Becoming Who We Are Ch. 03

"Well," Melina said briskly, "I have to go. Good night, Pete."

"Good night, Melina. See you Monday."

Inside, her parents sat in the living room reading. Her father made a show of checking his watch as she walked into the room.

"Ten fifty-six. You're early. Didn't you like each other?"

"Yeah, Dad." She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. Her father could be such a goof sometimes.

"Did you have a nice time, sweetie?" her mother asked, looking up from a thick medical textbook.

"A great time," Melina said with enthusiasm. "His mother's a terrific musician. And we went to this great Chinese restaurant and it turned out that a friend of mine's family owns it. Mark, the sax player I told you about in marching band. In fact, he was even our waiter."

"That must have been strange."

"It was. We didn't know his family owned the place. He didn't seem too happy to see us, either."

"Maybe he was uncomfortable with having to serve you, since you're friends at school," her father said.

"Yeah, maybe. But he could have been nicer about it."

"Don't judge him too harshly," her mother said, returning to the textbook. "It can't be easy, having to work on a night when all your friends are out having fun."

"Whatever. Well, I'm going upstairs. Good night."

"Good night."

"Sweat dreams," her mother added. "Don't forget to return my blouse."

"All right," Melina called down the stairs.

In her room, Melina undressed, arranging the blouse on a hanger so it wouldn't wrinkle. She ferried it to her mother's closet, then returned to think about the past few hours. The date had gone well. She hadn't been sure if Pete would try to kiss her. For a second or two there, she had thought he would. On the whole, though, she was glad he hadn't. She needed time to adjust to the concept of going out with someone. Maybe next time, though.

She turned out her lamp, and lay back, smiling in the darkness until an image of Mark came to her. The only aspect of the evening that troubled her was Mark's behavior. What was wrong with him, anyway?

**

Sunday after church, Luke retreated to his room as usual, claiming he had to do his homework. For once, he meant it. Mrs. Cowden, easily his most entertaining and interesting teacher, also made the most demands on him. He had an entire chapter in his history text to read for Monday, and another due Thursday. He decided to do all the reading that day. Picking up the bulky book, he lay on his bed and balanced it on his flat stomach. He quickly completed the required reading -- before John died, Luke and his twin had often had races to see who could finish a book first. Luke usually won. Wanting to put off his math homework, he flipped through the rest of the history text to see if anything interesting lurked in later pages. An illustration of Chinese workers building the Transcontinental Railroad caught his eye and he stuck his index finger into the pages to mark the spot. He found the chapter's beginning and settled down to learn about the Chinese and Japanese people who had come to America in the 1800s.

By the end of the chapter, Luke felt so excited he could barely sit still. The Chinese had come to the United States to escape cruel mandarins and wretched poverty, bringing dreams of wealth and hopes of conquering the Gold Mountain they believed awaited them in America. Where had they found the courage to leave everything they loved, their families, their homes, the hills and rivers that shaped their lives and dreams? Some stayed in America for years without their wives and children because laws prevented Chinese women from accompanying their men to the Territories.

Luke put the book down, his thoughts swirling. He lay back again and let the ideas and images sort themselves out. Gold Mountain. The phrase kept tugging at him. He pictured himself in the late 1800s, the younger son with no prospects, leaving his beautiful wife so that they might have a better life later. He sat up and groped for a notebook and pen. In his thick spiral notebook, he wrote steadily for the next two hours, trying desperately to get his thoughts on paper before they drifted away.

"Gold Mountain!

"Everywhere, people buzzed about the rich land beyond the eastern sea. There, they said, the Chinese were welcome to make a fortune with everyone else. There, they said, a man could pluck his breakfast from the trees, as much as he could carry. There, they said, a man would find no mandarins, no warlords, no soldiers. There, they said, a man would find only riches waiting for him to collect them.

"Gold Mountain!

"Wang Bian looked down at his wife as they stood together on the dock, waiting for the signal that would call him and the others to board the ship. A slight breeze ruffled her hair as she silently returned his longing stare. Both yearned to stay together; both knew they must separate, for Bian had no future if he remained. Floods had devastated their village. Warlords sent brutal soldiers to collect taxes the people could not have paid even if the crops had not failed. And Bian was only the third son, with no chance of inheriting anything other than the family name. His wife and he had talked endlessly of how they could survive, and it always came to this.

