burton
I find myself visiting my parents more frequently, thanks to the condo. In between my father lecturing me on the proper ways to get wallpaper stripped ["Never do it yourself. Call a contractor. Make sure the contractor is Asian for cheaper prices"] and my mother chiming in at appropriate times ["Are you hungry? Are you sure you only want one dumpling? Here, have three instead"] is my sister.
My sister usually just sits at the table, quiet, staring in my direction. “An,” my mother tells her. “Don’t stare at him. You’re just making him nervous.“
That would have been the case before, I think. Being the little brother, ten years younger and infinately cooler in my own eyes, I probably would have thrown some drama queen hissy-fit and give “the look” to my parents, where they would berate her for freaking out the only son in the family.
I do none of that this time around. Her actions don’t shock me anymore and I treat her dialogue as one of those mental riddles, trying to translate hidden meanings from what she tries to say if it weren’t for that damn thought process of hers.
“sometimes i don’t know if i’m chinese or if i’m white,” she says at the kitchen table.
I automatically flinch at my statement; not so much of what she said but rather how my dad would react to such a statement. Instantly, I had these grand Taiwanese soap opera images of my father throwing the rice bowl across the room, hitting the cabinets and shattering into a million pieces. “Never deny your Chinese heritage!” he could scream, inches from my sisters face. (My dad is former military and thus, good at yelling.)
Instead, he furrows his brow, sighs and says exactly what I am thinking at the moment: “Why can’t you say that you’re a Chinese American?”
She shakes her head, disagreeing. “no no no, you don’t understand. i understand chinese but i feel like a white person.” She looks over to us and sees our look of confusion, which only frustrates her more. “what are you wearing?” She asks this as if this would be a natural follow-up subject to cultural identity issues.
It’s my blue hoodie sweatshirt. To the horror and disgust of my gay brethen, I’m the kind of guy to wear the same thing over and over again - I’ve had the sweatshirt for years, worn it dozens of times for multiple occasions. She’s seen the sweatshirt hundreds of times before. But the difference is that now I understand that it’s her way of way of breaking the ice, her way of saying “what have you been up to,” or “how’s the weather” or “has anything of relative importance occur in your life over the past 10 years?”
Or she might not remember me ever wearing that shirt. I don’t know.
Ernie: No. It says Burton.
Angela: what is burton? do you work there?
Ernie: No jie, I work at Yahoo. You know that.
Angela: what is a burton?
Ernie: It’s the name of the company that made the shirt.
Angela: … oh.
I follow all the textbook things a sibling of a bipolar skitzophrenic person should do: bring up neutral conversation subjects, talked in a soft voice, smile so that she doesn’t detect any facial espressions I might have that would convey a negative tone.
You know what? It sucks.
It sucks that I can’t just be myself, can’t roll my eyes to make that million dollar sarcastic comment, to just relax and be myself and joke and prod and laugh, especially when it’s with a person you should be able to relax and joke with. I mean, we both had the same crazy parents - we should’ve been able to relate to each other. And we did, when I was a little kid.
Angela: i’m feeling dizzy -
Mom: You need rest. You’ll feel better after you lay down.
Angela: i don’t need rest - why do i always feel this way - i want to die
Dad: Don’t say that. It might be the medication. Get some rest.
Angela: why do i feel like this… i hate feeling like this… why…
And this is where I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, because it all gets too much to bear.
