Four
years
ago,
I
had
assumed that my parents were
complete animal enthusiasts.
They
came
home
every
night after long shifts at our
restaurant seemingly eager
to turn on Animal Planet. My
mom would call me over to
watch, giggling at the frenzied
yet astute organization of
meerkat
manors.
My
dad
would gawk at the ferocious
pace
of
lionesses
chasing
zebras across the Serengeti.
At garage sales, he could
never resist bringing home a
stack of National Geographic
magazines.
We’ve
housed
nearly every animal allowed as
a pet by the state of Michigan.
I was obviously wrong.
It’s clear today that they
could
not
care
less.
My
parents cheer enthusiastically
at “Sing! China” and other
knock-off music competitions.
The browsing history of our
home computer is filled with
2000s-esque online tabloids
divulging the latest Asian
celebrity
scandal.
Their
smartphones constantly blow
up with WeChat pings from
their friends across the world.
There are no more Discovery
Channel specials documenting
the
inscrutable
beauty
of
wild dolphins; instead, now
my parents only discover the
“unbelievable” talent of the
Dolphin Princess. They spend
hours glued to a screen, eyes
welling up when prompted and
laughing exactly as scripted.
It’s the mindless media every
baby boomer life coach warns
against. But this was exactly
what I wanted.
There’s
a
charming
simplicity and boredom to life
in the American Midwest. It’s
the birthplace of the five-day
work week, the 9 to 5 shift
and church on Sunday. My
parents, however, were never
part of this simple life. They
arrived by boat, uneducated,
unskilled and unable to speak
a lick of English. They opened
a small takeout restaurant
in western Michigan, where
they worked endless hours
to support our family in the
New World. Our restaurant is
among the oldest in the city;
my grandma’s garden in the
front earned it a mention in
the Muskegon Chronicle. My
parents’ unmistakable effort
and spirit of entrepreneurship
fits neatly into the myth of the
American Dream. It’s exactly
the
false
consciousness
surrounding upward mobility
— their success obscures how
so many others are failed by
the invisible hand, how we
lived anxiously without health
insurance, how we became
too
accustomed
to
armed
robberies.
I could count the number
of Chinese families I know
living back home with one
hand. Though it’s a cliché in
the coming-of-age stories of
other Asian/Pacific Islander
American kids from small-
town America, I wrestled
with the sense of “otherness”
and assimilation. But it was
during my senior year of
high school when I began to
think, what about my parents?
While I could easily Facetime
people on the other side of the
planet, they were still buying
international calling cards to
reconnect for mere minutes
with their friends back home.
In 2013, my parents had never
logged onto a computer; they
had never sent a text message
over the phone. To be frank,
they
were
ignorant,
but
perhaps not in bliss. Were they
bored? Were they lonely these
last 20-or-so years? Maybe my
dad kept replaying the same
CDs because he had no idea
where to find new Chinese
music. Maybe they spent so
much time watching wildlife
because
those
programs
didn’t
require
English
comprehension.
After lobbying my parents
for
months,
they
finally
bought a computer. I sought
their digital enlightenment.
They could chat instantly
with their friends across the
world. With Google Maps,
they could retrace their old
neighborhoods back in China.
Though they were comfortable
with the fact that my brother
and I had been surfing the
internet for years, they were
ferociously
resistant
to
idea that they do the same.
“We’re too old for this!”
they’d complain — an excuse
too common in immigrant
households.
From the mundane like
translating
during
grocery
trips to the complex like
explaining tax forms, there
are
numerous
moments
where
immigrant
children
become the parents. It was
humiliating for my parents to
have established a thriving
business, only to struggle to
use a keyboard. I’d sit with
them for hours at a time,
guiding their mouse across
the
browser.
Sometimes
when they got it (the red “x”
means exit), I’d see a childlike
sense
of
accomplishment
spread across their faces. But,
inevitably, we’d get frustrated.
We’d argue. They’d call me a
“Si zi.” I’d tell them “I can’t
do this anymore!” We’d storm
off, only later to return — no
apologies — and simply try
again.
Soon, they became semi-
proficient. They could turn
the computer on and off
and learned to open Google
Chrome. It was good enough.
Understanding
how
to
browse the internet was their
watershed
moment.
And
before I left for Ann Arbor,
they
wanted
smartphones
with WeChat and Weibo, a
way to stream Chinese cable,
and instructions on how to
download music. I have a
disdain for mass media, but
when my mother received
her first WeChat voicemails
from childhood friends who
asked, “Yan Li! What took
you so long???” and I saw
the excitement and joy that
raced through her existence,
I decided I’ll always put aside
my thoughts for them.
One day, my mom caught me
off guard while I was home for
Fall Break. She had prepared
a simple, nostalgic lunch for
my return: steamed rice with
Lachang. As she watched me
eat, she remarked, “They gave
our restaurant four out of five
stars.” The reviews. Who told
her? For every one bad review,
there are 20 other to drown
them out, but everyone, my
parents included, wants to
hear criticism. I was annoyed
and surprised that she had
discovered the online reviews
of our restaurant on her own.
