“I’ve been dating someone.” I cupped the partially peeled piece of fruit in my hand and shook it like Vegas dice.
My mother told them, and Uncle Chun-Kwok said something to her.
“He say, is she Chinese?”
“Is that important?”
“’Course.” Her tone reprimanded me for having to ask.
“She’s Vietnamese. We’re just getting to know each other.”
The translation induced somber expressions, as if I’d announced the collapse of my business.
My uncle broke the silence, and they chuckled. My mother chimed along, and the three appeared to be having a royal time again.
She said, “They think you come to Hong Kong to find Chinese wife.”
My turn to wave my arms. “No, no. I’m just on vacation! Tell ’em, Mom. Tell ’em I’m just here on vacation.”
Ignoring me, they started again, jabbering and snickering with my mother a ready accomplice.
“They say you should marry good Chinese girl so she teach you Chinese.”
An avalanche of laughter, Hoy with his head back, blustering, Uncle Chun-Kwok holding his gut and slapping his leg in fits, my mom crowing, her whole body rocking.
I had been the butt of some good-natured teasing. Finally, the cackling subsided, and all I could do was shrug.
My mother shook a finger at me and said, “Aiya, msik teng, msik gong.” It meant, “Cannot understand, cannot speak,” and the room erupted again.
Father 父親
Chapter 4
My mom and I waited with my uncle, aunt, and their children for a bus to take us to the Eastern District of Wan Chai. I felt nervous about meeting my father. I appreciated Uncle Chun-Kwok’s hospitality but felt strange about the prospect of my father treating us to dinner. One question consumed my thoughts: why didn’t he contact me?
My uncle, an off-duty bus driver, showed his company badge when the transport arrived, and we all rode for free. The moment the last person loaded on, the packed vehicle lurched forward, and I grabbed a handrail to keep from tumbling. We climbed the narrow steps to the upper level among passengers so squished together it reminded me of the contests to see how many bodies could be jammed into a VW. Did people ever get hurt? The mind-set must’ve been different from the US, where a woman could spill coffee in her own lap and win a lawsuit against McDonald’s because no label warned of a hot beverage.
I sat by a window next to my mother and observed the activity in the streets below. Vendors in threadbare jeans hawked newspapers and magazines on street corners, and merchants set out produce and dried meats on makeshift tables at tiny stalls piled with empty wicker baskets and cardboard boxes. These crude stands competed close to modern multistoried department stores which would’ve looked right at home in La Jolla. Older folks in simple, dark-toned peasant clothing walked alongside men in executive suits. A constant rush of people crammed the sidewalks, their voices lost in the trumpet of blasting car horns on the congested roads.
I asked my mom, “How long have you known Uncle Chun-Kwok and Aunt Poi Yee?”
“Many years. I know him first. He very nice, always treat me good,” she said.
“You met him through my father?”
She paused. “Your uncle run away from China, stay at my house in Hong Kong.”
“He lived with you and my father?”
“He write from China, say he want to come to Hong Kong. After I take you to America, he keeping in touch with me. When he run to Hong Kong, I let him stay my house.”
“Your house?”
“I work hard, you know that. Your father not work a lot, so I not know if we can ever buy house. House good, should have for family, so I borrow money from my sister to buy.”
“How did my father feel about that?”
“He not say, but house good, I tell you that,” she said. “I living with your father in the house little bit. Your father move out the house after we go, so when his brother come to Hong Kong, I let him stay my house.”
The bus pulled to a screeching stop, and our group exited to a crush of pedestrians. I was usually protective about my personal space. Here, with four individuals to every square foot of land, breathing room was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Uncle Chun-Kwok spoke, and Mom translated, “We have to be very careful. He say many people steal in Hong Kong.”
“Why is that?”
“Many people run away from Canton, but no can find job. No choice, have to eat.”
My mother said it as if she understood all too well. I knew little of her past before we came to the US. She was born in China and met my father there. When the Communists came to power, the two fled separately to Hong Kong. They married, but she never said why they divorced.
“How was it for you here?” I asked.
“Life always hard in Hong Kong.”
“Is that why you left?”
She hesitated, then spoke with a harsh edge in her voice. “We do good business, have house. Michael go to school. Renee go to school. You have good education, job. What you think?”
***
We waded through the crowd to a men’s clothing store, and my uncle took us in. Looking fashionable in a sea-green polo, dark blue slacks, and seal-brown oxfords, he inspected some shirts, then went to a rack of warm-up suits. He fingered a gray fleece set with pants and hooded top and spoke to my mom.
“He want to buy for you,” my mother said. “He say good quality, so you try on.”
“Tell him he doesn’t have to do that.”
“I think he want to.”
“Just tell him.”
She paused before relaying it.
He took another suit from the rack.
“He want to buy for you.”
Receiving gifts always made me uncomfortable. When I was a child, my stepfather asked what I wanted for Christmas. I couldn’t answer, so he turned to my mother and said, “Fine. He’s your son. You get him something.” Other kids hosted birthday parties and invited friends, but I never wanted a celebration and even asked my teacher not to have one for me at school. On my birthday, I often skipped class altogether.
Giving was different; it meant more. In the fifth grade I saved my lunch money to buy my mom a present for her birthday. I remember going to the K-Mart jewelry counter with my $8.50 in quarters to ask the sales lady for help. I probably spent an hour looking at the various bracelets, necklaces, and earrings before choosing a pirate’s treasure chest jewelry box because I liked the feel of the royal, red-felt interior.
I watched Uncle Chun-Kwok run his hand along the inner lining of a crimson, nylon warm-up jacket. I said to my mom, “Tell him he’s really kind, but I have lots of clothes.”
My uncle persisted. Despite my protests, he went to a display of designer leather belts inside a glass counter and spoke.
She said, “Wow! Very expensive. He want to buy.”
I walked up to him, put my hands on his shoulders, and peered through his glasses into his eyes. “Please, I really don’t need anything. If you want to buy something, get it for your family.” I motioned at Jing-Wei and Ming, both watching with rapt attention.
Uncle Chun-Kwok looked at me; the disappointment on his face sent a wave of guilt through me. He