"Gold Mountain!"

Luke scribbled as fast as he could, welcoming the gift of the story. Had his mother seen him at that moment, his industry would have shocked her. But she had already left for the restaurant with his father. She never knew, until much later, what her oldest child did with his time that summery afternoon.

By dinnertime, Luke had concocted a tale that delighted and astonished him. He had never written anything like it. He skimmed the pages, savoring it. Bian leaves his pregnant wife to seek his fortune in America. Despite prejudice and harsh conditions, he acquires the wealth he has always wanted, yearning each day for his wife and child, and dreaming of the time he can board a ship to rejoin them. When that day arrives, he hurries to the docks, only to be jumped by a gang of white men the moment he glimpses the ship. They murder him, take the money he had earned for his family, and gamble it away in a card game. Luke was practically in tears himself by the end. Yes, it needed some work, but it read well. In fact, he had never written anything half as good. Maybe he would show it to Mrs. Cowden and get her opinion.

His stomach growled and he glanced up at his clock. Eight-fifteen? How had it gotten so late? He still had math and English to do. He trotted down the stairs to make himself a sandwich. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and found some crackers and an apple. Putting the works on a tray, he took the meal to his room. Munching contentedly, he sat at his desk and puzzled out his math assignment until he felt fairly sure he understood it. Mrs. Shuman had been right. While he didn't want to devote his life to algebra, it definitely suited his abilities better than pre-cal. The English homework proved fairly mindless: grammar and vocabulary. He could have done those in his sleep. He grinned at the thought of telling Mrs. Garcia that. She would not appreciate it.

Closing his books, he checked the clock once again. Ten till ten. He gathered up his dishes and took them to the kitchen, carefully placing them in the dishwasher in the only way his mother permitted. He tossed the crumpled paper towel in the trash and surveyed the room. Nothing looked out of place, as his younger siblings were as wary of their mother's moods as Luke was. Good! His mother would have no reason to criticize him tonight. He returned to his room, and got ready for bed, still thinking of Bian and his wife. He would polish the story later that week, then let his history teacher read it. He wondered what she would think of it.

In the next room, Mark also lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He simply could not get the vision of Melina and Pete laughing and smiling at one another out of his head. She had looked so cute. Mark sighed, turning over in his mind every detail of their encounter Friday night. Well, why shouldn't she go out with Pete? He was funny and smart and white, and maybe she preferred white guys. Maybe if Pete didn't exist, she still wouldn't go out with him because he was Chinese. But if she didn't like him, why did she talk to him so much? He had distinctly overhead Melina and Lakeesha talking in homeroom one day, and Melina had said then that she thought he was cute.

He rolled over. Then why had she gone out with Pete? Of course, he hadn't actually asked her out, but he wanted their friendship to develop a little more before he took that step. Didn't she see that? Mark punched his pillow. Oh, why should she see it? She obviously thought of him as nothing more than a friend, and he ought to be happy with that. He struggled with his thoughts for another ten minutes, then firmly told himself to stop, invoking the breathing exercises and relaxation techniques his teacher had shown him after his brother died and he needed help. Still, as he drifted into sleep, his last conscious thought was of Melina's eyes.

Luke rose early the next morning, to the amazement of his mother. He showered quickly, beat his brother and sister to the breakfast table and said grace as his mother watched. Privately, he didn't believe in God, reasoning that if a high power existed, surely It wouldn't selfishly take his twin, leaving him lonely and without someone to protect him. He never spoke of his beliefs to his parents, and pretended to share theirs. It was easier that way.

"Did you finish your homework?"

Luke swallowed his cereal and nodded.

"Yes. I had history, English and math, and I finished it all last night. I even read ahead for history."

He saw his mother frown and added, "I wrote a story too. About a Chinese man who comes to America to make his fortune, but dies before he can go home to his wife."

His mother's frown deepened.

"You wasted time writing a story when you could have been concentrating on your math?"

"No," he lied quickly. "It was for English."

