Mama Fung and I Talk About the Winter Olympics

In a phone conversation:


Mom: Are you watching the Olympics?

Me: A little.

Mom: I don't understand the winter sports.

Me: Hm?

Mom: These people... Are they looking for ways to die?

Me: [laughing] Yeah, the ski jump is the crazy one for me. Who would think to zoom down a mountain and fly up in the air like that?

Mom: And they must crash many times while they are learning to do it. Who does this?

Me: [laughing] Guai lo? (Cantonese term that basically means "white people."

Mom: [pause] You are right. Guai lo are crazy.

Me: [laughing]

Mom: And the one where the two people have to ride down a slide in a little car? So ong geui. (Cantonese word that doesn't quite translate, but more or less means stupid or dim-witted.)

Me: [laughing] What do you think of curling then?

Mom: Which one is that?

Me: It's kind of like bowling on ice, but slow...

Mom: Oh, with the brooms!

Me: Yes!

Mom: They can come clean my house.

Me: [laughing]

Mom: [laughing]

Me: You know, if I stay in Boston, I will have to learn a snow sport so that I have something to do in the winter.

Mom: Which one would you learn?

Me: The biathlon. I want to ski and shoot people.

Mom: Shoot people? What are you talking about? What is wrong with you?

END.

Nephews Are The Best

During my past few visits with the family, I spent a lot of time with my cousin's son, my adorably mischievous nephew J, who's now about 20 months old. Maybe because I rough house him and goof off with him with abandon, he's taken quite a liking to me. In Cantonese, my kinship title is 表姨, pronounced like "biú yi," but for some reason the kid likes to say, "bía." In spite of him being perfectly capable of pronouncing it correctly, he still insists on calling me Bia. My stone cold heart melts a little when he exclaims, "Bia!" and runs to hug me. I love having a unique nickname. I hope he keeps calling me Bia even when he's thirty.

Apparently, even though my home is across the country, my nephew will think of me. When he goes to my parents' house, he'll walk into my old bedroom, the one I still sleep in when I visit, and declare, "Bia!" Sometimes he'll poke his mom and say, "Bia," signalling that he wants to Facetime chat, something that we'll occasionally do together. Gah, the kid breaks me.

He also points to pictures of other women and says, "Bia!" as if there's something about them that reminds him of me. Among them include:

Ronnie Spector, which perhaps makes sense, given that when I hang out with him, we always dance together to The Ronettes, which is something that his mom and I used to do when we were little. He'll remark, "Bia!" whenever he hears "Be My Baby" come on anywhere.

Teresa Teng, who is my mom's favorite Taiwanese pop star. My mom plays her music when she looks after him. I don't think I look like Teresa Teng at all, but I sing a lot around the house, so maybe that's the connection.

But apparently the kid has also pointed to a porcelain figurine of some Chinese goddess in his grandmother's house and said, "Bia!," so maybe he has some face recognition issues. Either that, or he thinks I'm pretty, given the flattering comparisons. 

My mom tells me that most recently, he pointed to some fashion models on television and also shouted, "Bia!"

My mom's response: "Your Bia is not that pretty."

Awesome.

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. 

Mama and Papa Fung Offer Their Congrats

I recently got an article published and received some good news about another. As always, I like to share my accomplishments with my proud parents. My dad tells me that he and mom were chatting about my good news when they had my aunt and uncle over for dinner. My aunt marvels, "Wow, I don't know how she writes so much! How does she even think of so many things to write about?" To which Mama Fung echoes:

"I don't know why she has to think so much... like a strange person."

END.

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...

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.

Mom and Daughter Take to the Streets

Over and over again, I have to remind myself to never underestimate my parents. When I decided to join a march for justice for Trayvon Martin today, I expected that my parents would try to convince me not to go.  I braced myself for potential frustrating dialogue. As immigrants, my parents know full well the violence of racism, the injustice of a legal system that doesn't work equally for all, the fear of the police. However, precisely because of the violence, injustice, and fear that they have experienced as immigrants, they don't feel entitled to the right to protest. It doesn't accomplish much, they say. Who listens to us anyway, they ask. The world is as it is. Your energy is better spent making money to take care of yourself and your family.

