You played a couple wrong notes,” my mother said, pointing to the places on the score where I had made mistakes.  I glowered as my mother then played these parts perfectly, and with ease, herself.

I angrily pounded out the notes. “Don’t bang on the piano,” she said.

I played quietly, trying to make it hard to hear.  “Jennifer!” my mother declared in a voice of mixed exasperation and frustration. “Play nicely.”

I glared sideways at her, and saw her eyes mirroring mine with the same intensity.  I took a deep breath, biting my lip, and played nicely.

 

My conscious thoughts were molded by pressure from my peers to be accepted and to conform to the social norms.  But if outwardly I resented my Chinese heritage and constantly found faults in my mother's actions, I felt different on the inside.  It is much easier to change someone's mind than to change his or her heart.

 

My grandmother and her sisters all lived in the same condo development in Palo Alto.  The concrete two-story buildings were positioned in a semicircle and a narrow staircase with a black metal railing led from one story to the next on each.  There was a playground with rusted swings that creaked eerily and a lopsided merry-go-round.  This was not the charming Victorian house with a manicured lawn that I had always pictured as the perfect place to spend Thanksgiving.

But when I entered my great-aunt’s condo I was always greeted with warm hugs and kisses, the air smelled of turkey and warm pumpkin pie, and the small front room that we barely managed to squeeze into made it that much more cozy.  There were sofas on one end and a small table surrounded with fold-out chairs on the other, leading into the tiny kitchen, which was overflowing with plates of steaming food. 

Throughout the dinner my aunts’ voices would weave in and out of the clatter of silverware and plates, and my mother would translate the essentials between bites of food.  “They’re saying how much you and Laura have grown and how pretty you two look,” she would whisper into my ear.  But I would often just imagine what they were talking about and come up with translations of my own.  If Aunt Lily’s eyes glazed over and she talked dreamily, then she was reminiscing about the days in China.  If Grandma’s eyes glistened as she spoke animatedly, then she was telling everyone about a game of Mah Jong she had won. A part of me regretted that I could not truly decipher the words they were saying.  At school I did not fit in because I was Chinese, and here I felt out of place because I didn't speak Chinese.  However, another part realized that I could understand what was important; just by listening to the pattern of the sounds issuing from their lips, sometimes soft and other times loud and shrill, and looking at their twinkling eyes surrounded by wrinkles, I could feel their love for me.

On the ride home my sister and I would lie down in the back seat and I would watch the lighted buildings pass by.  As I dozed off to the quiet music coming from the radio and the murmur of my parents’ voices, I would feel an incredible sense of warmth and peace.  I didn’t want a thing in the world to change. 

 

In sixth grade I transferred from my three hundred person Catholic elementary school to a six hundred person public middle school.  Blonde hair and blue eyes were replaced by people of all shades and colors, and BMWs were replaced by skateboards and bikes.  As we studied Chinese and Japanese history in class, and I discovered the HAPA club, I realized that the part of me I had been hiding for so many years was readily accepted here. 

Yet a battle that has been fought for six years doesn't end within one.   I no longer hesitated to say that I was half Chinese, and the volume of my mother's accent seemed to have been turned down.  But my relationship with my mother was still fragile, always teetering on the edge between peace and war.  The values she held were still Chinese, and often collided head on with those that my friends' parents ruled by.  My mother was stricter and often expected more.  "When I was your age I was already working," she would remind me if I complained about my allowance.  "Your Aunt Angela practiced her violin everyday," she would say if I neglected practicing the piano. 

“Well I’m sorry I’m not as good as you and Angela,” I would retort, knowing this was not the answer my mother wanted. “I’m sorry if I’m not the daughter you always dreamed of having.”

I couldn't buy a pair of low cut jeans or a lacy tank top without being lectured on wholesome attire.  Each time I wanted to go out at night I had to weave my way through the Who? When? What? and Why? questions that television ads tell parents to ask their children, a process which often led to yelling and tears.  “You’re so annoying,” I would accuse my mother. “Don’t you trust me?”

            I saw almost everything my mother did as an attempt to control my life.  Never did I stop to think that maybe her questions reflected an interest in and a desire to partake in my social life.  Never did I consider that she insisted on packing my lunch and chauffeuring me to and from school in order to make my life easier.  Never did I believe that her nagging me to practice the piano was only because she knew I could do better, and wasn't living up to my full potential.  I would often sit in front of the TV on Tuesday nights, enviously wishing that my mother were more like Lorelai Gilmore - someone young, cool and hip, and with whom I had things in common.

 

            When my mother tucked me in, long after Lorelai and Rory had faded from the TV screen, I would let down the barrier that separated us.  I would hear her slippers against the wood floor as she came down the hall, and the quiet creak of the door as she slipped through it.  As she knelt by the edge of my bed, I could just barely make out her face in the light coming through the crack in the doorway.  Whether or not we had bickered earlier in the day my mother never failed to say, “I love you,” as she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on the forehead.   

“I know,” I would whisper. “I love you too.”  Unlike the times I had screamed, “I hate you,” I knew that these barely audible words were true.      

           

            I found the photo album hidden behind all the others.  I had never seen it before and its worn red cover grabbed my attention.  I peeled it open to find faded pictures of my mother’s childhood.  For the first time I saw the house where she had grown up in China, and the pond with the orange and red fish in her backyard.  I was mesmerized and turned the pages further.  I found pictures of her in a school play, decked out as a cowgirl.  I had never had the nerve to stand up and act in front of an audience packed with my classmates and their families, and I found myself admiring her daring.  Another picture was taken in Hong Kong, and I found her face among the rows of girls in uniform at her Christian School.  Then came the pictures of her in America.  Her sister and she stood on the steps leading up to their apartment in dresses that I would later learn my mother had sewn herself because they couldn't afford to buy any at the store.  There was a picture of her in her Pali pom-pom girl outfit and another of her in sunglasses and a boa, dressed up as a movie star with her friends. 

            I was enthralled with the photos and swept through the album time and time again while sitting cross-legged on my couch.  I had never before had such a clear picture of what my mother’s life had been like before my father, sister and me.  In those pictures I saw myself: a little girl playing the piano, a teenager dancing with her friends.  My mother had once been a curious toddler, an awkward adolescent, and a graceful young lady.  But I also saw someone incredibly different from myself.  Someone who had lived through the difficulties of communism and moved across the globe to start life anew.  Someone who hadn’t had the same luxuries of a stable family, home and income that I now took for granted.  I realized that my mother had faced challenges that I could only begin to imagine, and thought about how much strength it must have taken.  Despite these hardships she was vibrant in each photo, determined to celebrate the good times and conquer the bad.  As if the clouds were parting after a storm, I saw my mother in a new light.  I was no longer ashamed or annoyed.

            The front door jerked open, startling me out of my reverie.  My mother came in wearing a broad hat and gardening gloves.  “What are you doing?” 

“Nothing,” I said, slipping the photo album out of sight, as I stood up.  I walked over and hugged her.

 

I no longer wish to trade my mother for Lorelai Gilmore.  I have gathered up my stray pieces of paper and put them together once more.  I don't have to choose just one world.  I can simply check the box next to other.