American Panda by Gloria Chao
For Anthony, always, for believing in my words, for helping me find my inner měi, for giving me the world
And for anyone who’s ever felt like they didn’t belong
AUTHOR’S NOTE ABOUT THE MANDARIN WORDS
In this book, I used the pinyin system for the Mandarin words because it is the most widely known Romanization system. For pronunciation: the marks above the vowels represent four tones, with the lines indicating the pitch contour of the voice.
A straight line (ā), the first tone, is high and level, monotone.
Second tone (á) rises in pitch.
Third tone (ǎ) dips, then rises.
Fourth (à) starts high and drops, producing a sharp sound.
For some of the Mandarin phrases, I chose to depict the tones as the words are pronounced in conversation in my family’s accent. There may be some discrepancy with other accents and dialects.
CHAPTER 1
STINKY TOFU
THE STENCH OF THE RESTAURANT’S specialty walloped my senses as soon as I entered. Even with seventeen years of practice, I didn’t have a fighting chance against a dish named stinky tofu. I gagged.
My mother sniffed and smiled. “Smells like home.”
Mmm. Who doesn’t love the scent of athlete’s foot with lunch? I held a fist to my face, desperately inhaling the pomegranate scent of my hand sanitizer.
She swatted my hand down. “Don’t touch your face, Mei. Give yourself pimples for no reason. There are no ugly women. Only lazy women.”
In my head, I counted to ten in English, then Mandarin. Two more hours, three tops.
Mrs. Pan, a family friend who used to drive me to Chinese school, came over to our table to say hello, which apparently required grabbing my chin to inspect my face. My instinct to be deferential (heightened by my mother’s side-eye) warred with my desire to shake off Mrs. Pan’s bacteria-covered hands. When she finished her inspection and let go, I fought the urge to cover my now-sticky chin in pomegranate antiseptic, my trusty little sidekick.
“I can’t believe this is little Mei,” Mrs. Pan squeaked. “You got pretty! And look how big your nose is! That’s promising.”
I pasted on a well-rehearsed smile but couldn’t keep said nose from scrunching. I like my nose just fine, thank you very much, but years of “compliments” about its large size had made me insecure.
Mrs. Pan misinterpreted my embarrassment for confusion and explained, “It’s a Chinese superstition—having a big nose means you will have lots of money.”
Yes, because people will pay me to see my clown nose?
“Aiyah,” my mother said, using the Chinese word of exasperation that, for her, preceded every faux brag. “I do hope Mei makes money in the future, not for her sake, but mine. She just started at MIT this week, premed of course, and her tuition is driving me to an early grave. Ah, if she hadn’t skipped a grade, I would have had one more year to save up money. Sometimes I feel her intelligence is a curse.”
I probably should’ve been embarrassed, but this was the only form of praise I ever heard. I replayed my mother’s words in my head, letting the undertones of pride embrace me. Then, in anticipation of the round of my-child’s-brain-is-bigger-than-your-child’s that usually followed, I held my breath. Like if I breathed too loudly, I might miss it.
But Mrs. Pan went in another direction. A much worse, infinitely more embarrassing direction.
“Is Mei single?” she asked my mother as if I’d disappeared. “My firstborn son, Hanwei, is the sweetest, smartest boy, and he just might be interested in Mei!”
This was a first for me, probably sparked by my entrance to college, which to some Asian mothers meant releasing the hounds—husband-hunting season had begun. Never mind that I was only seventeen and had been forbidden to date until a week ago.
Mrs. Pan flashed a picture, always at the ready. The corners were dog-eared from frequent trips in and out of her pocket. I smiled, but it wasn’t because I thought Hanwei was cute. I could never date the boy who once peed on my foot. Sure, we were six at the time and in a car, but to me he would always be the boy who couldn’t control his bladder. And to him I was the carsick girl who had to carry a vomit bag—aka a recycled Ziploc my mother washed out by hand after each upchuck, too stingy to dip into the mountain of new ones in the garage. God, I might need a Ziploc right now at the thought of Pee-Boy and me together.
“Mei has lots of suitors,” my mother said. A lie. “Nice seeing you. Enjoy your meal.”
Perceiving her matchmaking to be a bust, Mrs. Pan turned off the charm and voiced what was really on her mind. “How did you get both of your children to be doctors? Especially your firstborn, Xing. He was always so tiáopí as a child, always getting other kids, even my guāi Hanwei, to do the worst things, like watch the R movies or play those violent video games.”
To avoid acknowledging my brother’s existence, my mother covered her face with a menu and declared she was so hungry she could die—a common Chinese saying. Mrs. Pan hovered a minute, hoping to break through my mother’s defenses, but the situation was too awkward for even her to bear.
As Mrs. Pan left, my mother leaned over and whispered, “Hanwei isn’t good enough for you, Mei. He went to Northeastern! And I heard from Mrs. Ahn who heard from Mrs. Tian—Remember Mrs. Tian? Her son went to Princeton—that after Hanwei graduated, he threw his college degree away to pursue music.”