of a very fragrant red wood, not what you call rosewood, but hong mu, which is so fine there's noEnglish word for it. The table had a very thick pad, so that when the mah jongpai were spilledonto the table the only sound was of ivory tiles washing against one another.“Once we started to play, nobody could speak, except to say ‘Pung!" or “Chr!' when taking atile. We had to play with seriousness and think of nothing else but adding to our happiness throughwinning But after sixteen rounds, we would again feast, this time to celebrate our good fortune.And then we would talk into the night until the morning, saying stories about good times in the pastand good times yet to come.“Oh what good stories! Stories spilling out all over the place! We almost laughed to death. Arooster that ran into the house screeching on top of dinner bowls, the same bowls that held himquietly in pieces the next day! And one about a girl who wrote love letters for two friends wholoved the same man. And a silly foreign lady who fainted on a toilet when firecrackers went offnext to her.“People thought we were wrong to serve banquets every week while many people in the citywere starving, eating rats and, later, the garbage that the poorest rats used to feed on. Othersthought we were possessed by demons-to celebrate when even within our own families we hadlost generations, had lost homes and fortunes, and were separated, husband from wife, brotherfrom sister, daughter from mother. Hnnnh! How could we laugh, people asked.“It's not that we had no heart or eyes for pain. We were all afraid. We all had our miseriesBut to despair was to wish back for something already lost. Or to prolong what was alreadyunbearable. How much can you wish for a favorite warm coat that hangs in the closet of a housethat burned down with your mother and father inside of it? How long can you see in your mindarms and legs hanging from telephone wires and starving dogs running down the streets with half-chewed hands dangling from their jaws? What was worse, we asked among ourselves, to sit andwait for our own deaths with proper somber faces? Or to choose our own happiness?"So we decided to hold parties and pretend each week had become the new year. Each weekwe could forget past wrongs done to us. We weren't allowed to think a bad thought. We feasted.we laughed, we played games, lost and won, we told the best stories. And each week, we couldhope to be lucky. That hope was our only joy. And that's how we came to call our little parties JoyLuck"My mother used to end the story on a happy note, bragging about her skill at the game. “I wonmany times and was so lucky the others teased that I had learned the trick of a clever thief, shesaid.“I wontens of thousands ofyuan.ButI wasn't rich.No.Bythenpaper moneyhad becomeworthless. Even toilet paper was worth more. And that made us laugh harder, to think athousand-yuan note wasn't even good enough to rub on our bottoms.""I never thought my mother's Kweilin story was anything but a Chinese fairy tale. The endingalways changed. Sometimes she said she used that worthless thousand-yuan note to buy a half-cupof rice. She turned that rice into a pot of porridge. She traded that gruel for two feet from a pigThose two feet became six eggs, those eggs six chickens. The story always grew and grew.And then one evening, after I had begged her to buy me a transistor radio, after she refused
of a very fragrant red wood, not what you call rosewood, but hong mu, which is so fine there’s no English word for it. The table had a very thick pad, so that when the mah jongpai were spilled onto the table the only sound was of ivory tiles washing against one another. “Once we started to play, nobody could speak, except to say ‘Pung!’ or ‘Chr!’ when taking a tile. We had to play with seriousness and think of nothing else but adding to our happiness through winning. But after sixteen rounds, we would again feast, this time to celebrate our good fortune. And then we would talk into the night until the morning, saying stories about good times in the past and good times yet to come. “Oh, what good stories! Stories spilling out all over the place! We almost laughed to death. A rooster that ran into the house screeching on top of dinner bowls, the same bowls that held him quietly in pieces the next day! And one about a girl who wrote love letters for two friends who loved the same man. And a silly foreign lady who fainted on a toilet when firecrackers went off next to her. “People thought we were wrong to serve banquets every week while many people in the city were starving, eating rats and, later, the garbage that the poorest rats used to feed on. Others thought we were possessed by demons—to celebrate when even within our own families we had lost generations, had lost homes and fortunes, and were separated, husband