Mama and Papa Fung Offer Their Congrats, For Realz

I realize I give my parents a hard time for the peculiar ways in which they offer their praises. But in truth, they really are very sweet and supportive. Today, I sent them a copy of an article I recently published. My mom called and left a voice message that went like this:

(It's all in Cantonese, except for the parts that are italicized, which she says in English.)

Hello [my Chinese name]? I just tried reading your essay. Sorry, too difficult, can't understand. But I'm so proud of you. Really not easy. How cold is it over there? Nothing important, just tried reading your article but couldn't, so I wanted to let you know. Well, then I know you work very hard. Okay. Don't work too hard. Okay? That's all. Bye.


Fuck. She always manages to make me cry when I least expect it.

My dad, of course, offered his congrats with his usual flair. In an email reply, he wrote:


Hi Prof,

This will help my insomnia tonight. 

Dad

Though in fairness, he was responding to my email, in which I wrote, "Try to stay awake reading this one, Dad." So I guess I was asking for it. 

My Parents Hate My Haircut

Over Thanksgiving, I got a rather drastic haircut. I went from the non-descript, medium length, standard woman-in-her-thirties hairdo that I had kept for the last four years to this:

(Needless to say, this is not me. This is singer Kina Grannis.)

And I LOVE my asymmetrical bob. The short length feels liberating. I can just just crawl out of bed, spray some product, and walk out the door. And the edginess reflects my personality better than the borderline soccer-mom thing I had going before.

My parents, however, have yet to get used to this look. They maintain a continuous commentary on it:

When I came home from the salon--
Dad: Did the stylist forget to cut the other side?

While I'm getting ready in the morning--
Mom: This haircut will make your neck hurt because you have to tilt your head to the side all the time. 

After I declared that I was drunk while we were in Mexico--
Dad: Was your stylist drunk too when she cut your hair?

While at immigration line at the San Francisco Airport, upon returning from Mexico.
Dad (gazing at the pretty Air Japan flight attendants): The hairstylists in Japan must be more skilled because all of those women's haircuts are even.

This morning--
Mom: I'm making a hair appointment for Saturday morning.
Dad: Are you taking your daughter with you?
Mom: Her haircuts cost $60. Mine cost $20.
Dad: If we pay another $60 do you think they'll cut the other half?
Mom: No need. I'll just cut her hair in her sleep.
Me (from the hallway): I'M UP! I'M UP! DON'T YOU DARE!


I am THIS close to getting a mohawk just to see what Mama and Papa Fung would say...

Papa Fung's Bookshelf

I didn't grow up in a house that had cable, but I did grow up in one that had books. Dad kept the shelves in his office filled with books dating back to his college days. I remember poking through his books on economic theory, calculus, and history, and hoped that one day I could unlock the mysteries of grown-up books.

Today, however, as I worked in my dad's office, I became perplexed by the books I saw on his top shelf:

So, I asked him about them:

Me: Dad, what's up with your books? They make you look like a Republican.

Dad: Well, I used to be one. Everyone was back then, in the early 80s.

Me: But those books are kind of new.

Dad: Well, I read them not because of their ideology. I just want to see how stupid people rise to power.

Me: Um, okay.

Dad: Reagan was stupid.

END.

Sharing Feelings With Mama and Papa Fung

My parents don't pressure me about getting married and settling down, and have respected the choices I've made in my life. Still, they're not immune to the worry that I may end up alone, and they would like to see me loved, supported, and taken care of. I'm not immune to that worry, either. In spite of preferring to take care of myself, of knowing that I will always have the love and support of friends and family, of being capable of creating a fulfilling life with or without sharing it with someone, I'm still, at the end of the day, a romantic who still hopes that that someone exists.

My parents and I don't talk much about our fears and our hopes, though. We've never had that kind of dynamic. In my family, we manage to avoid topics that involve feelings, love included. So when my parents check in on my love life, they usually talk around it, posing questions like, "Do you do anything other than work and practice taekwondo?" and "Have you made any new friends lately?" Because assuring them that, yes, I do make time to maintain a relatively active dating life would make for a super awkward conversation, and because they probably don't actually want to know the details of my "activities" anyway, I'm kind of okay with letting them believe that I write books by day and kick people by night.