Mark and Mary bounded into the kitchen, diverting Mrs. Tang. Mary liked to chatter in the morning, and her remarks about the weekend's customers occupied their mother. Finishing his cereal, Luke took his bowl to the sink, rinsed it thoroughly and placed it in the dishwasher. Mrs. Tang observed his actions from the corner of her eye, but he put his bowl in the rack the proper way, so she said nothing.

The morning seemed cool, so Luke put on a long-sleeved shirt to wear to school. He gathered his books and put them in his backpack for the walk. He still had a few minutes before Mark would leave, so he combed through the first two pages of his story, making changes and corrections. When he heard Mark walk back in his bedroom, Luke stuffed the notebook back in the bag and zipped it shut. The two brothers ran out into the vivid blue morning.

"Why're you in such a good mood?" Mark asked.

"I wrote this cool story yesterday. It's about a Chinese guy coming to America in the 1800s."

Mark shot his brother a surprised look.

"Where'd you get that idea?"

"From my history book. There's a whole chapter about Asian immigrants. It talked about the gold mountain the Chinese came here for, and then this story just came to me."

"Is it for a class?"

"No, but don't tell Mom. I told her it's for English."

"If it's not for a class, then why'd you write it?"

"I don't know. It just came to me, and I had to write it down."

"It just came to you?"

"Yeah," Luke said, his voice growing defensive. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, I guess. It's just most people don't write stories unless they have to. How long is it, anyway?"

"Um, twenty-one pages."

Mark stopped.

"Twenty-one pages? That's not a story, that's a book."

Luke shrugged. It was kind of long, but the story needed that much length to make it complete.

"It's not that long," he argued.

"Yes it is," Mark said, still standing and staring at his brother.

"All right, it is. But that doesn't make it a bad story. I think it's pretty good."

"I didn't say it was bad, I just said it was long," Mark said. "How long did it take you write it, anyway?"

"All afternoon."

Mark sighed. He couldn't imagine spending a whole afternoon writing. He shook his head at his skinny brother. The two started walking again.

"Okay. Whatever makes you happy."

A couple of blocks later, they turned a corner and spotted a girl walking half a block ahead of them.

"Hey," Mark said, squinting at the figure walking alone. "I think that's Melina. The girl I was telling you about."

"You mean the one at the restaurant Friday with that guy?"

"Yeah. That's definitely her. I'm going to catch up with her."

"Go ahead," Luke said, watching as his brother ran to intercept the girl.

As she turned, Luke could see what had attracted his brother to her. Thick hair -- from this distance he couldn't tell if was dark blond or light brown -- good body, sweet smile, about Mark's height. As they talked, they punctuated their words with elaborate gestures, clearly having fun. Luke wondered why she had gone out with the other boy when she obviously liked his brother. He sighed. In his limited experience, girls were strange creatures. Many seemed interested only in boys and appearances -- their own and everyone else's. He hunched his shoulders. Not one had ever shown the slightest interest in him. Watching Mark and Melina walk together, he wondered what it would feel like to stroll down the sidewalk with a girl who laughed at his jokes and cared about him. He shook his head. It had never happened. It would never happen.

The moment she turned her smiling face to his, Mark forgave Melina for going out with Pete.

"Hi!" she said warmly when he trotted up beside her. "How's it going?"

"Hi," he said, fondly noting the dimple in her right cheek. "I'm okay. How are you doing?"

"Okay." She frowned suddenly. "Were you mad Friday night?"

"No," he lied, trying to sound casual. "We were just kind of busy and I didn't expect to see you two. Did I really act that mad?"

"We-e-ell," she said, attempting to think of some way to say yes that would not sound too harsh, "you seemed a little ... preoccupied. Pete and I couldn't figure out what was going on."

"It was busy," he repeated.

"I did notice how gracefully you carried the trays," she said, pantomiming a waiter struggling with a heavy tray.

Mark smiled back, joining her in the game.

"It does take a certain flair. Waiting tables is not the sort of job any old guy off the street can do."

"How long have you been doing it?"

"About a year."

"Do you like it?"

He grimaced.

"I guess. The tips can be pretty good, but my parents make me put half of it into a bank account for college."

She looked at him sidelong.

"So why didn't you ever mention that your parents own a restaurant? Pete and I both said if our folks ran a place like that, we'd tell everybody we knew."