from wife, brother from sister, daughter from mother. Hnnnh! How could we laugh, people asked. “It’s not that we had no heart or eyes for pain. We were all afraid. We all had our miseries. But to despair was to wish back for something already lost. Or to prolong what was already unbearable. How much can you wish for a favorite warm coat that hangs in the closet of a house that burned down with your mother and father inside of it? How long can you see in your mind arms and legs hanging from telephone wires and starving dogs running down the streets with halfchewed hands dangling from their jaws? What was worse, we asked among ourselves, to sit and wait for our own deaths with proper somber faces? Or to choose our own happiness? “So we decided to hold parties and pretend each week had become the new year. Each week we could forget past wrongs done to us. We weren’t allowed to think a bad thought. We feasted, we laughed, we played games, lost and won, we told the best stories. And each week, we could hope to be lucky. That hope was our only joy. And that’s how we came to call our little parties Joy Luck.” My mother used to end the story on a happy note, bragging about her skill at the game. “I won many times and was so lucky the others teased that I had learned the trick of a clever thief,” she said. “I won tens of thousands of yuan. But I wasn’t rich. No. By then paper money had become worthless. Even toilet paper was worth more. And that made us laugh harder, to think a thousand-yuan note wasn’t even good enough to rub on our bottoms.” I never thought my mother’s Kweilin story was anything but a Chinese fairy tale. The endings always changed. Sometimes she said she used that worthless thousand-yuan note to buy a half-cup of rice. She turned that rice into a pot of porridge. She traded that gruel for two feet from a pig. Those two feet became six eggs, those eggs six chickens. The story always grew and grew. And then one evening, after I had begged her to buy me a transistor radio, after she refused
and I had sulked in silence for an hour, she said, “Why do you think you are missing something younever had?" And then she told me a completely different ending to the story“An army officer came to my house early one morning,"' she said, “and told me to go quicklyto my husband in Chungking. And I knew he was telling me to run away from Kweilin. I knew whahappened to officers and theirfamilies when the Japanese arrived.How could I go? There were notrains leaving Kweilin. My friend from Nanking, she was so good to me. She bribed a man to steala wheelbarrow used to haul coal. She promised to warn our other friends.“I packed my things and my two babies into this wheelbarrow and began pushing toChungking four days before the Japanese marched into Kweilin. On the road I heard news of theslaughter from people running past me. It was terrible. Up to the last day, the Kuomintang insistedthat Kweilin was safe, protected by the Chinese army. But later that day, the streets of Kweilinwere strewn with newspapers reporting great Kuomintang victories, and on top of these paperslike fresh fish from a butcher, lay rows of peoplemen, women, and children who had never losthope, but had lost their lives instead. When I heard this news, I walked faster and faster, askingmyself at each step, Were they foolish? Were they brave?“I pushed toward Chungking, until my wheel broke. I abandoned my beautiful mah jong tableof hong mu. By then I didn't have enough feeling left in my body to cry. I tied scarves into slingsand put a baby on each side of my shoulder. I carried a bag in each hand, one with clothes, theother with food. I carried these things until deep grooves grew in my hands. And I finally droppedone bag after the other when my hands began to bleed and became too slippery to hold ontoanything.“Along the way, I saw others had done the same, gradually given up hope. It was like apathway inlaid with treasures that grew in value along the way. Bolts of fine fabric and booksPaintings of ancestors and carpenter tools. Until one could see cages of ducklings now quiet withthirst and, later still, silver urns lying in the road, where people had been too tired to carry themfor any kind of future hope. By the time I arrived in Chungking I had lost everything except folthree fancy silk dresses which I wore one on top of the other."“"What do you mean by 'everything?"' I gasped at the end. I was stunned to realize the storyhad been true all along. “What happened to the babies?"She didn't even pause to think. She simply said in a way that made it clear there was no moreto the story: “Your father is not my first husband. You are not those babies.'When I arrive at the Hsus' house, where the Joy Luck Club is meeting tonight, the first person I seis my father. “There she is! Never on time!" he announces. And it's true. Everybody's alreadyhere, seven family friends in their sixties and seventies. They look up and laugh at me, alwaystardy, a child still at thirty-six.I'm shaking, trying to hold something inside. The last time I saw them, at the funeral, I hacbroken down and cried big gulping sobs. They must wonder now how someone like me can takemy mother's place. A friend once told me that my mother and I were alike, that we had the samewispy hand gestures, the same girlish laugh and sideways look. When I shyly told my mother this