I admit that there's a part of me that wants to commiserate with my parents at a more intimate level. I love them, and I like them as people. I'm also constantly learning from them, so why not ask them for advice on love as well?

Here's why:

In a recent conversation with my parents, I explained to them that the reason I was single didn't have to do with my lack of trying to meet men, or even getting dates with them, but that, quite simply, it's hard for me to meet men with whom I share common interests. When you're a 30-something-year-old woman with a PhD, whose idea of a fun time is to sing songs from RENT at karaoke, make costumes even when it's not Halloween, and point out things that are racist, you're probably not compatible with too many people.

My mother's response: "Who told you you had to be so weird?"

My father's: "Who needs common interests? Your mom and I don't have anything in common and we get along okay."

Sharing feelings is going to take some practice.

Adventures in Babysitting

Mama Fung now spends much of her days looking after my cousin's one-year-old. To entertain the kid, she has pulled out the arsenal of VHS tapes that my brother and I grew up watching. (Yes, my parents still own a VCR. Baby is getting a lesson in antique machinery.) To get a break from Barney the Dinosaur and Disney Singalong Songs, I tried to get the kid to sit through an episode of one of my favorite cartoons, The Animaniacs. I admit that the puns, pop culture references, and quick-paced dialogue are beyond a one-year-old's appreciation. My parents, however, saw an even greater problem.

Mama Fung: "What is this? Why is this so strange?"
Papa Fung: "This is an anarchist cartoon."
Mama Fung: "This was your favorite? No wonder you turned out so crazy. Don't let the baby watch this."

END. 

Dad Plans Ahead

Apparently my whole family is imagining scenarios in which I go to Eastern Europe and disappear. An email from my dad:

If you have the travel information such as flights and hotels you booked for the Prague trip, please email me so that we can keep track of where you are. In case you run away with a rich old man, we can go and look for you and claim our share of the money.

Dad


UPDATE:
Dad sends another email:

Just want you to enjoy your European trip. Be careful about your purse and passport. On Chinese TV, we've heard about two cases of a Chinese tour group being robbed in Europe in broad daylight.

Dad

Fungs Do Not Like Snow

My dad's ticket of entry into the U.S. was his admission into Washington State University, a school he knew nothing about except that tuition was cheap. For a Chinese kid who grew up in Saigon and Hong Kong, to be plopped into Pullman, with its corn fields, red barns, and white faces, must have been quite a culture shock. He experienced snow for the first time there, which was a thrilling novelty at first but soon became the bane of his existence. To this day, my dad attributes his lifelong troubles with arthritis to that first winter, when he played in the snow without covering his 110-pound body, which up until then had only been exposed to 80 degree weather, with the proper attire. He says that the morning after that first frolic, his joints were in so much pain that he couldn't move. His right leg remained swollen for the rest of the semester. Chinese medicine would attribute my dad's ailment to "fung sup," or "wind and dampness," which throws off the equilibrium of your body's "life energy" or "qi."  (The opposite would be "yeet hay," or "hot air," which results in a different set of ailments.) It's no wonder that, after one semester in WASU, my dad decided he had to transfer to UC Berkeley. There, still limping around campus, he got referred to a Dr. Lee, a Chinese American doctor, who drained his swollen leg and prescribed a regimen of aspirin. Eventually, the pain and swelling went away, but he always got some flare-ups during cold weather. Two years ago, he had to get his right hip replaced, and he was still cursing that fateful snow day in Pullman.

I just survived my first New England blizzard, Nemo. I sent my family pictures I took while tromping around waist-deep in snow.

My dad's email reply: 

"Holy Shit! It reminds me of Pullman in the winter of 1969. Dad" 

Life of Fung

I took my parents to see the movie Life of Pi, which turned out to be a fitting family activity, given that this past year has given us both great challenges and great blessings. Afterwards, we had dinner and chatted about what we got out of the story.

Papa Fung: "The story is about hope, obviously. Even when the boy thinks he's going to die, something good happens, and he's saved. I thought the movie had a very positive feeling."

...

