I'm Not Chinese. Raymond M. Wong

Hennessy. I shook my head.

      He solicited the others. The takers were Hoy and Number Seven. I sipped my orange juice.

      My father poured tea, and my mom tapped three fingers in front of her cup to show thanks, so I followed her lead.

      She said, “Your father have two sisters, one in Hong Kong, but she not here.”

      I asked her why.

      “They not invite. For Chinese people, men more important than women.”

      She said it as if stating a well-known fact. Strange that my mother, a woman whose very presence commanded the authority of an army drill sergeant, would come from a culture that viewed her as unimportant. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see my father holding a glossy jewelry store shopping bag. He placed it on my lap and motioned for me to peek inside.

      My mom said, “I think he give you, so you say, ‘Dojeh’ when he done.”

      Not again. What was it about this city and gifts? I said, “I can’t take his presents.”

      “He give you in front of family. Look bad if you not accept.”

      I scanned the table, all eyes on me. Amidst the clattering of dishes and the buzz of intermingled background conversations, I felt all alone. With reluctance, I reached into the bag and brought out a black leather billfold with an Italian label stamped in silver. I looked at my father, “Thank you, uh . . . Dojeh.”

      He pointed to the bag.

      More? What about the others? Don’t they get some? I took out a cloth pouch with the word “madler” on it. The contents smelled of new leather. I untied the pouch to reveal a black handbag with an embedded brass “m.”

      I extended it to my mother. “It’s a purse. Maybe this is for you.”

      A sad smile. “Not for me. You the son. He buy for you. In Hong Kong, many men carry this.”

      My arms felt icy and numb. The air-conditioning, such a relief when we entered, now chilled me to my core. I said, “Dojeh,” to my father in a quiet voice.

      He touched the bag, indicating more. All eyes around the table were still riveted on me.

      After never sending me so much as a letter, why did this man bother with gifts? The next item was a little white box with “LONGINES” in emerald-green logotype. Inside, propped against a small satin pillow rested a luxurious gold quartz watch with a silver and gold chain-mesh band.

      I shook my head. “I can’t accept all this.”

      He pointed to the bag again.

      I looked at my mom. She didn’t say anything. I turned back to him. “I really can’t—”

      He put his hand on mine and said, “Man-Kit” while gesturing to the bag once more. I didn’t move, so he reached in and removed an elegant rectangular box the color of red wine edged in a gold border. “S.J. Dupont, PARIS” shone in glittering letters. My father placed the box in my palm.

      As I stared at it, he tapped the flat surface, and I opened the box. A matching case with the same words in gold. I lifted the lid to unveil the most exquisite writing instrument I had ever seen. It sparkled like jewelry—thin, with a smooth, shiny surface black as onyx. The tip, the middle, and the pocket clip gleamed in shimmering gold.

      I picked it up and rotated it. It felt perfect in my hand. I read the words engraved in the gold center of the pen: “LAQUE DE CHINE, S.J. Dupont, PARIS.”

      I whirled in my seat to my mother. “He knows I write?”

      “Maybe Uncle tell him.” Her voice a bare whisper.

      I held the gift. In a few moments, I asked her what my father said to me moments ago.

      “Man-Kit, that your Chinese name, Wong Man-Kit.”

      My Chinese name. So long ago. Man-Kit . . . “Mon-key, mon-key, mon-key . . .” That’s how the kids taunted me the first days of school in America. I didn’t react, didn’t give them the satisfaction. I refused to tell or run crying home. I curled my fingers into fists. They didn’t stop.

      Gripping the pen, I peered into my father’s eyes and said, “Dojeh.”

      He clasped my hand and gave it a light squeeze.

      This man, whom I hadn’t seen for so many years, who I thought didn’t care about me, just presented me the best gift I had ever received.

      I studied my father. For the first time, I felt I meant something to him.

      Request 要求

      Chapter 5

      My father ordered the food, and the presentation of each dish elicited a cascade of

      “Oohs” and “Ahhs” from our group. The waiter brought what appeared to be the carved outer half of a watermelon. He ladled brothy soup from the interior; my mom referred to it as don qua jon. It contained scallops and shrimp blended with thick slices of soft white melon.

      Next came rice and a course of seasoned jumbo shrimp in whole shells. Then an entire steamed freshwater fish bathed in a flavorful, salty sauce. The vegetables included a heaping serving bowl of stir-fried red spinach and another with Chinese broccoli—my uncle called it gai-lan—in a tangy oyster sauce. A plate of steamed squash stuffed with scallops followed. After this, a mound of baked mud-crab filled the air with the aroma of garlic and ginger.

      The waiter put an oval tray on the serving wheel at our table, and we rotated it for everyone to sample. As each plate circled, my father retrieved a portion for me, which I appreciated. My proficiency with chopsticks ranked right up there with my fluency in Cantonese.

      Boisterous conversation flowed at our table. I recognized some phrases and a pattern to the communication. The men were louder and spoke more. The one my mother referred to as Number Seven, my father’s youngest brother, talked so fast that I couldn’t begin to understand, his rapid clip presenting a sharp contrast to the fatigue on his face heightened by the deep bags under his eyes.

      A friendly one-upsmanship developed between Number Seven and my cousin Hoy. The cousin’s stories induced hearty laughter from listeners, but Number Seven’s bids for attention with emphatic arm and hand gestures, wide, exaggerated facial expressions, and even his forward-leaning torso added drama to his tales. He also spoke at every turn, but the combination of a devilish glint in my cousin’s eyes and his “little innocent me” grin pushed everyone to the brink of hysterics. They were born showmen, and my father and Uncle Chun-Kwok could only sit and watch these two performers in action.

      The women nodded and laughed. My aunt stayed silent for the most part, and Hoy’s wife appeared too busy with her baby and toddler to join the revelry. Number Seven’s wife, perhaps trying to keep up with her husband’s breakneck pace, provided follow-up to his monologues.

      Number Seven’s oldest son asked him many questions, but his other children didn’t speak. I observed the talkative teenage boy’s protruding eyes and fought to suppress a chuckle—he seemed to be in a state of shock at his father’s sustained gabbiness. Mom remained surprisingly reserved. Always the center of attention, she could cast her own spell upon a rapturous audience. Now, she just listened.

      I said, “You’re quiet tonight.”

      She gazed at the rice and stuffed squash in her bowl. “Nothing to say. Not know many people here.”

      But she was at her best in those situations. I always marveled at the way she warmed new customers at her restaurant with insightful and disarming comments about their work or families. In the space of minutes, she developed enough rapport to needle them with gentle humor.

      Number Seven’s wife questioned my mother, who said to me, “She ask what you do.”

      I hesitated. My role as a career counselor seemed safer than revealing my desire to eventually own a private practice treating people with marital issues. I read that Chinese