and I had sulked in silence for an hour, she said, “Why do you think you are missing something you never had?” And then she told me a completely different ending to the story. “An army officer came to my house early one morning,” she said, “and told me to go quickly to my husband in Chungking. And I knew he was telling me to run away from Kweilin. I knew what happened to officers and their families when the Japanese arrived. How could I go? There were no trains leaving Kweilin. My friend from Nanking, she was so good to me. She bribed a man to steal a wheelbarrow used to haul coal. She promised to warn our other friends. “I packed my things and my two babies into this wheelbarrow and began pushing to Chungking four days before the Japanese marched into Kweilin. On the road I heard news of the slaughter from people running past me. It was terrible. Up to the last day, the Kuomintang insisted that Kweilin was safe, protected by the Chinese army. But later that day, the streets of Kweilin were strewn with newspapers reporting great Kuomintang victories, and on top of these papers, like fresh fish from a butcher, lay rows of people—men, women, and children who had never lost hope, but had lost their lives instead. When I heard this news, I walked faster and faster, asking myself at each step, Were they foolish? Were they brave? “I pushed toward Chungking, until my wheel broke. I abandoned my beautiful mah jong table of hong mu. By then I didn’t have enough feeling left in my body to cry. I tied scarves into slings and put a baby on each side of my shoulder. I carried a bag in each hand, one with clothes, the other with food. I carried these things until deep grooves grew in my hands. And I finally dropped one bag after the other when my hands began to bleed and became too slippery to hold onto anything. “Along the way, I saw others had done the same, gradually given up hope. It was like a pathway inlaid with treasures that grew in value along the way. Bolts of fine fabric and books. Paintings of ancestors and carpenter tools. Until one could see cages of ducklings now quiet with thirst and, later still, silver urns lying in the road, where people had been too tired to carry them for any kind of future hope. By the time I arrived in Chungking I had lost everything except for three fancy silk dresses which I wore one on top of the other.” “What do you mean by ‘everything’?” I gasped at the end. I was stunned to realize the story had been true all along. “What happened to the babies?” She didn’t even pause to think. She simply said in a way that made it clear there was no more to the story: “Your father is not my first husband. You are not those babies.” When I arrive at the Hsus’ house, where the Joy Luck Club is meeting tonight, the first person I see is my father. “There she is! Never on time!” he announces. And it’s true. Everybody’s already here, seven family friends in their sixties and seventies. They look up and laugh at me, always tardy, a child still at thirty-six. I’m shaking, trying to hold something inside. The last time I saw them, at the funeral, I had broken down and cried big gulping sobs. They must wonder now how someone like me can take my mother’s place. A friend once told me that my mother and I were alike, that we had the same wispy hand gestures, the same girlish laugh and sideways look. When I shyly told my mother this
she seemed insulted and said, “You don't even know little percent of me! How can you be me?"And she's right. How can I be my mother at Joy Luck?“Auntie, Uncle, I say repeatedly, nodding to each person there. I have always called theseold family friends Auntie and Uncle. And then I walk over and stand next to my father.He's looking at the Jongs' pictures from their recent China trip. “Look at that," he sayspolitely, pointing to a photo of the Jongs' tour group standing on wide slab steps. There is nothingin this picture that shows it was taken in China rather than San Francisco, or any other city for thalmatter. But my father doesn't seem to be looking at the picture anyway. It's as though everythingwere the same to him, nothing stands out. He has always been politely indifferent. But what's theChinese word that means indifferent because you can't see any differences? That's how troubled Ithink he is by my