Nonetheless, in spite of never knowing quite what to make of their American-born, loud-mouthed daughter who chose to study English and teach Ethnic Studies, they have always listened to my rants and raves with appreciation and patience. And over bowls of noodle soup, we had an extended conversation about the case, the verdict, and racial injustice. As I had expected, they expressed ambivalent views and betrayed their own prejudices. But in the end, they agreed that the legal system is unfair, that Zimmerman's verdict is unjust, and that the public needs to pressure the federal government to file a civil rights case. To my surprise, Mama Fung decided to join me in the march, not only because she supported me, but also because she supported the cause. After I fashioned a "NO Justice NO Peace" sign out of cardboard, she wrote on the back her translation: 没有正义，没有和平. 

My heart swelled with pride as I linked arms with my mom and marched through the streets of San Francisco. I nearly cried when I heard her shout, in her accented English, "Justice for Trayvon Martin!" I chuckled when she shied away when the reporter from her favorite newspaper, World Journal, wanted to ask her questions about our sign. 

After the march, we had dinner together. She asked me about how I developed my commitment to social justice, how my community work relates to my scholarly work and professional life, whether I ever feel that I should have taken an easier road in life. She shared with me her own feelings about her place in America, her experiences in the 35 years she's lived here, her hopes for me and my future. As we refilled our cups of tea and worked through our jook and noodles, we spilled one story after another, as if we were confessing fears and hopes we had each longed to say to each other. 


The day was full of great one-liners from Mama Fung. Here are some of my favorites:

"I hate the police."

"Maybe you picked the wrong career. You should have been a lawyer. After tenure, you can still get a law degree. But then you'll be so scary, no man will want to marry you." 

"Of course I will support you when what you are doing is right."

"Your dad thinks that you get your spirit from him. He's not even here! Obviously, you get it from me."

"We are the only Chinese people here!"

"That guy over there is kind of weird. Let's walk the other way."

 "Stop telling all your friends about me!"  

"Will you get fired for this?"

"Of course I'm a special kind of mother. I would have to be to produce a daughter like you." 

"Can you ask the police where we can find a bathroom?"  

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. 

Fung Safety

Like, I think, most immigrant parents, mine have instilled in me a healthy paranoia about the world. In spite of raising me in a very safe and relatively affluent neighborhood, mom and dad never let me go outside unaccompanied. Even stepping to the mailbox could result in me getting kidnapped.

So when I told my mom that I was planning a trip to Prague with some friends this summer, her first response was, "Don't go anywhere alone! I read a story in the newspaper about a Chinese girl who got kidnapped while she was traveling there." Similarly, when I was in Pittsburgh for a conference, my mother said, "Be careful! I just read a story about a Chinese girl who was on vacation in L.A., and then somebody killed her and dumped her body in the hotel water tank."

Perhaps my mother is particularly morbid, but my aunt launched the exact same warnings when I told her about my travels. Perhaps they're subscribed to a Dead Chinese Girls news feed or something.

All jokes aside, these incidents are indeed real, and being a petite Asian woman does mean I have to exercise caution. The trick is to figure out what amount of caution I should apply in my day-to-day activities. In fact, as of this moment, I'm waiting for a guy to pick me up on a date. I am now thinking that I should have planned to meet him at the art museum we're planning to go to. I should probably take a picture of his license plate and send it to some close friends in case he decides to kidnap me, chop up my body, and dump it in the river.

Mama Fung's Pep Talk

One of my favorite movies from adolescence is the 1994 version of Little Women. It's a beautifully rendered adaptation of one of my favorite girlhood novels and appeals to my geeky fondness for period dramas. Also, featuring pre-klepto Winona Ryder, pre-grumpy Christian Bale, and classic-cry-face Claire Danes, the movie is so wonderfully 1990s.