Mama Fung: "That is what marriage is: being stuck on a boat with a tiger."


END.

Revoking My Model Minority Card

Mama and Papa Fung have been looking after a brother and sister pair, ages 8 and 4, a few times a week. Perhaps because their parents once lived a cosmopolitan life that included living in Japan for a while, they want their kids to become immersed in different languages and cultures from an early age. They have sent the kids to Chinese school, and their previous nanny also spoke to them in Mandarin. As a result, the kids are remarkably fluent, and their accent is spot-on. My parents reinforce their education by speaking to them only in Mandarin and by teaching them some easy words to read and write.

My mother has been reflecting on why she hasn't been as successful in instructing her own children. She had to drag me kicking and screaming to Chinese school when when I was a kid, and quickly lost the struggle to maintain a Mandarin-speaking household the second I started preschool and jabbered in English. (It doesn't help that my father speaks Cantonese, so that was the dialect I was more exposed to growing up.) As a result, I speak Mandarin with the fluency required to order food at restaurant. My Cantonese is only good for petty gossip. And the little Chinese that I can read and write I retained from college, when I finally valued my mother tongue enough to attempt to learn. In sum, my Chinese language abilities are pathetic. My brother's are worse. 

So when Mama Fung told me about these kids she's babysitting, she could only lament: "Can you believe it? These two white kids speak Chinese! WHITE KIDS! What kind of mother am I?" 

My father, however, is a bit more forgiving of himself and of his children. In the time that he's spent with these kids, he has discovered that they have absolutely no musical knowledge. They don't know any songs, and have trouble singing notes on a scale. From the time my brother and I were able to make any verbal noises, we were singing. We sang Mandarin songs my mother taught us, Disney songs, songs we learned from preschool, Beatles songs, Motown songs, songs from Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. Together with our cousins we could have been the Chinese American Von Trapp family. We also all learned musical instruments-- My brother and I both took piano and voice lessons. I played the flute in the school band; my brother played the trombone. There is not a single tone-deaf person in our family. 

Of course, this is just a testament to what constant reinforcement can do. My father, always one to believe in the power of genetics, says to me, "Come to think of it, you and your brother are smarter than these two white kids anyway." 

Occupy Marital Conflict

Like any married couple, Mama and Papa Fung experience tensions in their marital dynamic, much of which have been aggravated by recent financial stress. My dad, being the patriarch, has a tendency to be immediately contradictory whenever anyone suggests him to do anything. I've learned to handle it by ignoring him and then letting him come around to my ideas eventually. My mom, however, the (over)sensitive person that she is, has a harder time. So with my being at home, mom will use me as an intermediary. Yesterday, she asked me to help her translate something, which dad would actually be more equipped to do, given that he actually reads Chinese. While she was out running some errands, dad and I had a talk:

Me: Dad, can you translate this thing for mom? But we don't have to tell her that you did it. She wanted me to help her, so I can say that I just used Google Translate or something.

Dad: What? Why do we have to go through that conspiracy? I tell her I can help her but she just ignores me.

Me: She feels that you just dismiss anything she has to say, so she asks me for help now. And to tell you the truth, I don't blame her. She's reacting to more than 30 years of feeling as though you don't respect her.

Dad: So for 30 years she just feels oppressed? Like in Egypt?

Me: Hahaha, I guess so.

Dad: Then that makes me Mubarak! And this is her revolution!

Me: Um, if you want to use that analogy.

Dad: Hahaha... Okay. I understand now.


END.

Who's the Pimp?

Once again, I'm spending a large chunk of my summer at Mama and Papa Fung's house. As is the case with too many American families lately, we're struggling with money matters. I'm glad that in spite of all our anxieties over finances, we can still maintain some sense of humor.

Case in point: Over breakfast a couple of days ago, my mom talked about the buzz over the rumors that China's most famous actress, Zhang Ziyi, accepted $1 million to sleep with Bo Xilai, the former Communist Party chairman. This is the conversation that ensued.

Me: One million dollars? Why would she need to do that? She's rich and famous on her own.

Mom: Well, people are saying that she's been having sex for money for a long time. That's how she built her career. 