mother's death."Will you look at that," he says, pointing to another nondescript picture.The Hsus' house feels heavy with greasy odors. Too many Chinese meals cooked in a toosmall kitchen, too many once fragrant smells compressed onto a thin layer of invisible grease. Iremember how my mother used to go into other people's houses and restaurants and wrinkle hernose, then whisper very loudly: “I can see and feel the stickiness with my nose."I have not been to the Hsus' house in many years, but the living room is exactly the same as Iremember it. When Auntie An-mei and Uncle George moved to the Sunset district from Chinatowrtwenty-five years ago, they bought new furniture. It's all there, still looking mostly new underyellowed plastic. The same turquoise couch shaped in a semicircle of nubby tweed. The colonialend tables made out of heavy maple. A lamp of fake cracked porcelain. Only the scroll-lengthcalendar, free from the Bank ofCanton, changes every year.I remember this stuff, because when we were children, Auntie An-mei didn't let us touch anyof her new furniture except through the clear plastic coverings. On Joy Luck nights, my parentsbrought me to the Hsus'. Since I was the guest, I had to take care of all the younger children, scmany children it seemed as if there were always one baby who was crying from having bumped itshead on a table leg.“You are responsible," said my mother, which meant I was in trouble if anything was spilled.burned, lost, broken, or dirty. I was responsible, no matter who did it. She and Auntie An-meiwere dressed up in funny Chinese dresses with stiff stand-up collars and blooming branches ofembroidered silk sewn overtheirbreasts.These clothesweretoofancyfor real Chinesepeople,Ithought, and too strange for American parties. In those days, before my mother told me her Kweilirstory, I imagined Joy Luck was a shameful Chinese custom, like the secret gathering of the Ku KluKlan or thetom-tomdances of TV Indianspreparingfor war.But tonight, there's no mystery. The Joy Luck aunties are all wearing slacks, bright printblouses, and different versions of sturdy walking shoes. We are all seated around the dining roomtable under a lamp that looks like a Spanish candelabra. Uncle George puts on his bifocals andstarts the meeting by reading the minutes:"Our capital account is $24,825, or about $6,206 a couple, $3,103 per person. We sold
she seemed insulted and said, “You don’t even know little percent of me! How can you be me?” And she’s right. How can I be my mother at Joy Luck? “Auntie, Uncle,” I say repeatedly, nodding to each person there. I have always called these old family friends Auntie and Uncle. And then I walk over and stand next to my father. He’s looking at the Jongs’ pictures from their recent China trip. “Look at that,” he says politely, pointing to a photo of the Jongs’ tour group standing on wide slab steps. There is nothing in this picture that shows it was taken in China rather than San Francisco, or any other city for that matter. But my father doesn’t seem to be looking at the picture anyway. It’s as though everything were the same to him, nothing stands out. He has always been politely indifferent. But what’s the Chinese word that means indifferent because you can’tsee any differences? That’s how troubled I think he is by my mother’s death. “Will you look at that,” he says, pointing to another nondescript picture. The Hsus’ house feels heavy with greasy odors. Too many Chinese meals cooked in a too small kitchen, too many once fragrant smells compressed onto a thin layer of invisible grease. I remember how my mother used to go into other people’s houses and restaurants and wrinkle her nose, then whisper very loudly: “I can see and feel the stickiness with my nose.” I have not been to the Hsus’ house in many years, but the living room is exactly the same as I remember it. When Auntie An-mei and Uncle George moved to the Sunset district from Chinatown twenty-five years ago, they bought new furniture. It’s all there, still looking mostly new under yellowed plastic. The same turquoise couch shaped in a semicircle of nubby tweed. The colonial end tables made out of heavy maple. A lamp of fake cracked porcelain. Only the scroll-length calendar, free from the Bank of Canton, changes every year. I remember this stuff, because when we were children, Auntie An-mei didn’t let us touch any of her new furniture except through the clear plastic coverings. On Joy Luck nights, my parents brought me to the Hsus’. Since I was the guest, I had to take care of all the younger children, so many children it seemed as if there were always one baby who was crying from having bumped its head on a table leg. “You are responsible,” said my mother, which meant I was in trouble if anything was spilled, burned, lost, broken, or dirty. I was responsible, no