My parents have worried how I would turn out almost since I was born. They are both immigrants to the U.S.. Dad could barely say, "Hello" when he entered the country while Mom, bless her heart, still has her lovely Old Country accent that has me going everywhere with her just so people can understand her. They are just worried because I've always had this big curious streak and one of those overactive imaginations that tend to either get me in a heap of trouble, or make those boring, rainy afternoons a bunch of fun. The time I knocked over my dear Great Auntie in her urn is a prime example. It was all a misunderstanding. All I wanted to know was how she would look after being fit into an urn because I remembered her as being this big, husky woman with Paul Bunyan feet and a voice that made Dad sound like he was going through puberty.
One minute I'm smelling this god-awful smoky smell and reaching to plug my nose, when I dropped the lid and sent dear Great Auntie crashing to the floor. Suddenly there she was, clinging to the carpet hairs and hanging onto the dear after-life. Before I had time to sneeze I received several hard swats to the backside and Auntie was scooped back into the urn to continue eternity with only a few missing bits and pieces.
My parents vowed that with my curiosity, I would get myself killed before I turned eight. "It was a bad sign," my Grandmother told them. "Remember the time she ate my tube of chocolate-colored lipstick? We could have lost her."
For all their worrying I was a normal child, just not Chinese; I earned good grades, played the violin and piano like an angel during recitals, and was a generally all-around normal American kid. It's just that I want to write. I want the chance to go to college and learn all I can about writing as a profession.
I yearn to make words jump out at little kids and tickle them into laughing hilariously. I want to write stories that will make people cry. I dream of writing lyrics to songs that come alive with music and touch that special place in someone, always to be remembered. But most of all, I want a chance to prove to my parents that I can make this work, that I can do what Mom and Dad always did, their best.
They raised me in the traditional Chinese environment. With both my parents chattering away in broken English and raising me with chopsticks and rice, they wondered how in the world they ended up with a daughter who speaks with an almost perfect English accent after being around them so long and who has gotten the idea to be a writer instead of a surgeon like her favorite Uncle Chei.
I explained that nobody would want me to have any sharp objects near their internal organs because I could be quite clumsy. After the chicken delivery came in at our restaurant, they gave up the idea of my being a surgeon. Even my father admitted he'd rather have surgery done on him by Jack the Ripper than me.
But writing? "There's no money in writing!" my Dad said. "Your goal should be set on becoming a doctor or an engineer. Something with good solid pay. Something that people will need in the future. You're always going to need a doctor. A writer can't help you get better from a disease!"
His mind has always been slanted a little towards the green, but considering how he grew up in poverty, in a slum with eight brothers and sisters to clothe and feed, in a house with no running water and only two rooms, his obsession with making money is understandable.
Mom and Dad hoped that I would soon let go of the ridiculous idea of becoming a writer and settle for something a bit more to their liking. For encouragement, they left me to run our family restaurant for two weeks while they vacationed in Taiwan.
I realized they couldn't leave my brother because he's only twelve and my sister has Down's syndrome, so that left me. The idea of working while they got to vacation didn't sit too well with me andonly my Chinese upbringing kept me from rebelling.
"Maybe you'll discover that you have a head for business, like me, my Dad said with a hopeful grin on his face. "I'm going to retire soon, and I was hoping to leave this place to one of you three kids. How about it?"
I plastered a weak smile on my face and went off to sulk. but as their departure date drew near, the loathing turned into wild-eyed panic.
I fought it with all my strength. "Okay. No big deal. I mean, my Dad's had this restaurant for over twelve years and I've been here almost from day one, so I know all the ropes. Yeah, I can do this. No problem!"
Okay, so one of the employees bailed; I handled it. I cleaned tables, washed dishes with one hand and stacked them with the other, while smiling courteously to pushy, in-a-hurry customers.
Okay, so the electricity went out because some idiot bird decided to do his kamikaze move into the fuse box outside. No problem. All I had to do was call the electric power company, and after two hours of waiting and calling them back and begging and threatening, they finally got there and fixed the fuse box right up. They couldn't fix the bird, though. All that was left of it was a tuft of burnt feathers and half a beak.
Mom and Dad called about seven the next night, "So how is everything?" Before I answered her I looked back at the pile of broken saucers, wet towels, and dirty cooking pots . "Everything's great, Mom. Just fine. So how's Grandpa? Did he ever find his teeth?"
When Dad came back to find the place still standing, he was impressed, and more determined than ever to have me go into business. I, on the other hand, after handling bedlam for two weeks, didn't ever want to see another plate of sweet and sour chicken again as long as I lived. It wasn't for me. Yes, it gave me plenty of experience that I'm grateful to have under my belt, but it wasn't something that I wanted for a career. Give me a clean sheet of white paper!
I want to write and make money. Maybe I won't ever make as much money as digging through someone's insides, but I know I can make enough to live on. And I'll be happy doing what I've always wanted to do: to make a place where anyone can go to find his heart a little lighter and his laughter a little louder.