I fell in love with the minister's son the winter I turned fourteen. He was not Chinese. When I found out that my parents had invited the minister's family over for Christmas Eve dinner, I cried. What would Robert think of our shabby Chinese Christmas? What would he think of our noisy Chinese relatives who lacked proper American manners? What terrible disappointment would he feel upon seeing not a roasted turkey and sweet potatoes but Chinese food?
On Christmas Eve I saw that my mother had outdone herself in creating a strange menu. She was pulling back lines out of the backs of fleshy prawns. The kitchen was littered with piles of raw food: a fish with bulging eyes begging not to be thrown into a pan of hot oil, a bowl of soaking dried fungus back to life, a plate of squids whose backs were crisscrossed with knife markings so they resembled bicycle tires.
And then they arrived — the minister's family and all my relatives. Robert said hello, and I pretended he was not worthy of existence. Dinner threw me deeper into despair. My relatives licked the ends of their chopsticks and reached across the table, dipping them into the dozen or so plates of food. Robert and his family waited patiently for plates to be passed to them. My relatives whispered with pleasure when my mother brought out the whole steamed fish. Robert made faces. Then my father poked his chopsticks just below the fish eye and pulled out the soft meat. "Amy, your favourite, " he said, offering me the tender fish cheek. I wanted to disappear. I remained silent for the rest of the night.
After everyone had gone, my mother said to me, "You want to be the same as American girls on the outside. But inside you must always be Chinese. You must be proud you are different. Your only shame is to have shame. "
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