matter who did it. She and Auntie An-mei were dressed up in funny Chinese dresses with stiff stand-up collars and blooming branches of embroidered silk sewn over their breasts. These clothes were too fancy for real Chinese people, I thought, and too strange for American parties. In those days, before my mother told me her Kweilin story, I imagined Joy Luck was a shameful Chinese custom, like the secret gathering of the Ku Klux Klan or the tom-tom dances of TV Indians preparing for war. But tonight, there’s no mystery. The Joy Luck aunties are all wearing slacks, bright print blouses, and different versions of sturdy walking shoes. We are all seated around the dining room table under a lamp that looks like a Spanish candelabra. Uncle George puts on his bifocals and starts the meeting by reading the minutes: “Our capital account is $24,825, or about $6,206 a couple, $3,103 per person. We sold
Subaru for a loss at six and three-quarters. We bought a hundred shares of Smith International atseven. Our thanks to Lindo and Tin Jong for the goodies. The red bean soup was especiallydelicious.The March meetinghad to be canceled until further notice.We were sorry to have to bida fond farewell to our dear friend Suyuan and extended our sympathy to the Canning Woo familyRespectfully submitted, George Hsu, president and secretary.That's it. I keep thinking the others will start talking about my mother, the wonderfulfriendship they shared, and why I am here in her spirit, to be the fourth corner and carry on the ideamy mother came up with on a hot day in Kweilin.But everybody just nods to approve the minutes. Even my father's head bobs up and downroutinely. And it seems to me my mother's life has been shelved for new business.Auntie An-mei heaves herself up from the table and moves slowly to the kitchen to preparethefood.And AuntieLin, my mother's best friend,movesto theturquoise sofa, crossesher armsand watches the men still seated at the table. Auntie Ying, who seems to shrink even more everytime I see her, reaches into her knitting bag and pulls out the start of a tiny blue sweater.The Joy Luck uncles begin to talk about stocks they are interested in buying. Uncle Jack, whois Auntie Ying's younger brother, is very keen on a company that mines gold in Canada."It's a great hedge on inflation, he says with authority. He speaks the best English, almostaccentless. I think my mother's English was the worst, but she always thought her Chinese was thebest. She spoke Mandarin slightly blurred with a Shanghai dialect."Weren't we going to play mah jong tonight?" I whisper loudly to Auntie Ying, who's slightlydeaf."Later," she says, “after midnight."“Ladies, are you at this meeting or not?" says Uncle George. After everybody votesunanimously for the Canada gold stock, I go into the kitchen to ask Auntie An-mei why the JoyLuck Club started investing in stocks."We used to play mah jong, winner take all. But the same people were always winning, thesame people always losing, she says. She is stuffing wonton, one chopstick jab of gingery meatdabbed onto a thin skin and then a single fluid turn with her hand that seals the skin into the shapeof a tiny nurse's cap. You can't have luck when someone else has skill. So long time ago, wedecided to invest in the stock market. There's no skill in that. Even your mother agreed."?Auntie An-mei takes count of the tray in front of her. She's already made five rows of eightwonton each.“Forty wonton, eight people, ten each, five row more,"she says aloud to herself, andthen continues stuffing. "We got smart. Now we can all win and lose equally. We can have stockmarket luck. And we can play mah jong for fun, just for a few dollars, winner take all. Losers takehome leftovers! So everyone can have some joy. Smart-hanh??"I watch Auntie An-mei make more wonton. She has quick, expert fingers. She doesn't have tothink about what she is doing. That's what my mother used to complain about, that Auntie An-meinever thought about what she was doing
Subaru for a loss at six and three-quarters. We bought a hundred shares of Smith International at seven. Our thanks to Lindo and Tin Jong for the goodies. The red bean soup was especially delicious. The March meeting had to be canceled until further notice. We were sorry to have to bid a fond farewell to our dear friend Suyuan and extended our sympathy to the Canning Woo family. Respectfully submitted, George Hsu, president and secretary.” That's it. I keep thinking the others will start talking about my mother, the wonderful friendship they shared, and why I am here in her spirit, to be the fourth corner and carry on the idea my mother came up with on a hot day in Kweilin. But everybody just nods to approve the minutes. Even my father’s head bobs up and down routinely. And it seems to me my mother’s life has been shelved for