American Panda(62)
My man-laugh burst from my lips, louder than the rest of the audience, but I didn’t care.
Ying-Na grasped the mic with both hands. “As most of you know, this is a pretty diverse show. Because there’s just too much in Asian culture to make fun of.” She smiled. “In all seriousness, I think we need more Asian comedians out there. But it makes sense why there aren’t that many of us. Humor isn’t valued. Every time I made a joke, my father would ask, ‘How’s that going to help you get a husband?’ Because, of course, a docile, quiet, obedient woman is easier to marry off than a funny one full of personality.
“My tiger parents weren’t proud of me, but nothing was worse than when I told them I wanted to be a stand-up comedian. They asked if I was being blackmailed, and if so, was it a Chinese single male willing to marry me?”
Pause. “Just kidding. Their actual response was to throw me on the street with one box of bāos to hold me over until I came to my senses. Those bāos lasted me until I found a minimum-wage job and this club. Contrary to what the Asian grapevine is saying, I did not also find herpes or a boyfriend who majored in English. Yes, those are equally bad in my parents’ eyes.”
She strolled as she spoke, as if she were speaking about buying groceries, not the worst day of her life (the way I still viewed my disownment day).
“I turned into the local Chinese community’s cautionary tale: whore, spinster, homeless, whatever that Asian parent’s biggest fear was. Since I don’t go by my Chinese name, I often hear these stories from other Asians who don’t realize they’re telling me about my own sexcapades and failures. Did you know I was giving head in the public-school bathroom yesterday at the same time I was peddling heroin on the other side of town? And all because I tried one sip of alcohol.”
A link formed between Ying-Na and me. We weren’t all that different, using humor as a coping mechanism.
“The only thing these rumors got right was that I don’t give a shit about dishonoring my ancestors. But I see it as being honest. And so far I haven’t been struck down, although I guess getting struck with a hundred cases of proverbial STDs might count.”
As I bent forward in laughter, my eyes locked with my neighbor, an Asian girl approximately my age. We nodded to each other as we snickered, bonded by a shared sense of humor.
Ying-Na turned and strolled in the other direction.
“So I went on this date the other day. To my mother’s dismay, he wasn’t Taiwanese, but he did have yellow fever, which is the only way I get dates now. I guess most men are turned off by my hooded eyes, snub nose, and pan face.” She circled her face with her hand. “It’s like I was the tragic victim of God’s whack-a-mole game. I didn’t have a chance being a hundred percent Chinese, the one race that selected on obedience, not looks.”
While the audience laughed, my girl crush on her grew. I hoped my confidence could be as high as hers one day.
“So anyways, this guy, my date, tells me he’s going to give me an education in Chinese food because he’s a quote-on-quote ‘expert.’?” She made air quotes with her free hand. “Well, of course, he took me for chow mein, General Gao’s chicken, and moo goo gai pan.”
No one else laughed, which amplified mine. I stopped short, embarrassed. Wait, why weren’t the other Asians laughing? Were their families not as judgy as Lu Pàng about Americanized Chinese food?
Ying-Na gestured to me. “Thank you, jiějie! My Asian sister!”
She smiled, and I wondered if she could make out my features from stage. Would she remember me?
“For the rest of you, that’s not Chinese food. And for the record, I’m also not related to every other Chu out there.”
She sipped her water as we laughed. I thought of how in high school, everyone had assumed Ping Lu was my cousin, but no one assumed Ally Jones and Mike Jones were related.
“So halfway through our date, this guy tells me he has ESP. He thought he was part of a government experiment.” She paused to push her lips into a straight line and stared at us with wary eyes. “This is a true story, guys. He told me that he exclusively dates Asians because we’re the only ones who can understand since we also have superpowers—math, obedience, and DDR, of course. Naturally, I stayed. I only have two check boxes on my list.” She held up one finger. “Not chosen by my mother and”—another finger—“doesn’t like my mother.”
Pause. “Just kidding. I actually chucked five rolls at him, then yelled, ‘Use your fucking ESP’ when they all hit him in the face.”
The audience cheered. Some whistled, some woo-ed, and others chanted “Chu! Chu! Chu!” which blended with the woos concordantly.
“Now, after my date with Racist Man, Boston’s newest superhero, my checklist also includes no yellow fever . . . which means I will be single forever. Unless I let my mother help me. The last time she tried to set me up, she brought three brothers over and told me to choose one. I started haggling with them, thinking she’d be impressed by how much I’d learned during our last trip to China.”
In a Chinese accent, she mimicked, “Two dollar, how about two dollar for you to leave me alone?”
She reverted to her American accent. “By the end of it, I was out fifty bucks and my mother was probably out another hundred bucks just to get them there in the first place.”