I'm Not Chinese. Raymond M. Wong

sat beside me. She took a drink, then said, “Your father spend lots money. He should not do that.”

      “Maybe he thought it was a special occasion.”

      “Wow, the fish, you know that cost more than eight hundred dollars Hong Kong.” Her frown deepened the lines on her forehead. “That one hundred dollars American, for fish! He crazy.”

      A tense silence hung between us.

      I looked across the room at the three ceramic figures partially cloaked in shadow on the shelf. One of them, bald and with a long white beard, stood hunched. Another wore an elaborate, ancient robe with matching formal headpiece. The third, in similar garb, though not as decorative, grasped a thick cane. “What do those three statues represent?”

      She tracked my gaze. “They very old. Many Chinese people have that in house. One mean for long life. One mean good luck for money. One mean happiness for family.”

      “What about the picture above?” The large framed portrait of a grim-faced man stared back at me in the dim light.

      “Prob-ly he the father to your uncle or the father to Poi Yee.”

      Stationed high and centered on the wall, he surveyed the entire house. It felt eerie having him observe us.

      “Was it hard for you tonight?”

      She turned back to me and said, “What you mean?”

      “Being there with my father, eating with his family.”

      My mother paused. “Not so bad. They very nice. But Number Seven, he talking too much about the older son. You see how he show the grades for him? Really, the boy not look so smart.” She shook her head.

      “Maybe he was proud of him.”

      “What about the daughter? She just sit there. Even the middle boy, Number Seven talk to him little bit, but he never talk to the girl.”

      I could see the daughter in my mind, blank-faced, so still, ignored. I knew how she felt because that’s how my stepfather treated me. It didn’t upset me, but Roger was different with my brother. When Michael was born, Roger went to the hospital every day until my mother came home with their baby. The man pampered her those first months. He stopped going to bars after work and helped with the laundry and shopping. He began staying out again, but still dropped off toys and clothes for Michael. As my brother grew, Roger drove him to school, attended his high school football games, and even financed his education at USC. My stepfather didn’t do these things for me, but I could never resent my brother. We always had a good relationship, and I would help my mom take care of him and my sister, Renee.

      One thing did bother me. Roger said I was his son, yet he never adopted me. Maybe in his mind, he didn’t need to since we lived under the same roof, but it felt strange to know the name I used at school wasn’t the one on our mailbox.

      I peered at my mother. “You think he loves his older son more than his other children?”

      “That how he do.”

      “You feel bad for the girl?”

      “He should not treat her like that. Maybe she do good in school too, but she not have chance.”

      Her eyes held a faraway look, one of deep reflection. I said, “Can you tell me about your life in Hong Kong?”

      She stared into the glass in her hand, took a drink. “Very hard. Many people, and very dangerous.”

      “That’s what you said earlier.”

      “You not believe? You ask Uncle. He tell you.”

      “No, it’s not that. I was just remembering what you said about the man who attacked you.”

      “That true. You see how dangerous in Hong Kong before? That the way now, too.”

      “Is that why you left?”

      She sat unmoving, clenching the glass. In time she said, “I born in Canton, you know.”

      I nodded.

      “My hometown called Tai Shan, very small. Many people poor. But my father not poor. He have good education. In China before, they give test to see who smart. My father do very good, so the government give him land, and he rent for people grow rice.”

      “That was enough to support your family?”

      “Sure. We very happy. But in 1949, the Communists come. They take over my hometown. They jealous my father because he have land, so take him to jail.”

      She put the glass to her mouth, swallowed the last of the liquid. She looked at the ice melting in the glass. “They take him and . . .” Her hands shook; her voice grew quiet. “And . . . they shoot him.”

      She sat, head down, eyes staring into a void. “They not have to do that. He not hurt them.”

      I didn’t know what to say. For the first time, my mom looked old to me. Deep lines marked her forehead and the tiny, tired edges of her eyes. Small age spots marred her cheeks and neck, and streams of white coursed through her nest of black hair.

      “They put my mother in jail, never let her go.”

      “I’m sorry, Mom.”