Me: I don't think that's fair. It's assuming that no rich and famous woman could have made it without whoring herself. Besides, what would she have to gain by sleeping with this guy?

Dad: Well, you never know what the politburo controls. You never know what you have to do to get your movie released. Especially in China.

Me: Is the dude ugly? I mean, if she was gonna sleep with him for money, I hope he isn't ugly. 

Mom: He's not bad, actually.

Dad: And he's very well spoken. 

(pause)

Me: Shit, one million dollars for one night of work? And the dude's not ugly? I might consider doing it!

Dad: Hahaha... Wow, money is on the mind. 

Me: And it might not even be a full night's work! The dude might pass out after three minutes anyway. Give me two shots of tequila, three minutes, and I could pay off this house. 

Mom: Hey, what kind of girl talks like this? And you're a professor?

Me: I'm a professor who'll never have one million dollars!

Dad: Hahahaha! Mom, would you have sex with someone for one million dollars?

Mom: I'd do it for half that. 

Dad: Yeah, me too.

Mom: Who would pay YOU? 

END. 

Mama and Papa Fung Catch Linsanity

Wow, so much has happened since I last posted on this blog, including the rise of Jeremy Lin, who has sparked mad excitement among Chinese and Taiwanese American folks in particular.

Dad: I told your brother that he needs to practice basketball now. And you should practice bowling.

Me: Why bowling?

Dad: Because you're terrible.

END.

-----

Mom: See, Chinese people can do anything!

END.

Letting It All Out

I called my parents on a Saturday.

Dad: Hello?

Me: Hi dad.

Dad: Oh hi!

Me: What are you doing?

Dad: Singing "Jumping Jack Flash"! And it's aaaaallll riiiight nooow. JUMPING JACK FLASH! IT'S A GAS! IT'S A GAS! Mom went out, so I can sing all the loud Rolling Stones songs now.

Me: Where is mom?

Dad: She and Ee Ma went to their Qi Gong class.

Me: Oh right.

Dad: I tell them it's no use. Qi Gong is supposed to teach you how to relax and let out your energy. But they get angry all the time anyway! Hahaha!

Me: So it doesn't work for them.

Dad: It doesn't work! I tell them they're wasting their money and their time and then get angry at me again! Hahahaha!

Me: Well, clearly the key to relaxation is to sing obnoxious songs at the top of your lungs.

Dad: Works for me! Though I think that makes your mom more angry.

END.

No Regrets

Over dinner, my dad recalls having a girlfriend in Hong Kong who was really rich. Her dad was self-made millionaire, and whenever she met with my dad, she would arrive in a black Mercedes or Rolls Royce, escorted by a personal driver. Upon hearing this story, my mom says to my dad, "You were so stupid to dump her."

Dad replies, "No! If I married her, then I never would have married you!"

To which my mom says, "Then I'm the stupid one."

END.

Dad Is Good With Names

Upon catching me and my brother watching The Ellen Show, my dad asks,

"Oh, her show is still on? What's her name... Helen De... De... Helen De Lesbian?"


END.

The Fung Genealogy Project

My family does our big Christmas gettogether on Christmas Eve, which means that Christmas Day usually finds us bored and in need of something to do. This year, I decided to get my family to start a project I've long wanted to do: build the family tree.

So I started an account on Ancestry.com, and our entire gang-- me, my brother, my parents, a bunch of my aunts, uncles and cousins-- gathered around as I input all of our names and birthdates into the system. Upon discovering that we can pull up records like marriage and divorce indexes, the older folks began outpouring family dramas from the past. (A less light-hearted version of Fung My Life could document stories of adultery, political betrayal, mental illness, all sorts of juicy stuff.) My dad then became particularly preoccupied with digging up dirt on his cousin's ex-husband from the 1970s.

Dad: Oh! See if you can find anything on Aunt G's husband, ah-Bob.

Me: Who was Bob?

Dad: He was a bad, bad man. I remember when Aunt G was still in Hong Kong and married to her first husband, she somehow met Bob. So she had an affair with Bob and then left to the US with him. Later, she sent for her three kids and her husband, and they came to the US. So her husband thought she wanted to reconcile, but when he got there, he found that Bob was living with her. But the real bad thing is that Bob was abusive to the kids.