The older I get, the more I realize that what I really love about the film is one short scene in which Jo, after turning down a marriage proposal, rails about how she's restless for a life she can't see yet. Marmee (played perfectly by Susan Sarandon) tells her, "You have so many extraordinary gifts. How can you expect to live an ordinary life?" That might be the best thing a mother could ever say, and I realize more and more how much I needed to be told this when I was 14. Should I have a daughter one day, I hope to impart the same message.

My mother has her own version of this advice whenever my life has taken a turn for the unexpected: "A strange girl like you, hard to find someone who appreciates you. Better to be single and free."

Care Package from Mom

My mom calls me today to say, "I made some Chinese New Year cakes and I will be sending you one in the mail. Also in that package, I will send some tea that helps with constipation. Oh, and it's good for your skin... What's so funny?"

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." 

Mouse Mom Democracy

Papa Fung wrote me and my brother an email with the subject heading: "Mom has guts": 



Mom and I happened to pick up the phone at the same time.

Campaigner: " We're Republican.......Can I talk to C----, please?"
Mom, "I'm C----."
Campaigner: "The economy is so bad .......Romney.....Would you care to help out?"
Mom: "I'm voting for Obama!!"
Campaigner: "I'm sorry to hear that. Have a nice evening!"

I rushed into the room and gave her a thumbs up! The first time I saw her so forceful to say no. You know what she said? 

"Do I dare to vote for Romney? Last time the kids scolded me for voting Bush." I call this mouse mom democracy. 

So I guess the thumbs up belongs to you guys. Anyway, you should congratulate her next time you talk.

Dad

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. 

My mom should be Jeremy Lin's publicist.

In response to my making fun of her for wishing that her children were successful like Jeremy Lin, my mother retraced her steps and said that she actually didn't care about how much money my brother and I make and doesn't really wish that we were NBA stars. Instead, she explained, she admires Jeremy Lin for his personality:

"He has such a great attitude. And he is so polite. He works hard and appreciates what he has. He knows how to treat people with respect. He is a very good person. He is clearly a product of a good upbringing. That is why I like him."

What I want to ask is, HOW THE HELL DOES SHE KNOW?

I'm hoping that Jeremy Lin will do what ball players are expected to do: Get all tatted up, have a few children out of wedlock, get caught with drug or gun possession or both, spend a grotesque amount of money on a monstrosity of a house that could be featured on MTV Cribs. That might be the only way I can get my mom to reclaim me as her offspring.

Damn you, Jeremy Lin.

Jeremy Lin is officially plaguing my existence. Here's how:


Me: So dad says that all you guys are talking about now is Jeremy Lin.

Mom: I told him I should have pushed you and your brother harder when you were kids. But your dad says I'm not a tiger mom. I'm just a mouse mom.

Me: I'm glad you're not a tiger mom.

Mom: And then your dad said that I didn't need to be a tiger mom anyway. So I said, "What, you don't think we could have pushed our kids more?" And he said, "No, they turned out good anyway!" Can you believe that? So arrogant.

Me: What are you saying, mom? That you don't think we're successful?

Mom: Eh, you two are average.

Me: Average?? Mom, average people don't get PhDs and become professors. Average people don't, at the age of twenty-three, become interior designers in New York City and support themselves.

Mom: Oh who cares? Plenty of Chinese kids get PhDs. Nothing special. Jeremy Lin is also twenty-three, and now look at how much money he makes.

Me: Mom, if you're going to compare us to Jeremy Lin, you are going to be very disappointed.

Mom: I wish you and your brother were like Jeremy Lin.

Me: ...

Mom: Okay, I have to go now. My Qi Gong class is starting! Bye!

END.

Linsanity, continued

Mom: Have you been watching Jeremy Lin? He's so good!

Me: Yeah, he's pretty amazing.

Mom: Maybe I should have pushed you and your brother to play basketball. Then maybe you won't be so short.

Me: If it works that way.

Mom: Also, why is it that even though I took you and your brother to church, you never kept your faith? But Jeremy Lin's mom took him to church, and he is still such a good Christian?

Me: Maybe we just like to defy you, mom. Even if you told us to play basketball, we probably would have done something else.

Mom: I should tell your brother to drink more then. He drinks too much!

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.