My parents immigrated to the U. S. from Guangdong, a province in southern China. The jobs they found in hot kitchens and clothing factories came with long hours, leaving them no time to learn English. So I spent most of my childhood, in Brooklyn, speaking Cantonese, the only language my parents understand. But as I continued my education, I gradually, or deliberately avoided using Cantonese. And as a result, Cantonese avoided me. As it slips from my memory, I also lose my ability to communicate with my parents. For years I have to rely on translation apps and online dictionaries for most of our conversations.
Actually, we speak on the phone only once a week and the conversations are much the same: "Have you eaten yet?" my father asks in Cantonese. Long pause. "No, not yet. You?" I reply. "Why not? It's so late, my mother cuts in. Long pause. "Remember to drink more water and wear a mask outside. "she continues. "OK. You too. "Longest pause. "We'll stop bothering you, then. "At age thirty-two, I feel like someone they know instead of their daughter.
On my mom's sixty-fourth birthday, at the peak of the pandemic, I became increasingly aware of the limited amount of time together. Did I really want to spend the rest of our lives with a language barrier between us? I made it a goal to relearn Cantonese, and, ultimately, rebuild the relationship with my parents. I take Cantonese classes. I watch Wong Kar-wai movies. I repeat Maggie Cheung's words over and over until I get the tones just right. But, most of all, I call my parents and try to have more meaningful conversations with them, no matter how challenging it gets. Though Cantonese no longer feels natural for me to speak, it will always be my first language—even if it takes a lifetime for us to know each other.