Mark paused for several seconds before answering.

"I don't know. I guess I didn't think anyone would care. Plus, it's such a stereotype. When Americans think of Chinese people, they think we all either run restaurants, kung fu studios, or laundries."

"Ancient Chinese secret?" Melina said, reciting the tag line from an old television commercial.

"Exactly," Mark said, disgusted. "I get so sick of it. You know what else bugs me? That stupid idea everyone has about Asians having some kind of instinctive grasp of math and science."

"You mean like, 'All black people are born knowing how to dance?' "

"Yeah. I mean, I'm pretty good at martial arts and math, but I work really hard at both of them. Instinct has nothing to do with it. My brother couldn't block a punch or solve a differential equation if his life depended on it. But he's a great writer, which is not what Americans think of when they think of Chinese people."

"What about Amy Tan?"

Mark rolled his eyes.

"Smarty. Since you're so smart, name another Chinese-American writer."

Melina looked skyward, considering.

"You win. I can't think of another one."

"At least you know of one. Most white people can't even name one."

"Are all the stereotypes wrong, then? My last English teacher told us most stereotypes had at least a grain of truth."

"Well," Mark conceded, "They're probably not all wrong. But they're not complete, either. I think you're in trouble when you start thinking a whole group of people is the same. I mean, are all white people racists?"

"Of course not."

"But that's the impression a lot of other people have of them."

"They shouldn't assume that. I'm white, and I'm not a racist."

"But if every encounter an Asian or a black person had with white people was negative, wouldn't he assume you're all bad?"

"He might, but he'd be wrong."

"Exactly."

Mark grinned at her.

"Pretty heavy discussion for this time of the morning."

Melina smiled.

"Yeah. I usually wait till after ten at the earliest to have in-depth debates on the roots and reasons for prejudice."

"So let's go back to Chinese food. Was yours good Friday?"

"Excellent!" Melina enthused. "The best I've had in a long time. So what's your favorite dish?"

"I like what you both had, even though my father says dishes like beef with broccoli cater to the American palate."

"Why?"

"Where his family comes from, they don't eat much beef."

"All right," she said. "What does he eat, then?"

"Pretty much anything with seafood or pork. He likes the Cantonese style, which is very light."

"I thought most Chinese food was spicy."

He shook his head.

"Nab. That's Szechuan food. China has about a thousand different styles of cooking. My dad's family came from the south, near Hong Kong, so he grew up with Cantonese food. But he'll cook anything."

She looked at him in surprise.

"Your dad's a chef?"

"Yeah. My mother runs the business side of the restaurant. My dad runs the kitchen."

"That's kind of a switch, isn't it?"

"I guess. I never thought about it. I mean, to me, that's the way it should be because that's the way it's always been. Dad loves to cook and Mom loves to make money."

She smiled.

"And what do you love to do?"

I love to talk to you, he thought.

"Lots of things. I love to play the sax, and anything else to do with music. I love jeet kune do."

"What's that?"

"It's a style of martial art. Bruce Lee perfected it."

"Oh," she said, comprehension in her voice. She eyed him respectfully. "Bruce Lee. My dad loves him. You like all that punching and kicking?"

"Well, yea, but the best part is the strategy. There's nothing better than figuring out what someone's going to before they do it, and doing it to them first."

She shook her head.

"No, thanks. I'll stick to biking."

"But what would you do is someone tried to attack you?"

"Why would someone attack me?"

"Come on. You're cute and sweet-looking. Some guy might decide you're exactly the victim he's been looking for."

"I doubt it," she said. "But if someone did, I guess I would hope that some heroic type like you was around to save me."

"Heroic type like me?"

"Sure. Strong, well-versed in martial arts, protective."

"Right."

"Come on. Weren't you the one going on about honor at the game?"

"Yeah."

"So ...?" She shrugged eloquently.

"All right," he said, secretly pleased with the way the conversation had turned. "If you ever need saving, please feel free to call me, Mark Tang, Hero."

"Deal," she said.

The school loomed before them.

"You know, two weeks ago, I was standing out here hating this place," she said. "Now it feels like home."

"I guess it's not so bad," he said, and they joined the other kids walking into the building.