Me: That's terrible. So did she leave him?

Dad: No! He left her! He went back to Hong Kong to rekindle a romance with a previous girlfriend. He always tried to swindle rich women. But that woman had already married some rich guy so she told him to fuck off.

Me: Damn. He was a bad man.

Dad: Yeah, very bad. And we all thought G was stupid to go with him. But Bob was evil. Evil Bob.

Me: So what do you want me to find out?

Dad: Find out if they ever got divorced! And if he ever got remarried!

Me: Was his official name Bob or Robert? Or some Chinese name?

Dad: Oh, I don't know. He's just Bob. Evil Bob.


Collectively, we were able to locate records confirming that he and my aunt G had indeed divorced. But even with knowing the man's full name, the older folks continue to use the moniker my dad coined in recalling this particular family drama: "Where does Evil Bob live now?" "I heard Evil Bob got a stroke a few years ago." "I wonder if Evil Bob got much of G's money." "I remember Evil Bob was at my wedding."

Evil Bob has become a sort of icon in the family history. He may need his own blog. EvilBob.blogspot.com.

My Dad the Cyberstalker

I've always hated that website, ratemyprofessor.com, not because of the fact that students get to make stupid public comments about me, but because my dad also gets to see those comments. Here is a conversation from 2007, when I first started accumulating student evaluations on the website.

Dad: Do your students ever have a hard time believing you're the instructor?

Me: Maybe. That's why I'll dress up a bit when I teach. You know, to look professional and all.

Dad: Is that why your students think you're HOT?

Me: ???

Dad: Is that why they say you have cute shoes? Heh heh...

Me: Have you been looking at my ratemyprofessors.com profile, dad?!

Dad: Of course! When I google you, that's the first thing that pops up!

Me (truly creeped out about the idea of my dad cyberstalking me): When the hell did you learn how to google search people?

Dad: Come on! Your old man isn't that stupid! I learned how to put videos on youtube!

Me: Yeah, and we were all shocked that you figured it out. You can't even operate the DVD player!

Dad: Shit, come on!

END.

Teaching Advice from Dad

At every end of term, my dad urges me to be easy on my students while I'm figuring out their final grades. Here's why:

Dad: How are your students' papers?

Me: In any pile, aside from the two that are excellent and two that are disastrous, they're generally mediocre-to-bad.

Dad: Do you ever give your students Fs?

Me: Only if they don't turn in the work. So long as they do the work, even if it's awful, they will pass the class.

Dad: For the bad students, don't give them Ds or Fs, okay? A C is a good enough warning.

Me: Dad, that's grade inflation. C is supposed to be average. But yeah, that's usually what ends up happening anyway. I stick in so many easy assignments, the average usually ends up being a B, sadly.

Dad: Good. Because when I was at the University of Chicago, one of my classmates got so mad at his professor for not passing him on his thesis, that he shot and killed the guy and then shot himself.

Me: ... Uh...

Dad: So don't be too harsh on your students. They might kill you.

END.

Batteries

Two weeks after Thanksgiving, and Dad is still obsessed with his remote control helicopter. I chatted with him over the phone about it.

Dad: I've been practicing every day. I'm pretty good at taking off and steering. Now I'm learning how to land the helicopter onto the kitchen table.

Me: I'm surprised you haven't broken the thing yet.

Dad: I thought it was broken, but it wasn't. You know how I have to charge the battery for one hour in order to play for ten minutes? As it turns out, I have to also play with it immediately after charging, otherwise the battery dies again.

Me: I see.

Dad: It's like sex. You have to keep practicing or your batteries die. Very frustrating! Hahahaha!

END.

Things Said At Thanksgiving

I spent Thanksgiving with a bunch of my extended family in Houston. My dad admired my cousin's collection of remote control helicopters, so my cousin bought my dad one on Black Friday. Dad was giddy like a kid.

A bunch of us was sitting around chatting, snacking, and playing video games as my dad learned how to operate his new toy. We noticed that he was only able to play with it for a few minutes before having to recharge the battery.

"It's like sex," he said. "You have to recover for 1 hour for 10 minutes of pleasure."