American Panda(72)

The waitress served our pizza, pasta, and salad all at once to be eaten family-style. Asian-style.

My mother reached for the food first. “I love pizza. It’s like an oyster pancake, but with the chee-se.” She separated the word “cheese” into two syllables, the way it’s pronounced in Mandarin. “I wish Bǎbá liked it as much as I did. Then I wouldn’t have to wait until our meetings to get it.”

I knew her use of the word “meeting” was the result of the language barrier and that she hadn’t meant to refer to our bonding sessions like a business gathering. But still, I needed a deep breath. I reminded myself how her voice rose in pitch when we made plans and how her face always brightened when she saw me.

“How’s Bǎbá?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral, and not for lack of trying, mostly on my mother’s end. I had sent a few emails and left one voicemail, all unanswered. On the outside, I pretended my infrequent tries were because I didn’t care, but it was really because the rejection was too hard. I tried to focus on the positive, how he no longer objected to my mother’s relationship with me. I hoped that one day we’d be a family again. Some days it felt like a matter of time, but others it felt like a delusional dream I was clinging to for survival.

Like today. Before my mother had even responded, I knew the answer to my question. Lines had appeared on her face, a handful of new wrinkles since our last get-together that said, Your father hasn’t changed.

Yet, I tried to remind myself.

My mother tore off a piece of crust, and without looking up, she said, “He’s the same. Mopey. He misses you and Xing but won’t admit it. I don’t know why he can’t just give a little.”

“Cognitive dissonance perhaps?” I suggested.

My mom raised an eyebrow in question.

“Bǎbá sacrificed so much because of these traditions, and if he gives a little, it would mean his hardships were unnecessary,” I explained. “So in a way, he can’t give in because he can’t accept that he suffered for no reason.”

“My daughter, so smart,” my mother said with a proud smile. I waited for the faux part of the brag, perhaps something about how I never used my intelligence for anything useful, but nothing came.

Suddenly my food tasted better despite my nose burning. I smiled at her, a cheek-straining, unadulterated smile I haven’t given her since I was a little kid.

When only a few sausage balls remained on the pizza pan, Darren excused himself to the bathroom.

My mother cupped a hand over her mouth and whispered, “He’s cute, like a young Takeshi Kaneshiro. He has the same jawline and nose.”

“Ew, Mǎmá, please don’t make me throw up my shrimp Rossini.” I made a mental note to Google Takeshi Kaneshiro later.

Her face and voice grew serious, and I leaned forward instinctively.

“He likes you. He didn’t care how loud you laughed or how fast you ate. How is this possible?” Her voice was tinged with jealousy.

My heart sank with the realization that she was ladylike for my father, fighting her natural instincts in fear of being cast aside. She looked exhausted from a lifetime of acting.

I placed a hand over hers. “You don’t have to pretend. You can be yourself.”

She turned her palm up and squeezed. “I’m learning from you. My smart girl. My American panda.” Then she said the words I’d waited seventeen years to hear. “I’m proud of you.”

I sucked a noisy breath in through my nose, unable to do anything else.

She slipped her hand away, reached into her purse, then tucked a red envelope into my palm, as she did every time we met.

“Thank you, Mǎmá,” I breathed, referring to both the money and her words.

Darren was weaving his way back to us.

“Hang on to him, Mei. No one else will love your manly laugh.”

I grinned. “So will I never hear the name ‘Eugene Huang’ again?”

“Of course you won’t! Didn’t you hear? He didn’t get into medical school!”

Then we laughed. Together.



“And a five, six, seven, eight!”

The studio came to life with thirty tiny feet stomping, leaping, and trotting. At first I hadn’t guessed those stubby legs could create such vibration, but now I was used to it. Rose arm-flapped right up to me, her red ballet skirt flowing, and she arched her neck to stick her giant smile in my face. Well, more like my stomach. I leaned down and flapped my arms in sync with her. She shrieked, then ran away to join her posse (of which she was queen, of course).

The pop music transitioned into Dunhuang bells and lutes, and I yelled, “Switch!”

Fifteen heads bobbed side to side in Xinjiang fashion as they rose to their tiptoes, bourrée-ing around the room amid giggles. I glanced around, taking in their energetic movements and gummy smiles.

If my heart hadn’t been contained within my rib cage, it might have burst from happiness.

Once the little munchkins were gone, my adult students streamed in.

I clapped my hands to signal the start of class and switched on Beyoncé. I took my place at the front of the studio and eased into our warm-up routine, starting with isolations. As my head turned right-center-left-center, I glanced at the students in my peripheral vision. I couldn’t make out their features but knew each of them by the way they moved.