Monday, March 17, 2008

Taxi Ride.

You are the eldest son, they always said. You must have all. So you can study hard and get good job and get good life for all of us. You are the eldest son.

He had never needed to break their hearts before.

He had never been in a taxi before either. They were too expensive, and he had always been taught to be frugal. Besides, with the city traffic, it was always faster to walk, or take the train, or both.

And of course, there was the car.

The secondhand black Ford was a present for both his 18th birthday, and the fact that he was accepted to a “high-quality” school. His family had always been one for trying to make sure he was not behind his more well-off friends. “Only top-quality for the only son, “ they always said. “Only high-class American car.”

He felt a vague sense of regret having to sell the car, but he needed the money for the trip, and maybe living expenses if there was any left over. Still, he was a little sad as he remembered their proud faces when they presented him with the key.

They had made many sacrifices to buy it for him and he was grateful, promising to study hard, get a good job, and do his part in turn as a dutiful son to send the younger sisters to school.

And now he was going to have to break his promise.

He ran his fingers over the cracked door handle, picking at the shreds of what were the gummy remains of a sticker peeking out from below. In the rearview mirror, he could see the driver’s frown when he accidentally pulled the handle by mistake. “Good thing is locked, “ the cabbie said. “I turn here?"

He nodded, seeing the shiny fruit stacked neatly in their boxes in front of the familiar doorways. He felt his chest tighten as they neared his house. He’d drawn many different scenarios of many possibilities in his mind of the confrontation to follow, and was pretty sure he knew what would happen next. He was not looking forward to it.

Mother would cry, definitely. “Aiyoooh, my son, “she would wail. “Why you want leave your sick old mother like that, lah?” He could almost see her wrinkly face all scrunched up and wet with tears.

Father would be angry, that, he knew.

If he was lucky, the old man would shout at him, maybe slap him for his lack of filial dutifulness. That was if he was lucky. If not, Father would just look grim with disappointment, turn his back and walk away, never talking to him again.

He hoped it would be the former—that at least would give him the chance to explain. All he had to do was wait for the shouting to die down, and say his piece. Father and Mother were easy, he’d had practice. Besides, he knew that all he had to do was play up his heritage, explain that all he was doing was following in their footsteps. After all, weren’t they the brave adventurous couple who traveled all the way to a new country with nothing except a baby girl in their arms and another on the way? Didn’t they risk their all to go over the sea to a place they knew nothing about, not even the language?

I’m just following your example, he was planning to say. Except this time, it would just be an airplane ride of less than a day, instead of weeks at sea.

That there was a girl involved was a fact that would be drowned in the bull he was planning to lay on them.

They would be hurt, of course. Maybe even mad, but that would pass. He was the only son, and could be forgiven anything, as soon as he presented them with a grandchild, preferably male.

It was Ah-chie he dreaded facing.

She was the eldest child, his second mother, born with the misfortune of being female, and the responsibility of being the next head of the family, but without the privileges an eldest son may have had.

She never complained about it, however. “I am the eldest, “ she would always say. “It is my duty. You are the son, we waiting for you, ah, so long, very long time. You must study hard, and then get good job, and then help me so we can all have good life. Do not be like me! You must get good job and good life!”

She always laughed, even when her hands hurt from sewing, and cleaning and whatever jobs were available for her to take. He was eight when she announced that she was not going to college, and would instead work, so the others could go to school. High-class schools. Top quality.

She had never married, and when he asked about it, she would look far off, a wistful smile on her face. She had a boyfriend once, but the relationship never prospered. “Oh why do I need to get married? I do not need more children, there is you, and Cherry, and Rose, and Katie and Rose…”

“You already said Rose, Ah-chie, “ he would laugh.

“Oh, oh, I am old now. So very forgetful. Who did I forget?”

“Lisa!”

“Tch, Lisa. She is hardheaded! We give her away, and buy a cow, what do you think? More useful!” He would laugh at that, and she would ruffle his hair with her calloused hands and then shoo him away so she could work. “You study! Do not be like me! Study hard! And then get good job! And then you help me so we can have good life! “

"But I still think we should give Lisa away! ” he would laugh.

“Okay, we give Lisa away, lah! Go and study hard!”

His youngest sister Lisa was the one who told him that Ah-chie took a fourth job so he could go to college with his own car. She would look for it, he knew. They all would, but would look to her for cues on how to react.

That was what he was afraid of. “Why you want to go back?” she would ask. “Father, Mother, Ah-chie went away from the there! Why you want to go back?”

“Ah-chie, there’s this girl with the most amazing eyes…”

Could he tell her that, he wondered. Would she get angry? Would she be disappointed? If so, how badly? Would she regret giving up the man she almost married so she could raise him and his sisters?

There it was. Telling them he was leaving wasn’t what he dreaded, he realized. It was telling them that it was because of a girl. Would they understand?

The taxi lurched to a stop, and he turned to see Ah-chie on the stoop, playing with the neighbor’s grandchildren. She looked so happy with the babies, he thought. She should have been able to raise her own.

He was tempted to tell the driver to drive around the block once more, just so he could gather strength, but then he heard her voice. “Oh you must study hard!” she was telling a laughing little girl. “Oh, cannot be like me! Study hard and get good job and get good life! Happy life! “

He leaned back, took a deep breath, and reached into his pocket to pay the fare.


Thursday, March 13, 2008

They said I needed to practice adjectives. So.




You are not here to play. You do not belong.

There is no music in your heart, no poetry in your soul. You have been told that often. You believe it now, and know it is true.

There is no beauty in your mind. It is unable to go through the twists and turns of labyrinthine passages with rose-covered walls ornamented in thorny verse that the poets here take.

Writing is a journey. But you are stuck in a land where it is best to be quick and direct: no straggling behind, no gallivanting about—no looking down or left or right-- it is how to avoid seeing the dead babies, the starving children and toothless crones that litter your way. You look straight ahead, walking as fast as you can, trying not to see the dried-up women barely in their teens, under the fallen arches of doorways in condemned buildings with peeling green paint, waiting for the rancid greasy old men who will decide who lives, who dies, who gets to eat another meal for the day.

You write quickly, without breathing; to pause will only cause you to inhale the acrid stench of old urine, causing your lungs to burn and your eyes to water, then you will have to stop, here, in this place you are in a hurry to leave.

It has been said that to seek the best prose, one must look no further than the asylum, and you are glad you are not part of that search. Your mind is not yet broken, the pieces of it are still held together by spit and duct tape, wrapped carefully in a yellowed handkerchief, and it will keep, if you hurry.

Hurry. Remember that it is not the best prose you seek, only the exit.