Perhaps her friend Rose from
Milwaukee told her about
it. We chatted about how
our competitors were only
three stars and how some
restaurants didn’t even show
up. She was surprised that
people even liked the food in
the first place and then joked
about how funny life was
where two Chinese “peasants”
could become successful in
America. Playing into her
humble boast, I pretended to
be delightfully shocked.
“Hunter, can you translate
the reviews for me?”
Thank
God
I
never
taught
her
how
to
use
Google Translate. If you’ve
interpreted languages before,
you know the three most
important things are syntax,
meaning and context. But it
only matters if you’re trying to
be truthful.
I, like other children of
immigrants, chose to lie to my
parents.
The language barrier that
had been the root of so much
childhood
self-hatred
and
embarrassment became my
saving grace. I never thought
that teaching my parents to
use a computer could ever
backfire. Right now, my mom
doesn’t know how to translate
and read the reviews, but
eventually she will. She’ll get
better on the computer. She’ll
discover that she doesn’t need
me. And she’ll read them.
My parents didn’t come
here to run a Michelin-starred
restaurant; they came here to
give their children a better
chance at life. Leaving their
dreams behind, they provided
me the ultimate opportunity
to pursue mine: a life free
from poverty and oppression.
I can never fully describe
the sacrifices they made, the
barriers they overcame. Even
if hot vegetable oil burns and
blisters my arms — just like
my father’s — from stir-frying
“cheap” takeout food for self-
proclaimed Chinese culinary
experts, my life is still better
than it would have been.
Instead of a conspiracy of
ripping off customers with
“garbage food,” maybe we
don’t
accept
credit
cards
because
my
parents
don’t
know how to use them. Maybe
the girl who “is a complete
moron” struggles on the phone
because we didn’t have money
for English lessons. Maybe it
“is not Chinese at all” because
actual Chinese people don’t
eat General Tso’s Chicken
as their plat principal with a
fortune cookie as dessert.
Maybe
the
reason
why
our white rice is “excellent”
isn’t because we followed the
directions on some bag. It’s
because my parents learned to
cook it perfectly when it was
the only thing their families
could afford. That every last
morsel mattered back then.
That even when you burned
it, you scraped the charred
bottom crust and ate it to ease
the pain of hunger. That before
my dad was even a teenager —
his house stripped bare by the
government, his parents sent
to labor camps, his older sisters
deported for “reeducation,”
his family blacklisted by the
community and the survival of
two siblings left in his hands
alone — he would wait outside
homes in the middle of the
night to wait his turn to dig
through their trash and find
smashed remnants of soured,
rotten white rice, bring it
home to soak it in water so
that the ants would float up
top to be poured away, and
fed to his younger brother and
sister so they wouldn’t starve.
He’d eagerly eat what was left
of the rancid slurry.
How can a single comment
so effectively, so easily erase
the histories of my family? In
this digital age, anonymity
begets such cold cruelty. And
in truth, I can’t bring myself to
blame them. It’d be unrealistic
to demand that customers
censor their thoughts — they
have the right to express a
bad experience. Honestly, the
comments people leave for
our restaurant are hilariously
creative.
Nevertheless,
as
the restaurant owners’ son, I
can’t help but overreact at the
ignorance and insensitivity of
these comments. I can’t help
but be defensive.
They probably wrote those
reviews in less than two
minutes, mindlessly thumbing
characters,
uncaring
about
who the audience was and
what the impact would be.
Four out of five stars doesn’t
just represent the success of
our restaurant; it’s validation
of my parents’ lives — their
journey, their challenge, their
success.
I know I shouldn’t be worked
up. I know these comments
mean nothing. I know my
mom is a lion, strongest among
beasts and turns away from
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Thursday, October 26, 2017 — 3A
“The white rice was excellent. Followed the
directions on the bag perfectly. Way to go.” Dear
Black
Girl
HUNTER ZHAO
MiC Contributor
Black girl,
I like your hair,
The way it defies gravity
And holds its shape,
The way it curls
Once water hits,
Forehead to nape.
Black girl,
Can’ t you see?
You can do anything
To your hair.
Wear it up or down,
No one should really care.
Wear it with a relaxer
Or wear it with curls.
Look in the mirror
And watch how it swirls.
Add color in it
Or keep it deep brown,
But whatever you do,
Wear your own crown.
Black girl,
I like your hair.
Black girl,
Life is a dare.
TANISHA SHELTON
who has this position
no one. Even if I translated them
faithfully, she’d probably be fine; but
I have a brutal sense of protection
towards my family. I would never
let anything, not even the minutiae
of online restaurant reviews, come
close or even attempt to chip away at
their accomplishments.
I will never.
“Mom, they love the food. They
said everything was affordable and
delicious.”
Her ears perk up. She sets her
eyes on me, her subtle smile clear.
She’s proud — a pride distinct from
reading any kind of review. She’s
proud to have kept her end of the
immigrant bargain and prouder that
I’m about to keep mine. Come April,
I will no longer be a first-generation
college student; I’ll be an alum.
After my graduation, our restaurant
will finally close its doors having
achieved its purpose.
I wish I didn’t have to lie, but then
again, I am her stubborn and selfish
American son. No more translations
of reviews. “There’s no need,” I
constantly assure her. “Nothing has
changed.” Because of course, our
white rice will always be excellent.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF HUNTER ZHAO