SPEAKING THE LANGUAGE

Uh-h, Uh-uh
Mmm-hmmm, Mmm-mmmm
Djeet? Yeah, djoo?
Mama told me how hard English was
for her to understand
when she first came to America.
The formal English
she'd learned from her textbooks
was so different from the way Americans spoke.
She'd learned yes and no.
Have you eaten your dinner yet?
and Yes, thank you. And yourself?
**********
But the words she heard instead
wee hard to grasp, slippery
as so many small fish
darting here and thee,
shining slips of color
with movements so quick,
impossible to catch.
Try as you might to follow one fish,
confusing your eye
so the first is lost
somewhere among
the whole, swirling group-
here for a moment
then swimming away
into the wide ocean
and gone.

Shi de, bu shi.
Ni chi le fan mei you? Wo chi le, ni ne?
I practice saying to myself,
Yes, no.
Have you eaten yet? Yes, how about you?

In my mind, the words slip easily,

casually from my tongue.

I hear the way

even the youngest children

unthinkingly toss out

these simple phrases,

the sounds and tones rolling lazily,

the unconscious music

of everyday Chinese

sung out through

the streets of Taipei.

Mama and Baba say

I used to speak beautiful Chinese,

my accent clear

and the ones perfect.

But then when I started kindergarten,

I remember how the other kids laughed

at the way I couldn't understand

any English at all.

Mama says it wasn't long

before I spoke English

exactly like my classmates.

But she said I reused

to speak Chinese anymore.

Even at home

with just Baba and Mama

and no one else to hear,

they spoke Chinese to me

and I answered them

in English.

**********

Now when I open my mouth

to speak Chinese

the words stumble out,

dissonant and harsh

as a series of misplayed notes.

Like a beginning musician

violating all rules

I go back and try to correct,

inevitably hitting

the same wrong notes again.

By then the easy rhythm,

the back-and forth flow

of conversation is gone,

irretrivably lost,

broken by me and my

tone-deaf, tuneless,

off-key imitation

of Chinese

I'm getting used to

the look on people's aces

when I try to speak with them.

Surprise, then confusion

turning to befuddlement

or plain curiosity

as they ask, Xiao Jie,

Ni shi na li ren?

Where are you from. Miss?

**********

Now I wonder:

How many times

must Mama have heard

this question,

Where are you from. dear?

And did they ever ask,

Are you Chi-nese, Japa-nese

or what?

Kung bakit di ko maamim sa iyo
Ang tunay na awitin nang loob ko
Hindi ko nais mabuhay pa kung wala sa feeling mo
Munit hindi ko pa rin maamim sa iyo
ung malaman ang sasabihin pag kaharapan
Munit nilingon naman pag dumaraan na
O ang laki'ng pagkakamali kung hindi nya namalalaman
Kaya sa awitin ko ngito pagdaraman.

La la la...

Sa awitin kong ito padaraman

At akong kumipas at limot na
At awiting kong alala pa
Awitin ang damdamim ko sayo maiiwanan
Sa pag pulong nang hangin
Sa pag bulong nang hangin

La la la...

Sa awitin kong ito padaraman

ON THE WAY HOME- by Joyce Lee Wong- Seeing Emily

Riding home on the bus

that aftenoon.

I couldn't stop

thinking about my test.

As much as I appreciated

my friends' efforts

to make me feel better,

I didn't know if

they truly understood.

And I didn't really know how to explain

to them or anyone else

why my grades matter

as much as they do

to Mama and Baba.

....." p 127

TESTS AND PARENTS- by Joyce Lee Wong- Seeing Emily

Our geometry tests came back

the week after Thanksgiving break.

Even as I sat with my friends at lunch

I could still see my grade:

a negative image

like a spot of harsh light

that lingers on the back of your lids

even when you close your eyes,

C.

Worse than the grade

was knowin

I could have done better

If I'd studied,

instead of spending so much time

with Nick

the weekend before the test.

"A C isn't bad, Emily." Nina said consolingly.

Liz rolled her eyes and said, "What is this,

the first C ever

in the history of Emily Wu?"

Unlike me, Liz had a natural talent

for math and science,

so I assumed she'd done well on the test.

I was sure of it when she said,

"Don't feel bad, Emily. It was a difficult proof."

I thought I heard a slightly victorious note

in her voice, but I was too caught up

in anticipating my parents' reaction to my grade

to give it much thought just then.

"Are you okay, Emily?"

Nina was looking at me with concern.

I forced a smile and said, "I'm fine.

I just don't think my parents

will be too happy about my test."

"At least they care enough

to be angry about your grades," Nina said quietly.

I looked at her, surprised.

"Your parents care about you."

"They do." Nina said. "But these days

they're more wrapped up in other things."

THE DRESS - by Joyce Lee Wong- Seeing Emily.

Saturday afternoon,

strolling through the mall

with Nick.

Everything seemed brighter,

the lights shiing

inside the stores,

and the thump of bass beats

from the music store,

the melted butter smell

from the theaters

mixed with the stink

of stale cigarettes smoke,

the heady drift of smoke

as we walked into

the department store.

I noticed girls

noticing Nick,

watched them look

from him to me

and felt their envy, palpable

as the static electricity bursts

made by our shoes

scuffing against carpeted floor.

I walked taller, savoring

the weight

of his arm

around my shoulders,

the tingle of my skin

where his hand

brushed my arm.

When I caught a glimpse

of our reflection in a mirror,

I almost believed

the girl

beside Nick

could be pretty

since he'd chosen her.

He leaned down to point something out

and I smelled, faintly

the sweetness

of shampoo

ad the scent

of his skin,

"Look," he said,

his breath warm

on my cheek.

It was a mannequin

clothed in a dress

bright with a tropical print,

the fabric cut low

to show stiff, white curves

of fake breasts,

the sarong skirt

falling open

to bare a slim,

plastic thigh.

"You'd look fantastic,"

Nick said, "wearing that."

Something about the dress

bothered me, but I couldn't

quite say what it was.

"I'm not sure it's my style," I said.

"You'd look exotic, Hawaiian

or Polynesian. Just try it on."

WhenI hesitated

he put his mouth

to my ear

and whispered, "Please."

He reached out

and touched the fabric

of the dress

as gently.

I shivered.

"Okay,"

I lifted

the dress from the rack

and walked to the fitting room.

aware all the while

of his hand, warm

on the small of my back,

as we walked.

Taken from: Seeing Emily by Joyce Lee Wong
*Don't go into the restaurant business.
Baba says, the hours are long
the work is ku, bitter.
and the better business is,
the harder you work.

Baba thought our restaurant
would do well in this neighborhood.
Business isn't bad,
but it's hard to find a chef around here
who knows wok cooking.
So Baba, Mama, and I often cook.

The kitchen's always hotter
than an August afternoon.
Oil crackles and spits
when you drop chopped
vegetables and meat
into the waiting wok.
over the sizzling din,
the sharp scrape of metal on metal
as you stir-fry slabs of chicken or beef,
then chunks of tofu, slices of bamboo,
pea pods and water chestnuts,
always keeping the pieces moving
over the rippling, flaming heat.

with the oil in the wok
at 375 degrees for deep-frying,
you try to be careful,
but sometimes on a busy weekend night,
when the roar of the customers' conversation
follows you into the kitchen,
and your feet start to tire
and your back and arms complain
but the orders keep coming fast,
hot oil can leap up, lightning-quick toward you,
spattering your clothing or skin;
we've all ben burned in the kitchen.*