new business. Auntie An-mei heaves herself up from the table and moves slowly to the kitchen to prepare the food. And Auntie Lin, my mother’s best friend, moves to the turquoise sofa, crosses her arms, and watches the men still seated at the table. Auntie Ying, who seems to shrink even more every time I see her, reaches into her knitting bag and pulls out the start of a tiny blue sweater. The Joy Luck uncles begin to talk about stocks they are interested in buying. Uncle Jack, who is Auntie Ying’s younger brother, is very keen on a company that mines gold in Canada. “It’s a great hedge on inflation,” he says with authority. He speaks the best English, almost accentless. I think my mother’s English was the worst, but she always thought her Chinese was the best. She spoke Mandarin slightly blurred with a Shanghai dialect. “Weren’t we going to play mah jong tonight?” I whisper loudly to Auntie Ying, who’s slightly deaf. “Later,” she says, “after midnight.” “Ladies, are you at this meeting or not?” says Uncle George. After everybody votes unanimously for the Canada gold stock, I go into the kitchen to ask Auntie An-mei why the Joy Luck Club started investing in stocks. “We used to play mah jong, winner take all. But the same people were always winning, the same people always losing,” she says. She is stuffing wonton, one chopstick jab of gingery meat dabbed onto a thin skin and then a single fluid turn with her hand that seals the skin into the shape of a tiny nurse’s cap. “You can't have luck when someone else has skill. So long time ago, we decided to invest in the stock market. There’s no skill in that. Even your mother agreed.” Auntie An-mei takes count of the tray in front of her. She’s already made five rows of eight wonton each. “Forty wonton, eight people, ten each, five row more,” she says aloud to herself, and then continues stuffing. “We got smart. Now we can all win and lose equally. We can have stock market luck. And we can play mah jong for fun, just for a few dollars, winner take all. Losers take home leftovers! So everyone can have some joy. Smart-hanh?” I watch Auntie An-mei make more wonton. She has quick, expert fingers. She doesn’t have to think about what she is doing. That’s what my mother used to complain about, that Auntie An-mei never thought about what she was doing
“She's not stupid."said my mother on one occasion,“but she has no spine.Last week, I had agood idea for her. I said to her, Let's go to the consulate and ask for papers for your brother. Andshe almost wanted to drop her things and go right then. But later she talked to someone. Whoknows who?And that person told her she can get her brother in bad trouble in China. That persorsaid FBI will put her on a list and give her trouble in the U.S. the rest of her life. That person saidYou ask for a house loan and they say no loan, because your brother is a communist. I said, Youalready have a house! But still she was scared."Aunti An-mei runs this way and that," said my mother, “and she doesn't know why."As I watch Auntie An-mei, I see a short bent woman in her seventies, with a heavy bosom andthin, shapeless legs. She has the flattened soft fingertips of an old woman I wonder what AuntieAn-mei did to inspire a lifelong stream of criticism from my mother. Then again, it seemed mymother was always displeased with all her friends, with me, and even with my father. Somethingwas always missing. Something always needed improving. Something was not in balance. This oneor that had too much of one element, not enough of another.The elements were from my mother's own version of organic chemistry. Each person is madeof five elements, she told me.Too much fire and you had a bad temper. That was like my father, whom my mother alwayscriticized for his cigarette habit and who always shouted back that she should keep her thoughts toherself I think he now feels guilty that he didn't let my mother speak her mind.Too littlewood and youbent too quicklyto listen to otherpeople's ideas,unableto stand onyour own. This was like my Auntie An-mei.Too much water and you flowed in too many directions, like myself, for having started half adegree in biology, then half a degree in art, and then finishing neither when I went off to work for asmall ad agency as a secretary, later becoming a copywriter.I used to dismiss her criticisms as just more of her Chinese superstitions, beliefs thatconveniently fit the circumstances. In my twenties, while taking Introduction to Psychology, I triedto tell her why she shouldn't criticize so much, why it didn't lead to a healthy learningenvironment.There's a school of thought," I said, “that parents shouldn't criticize children. They shouldencourage instead. You know, people rise to other people's expectations. And when you criticizeit just means you're expecting failure.""“That's the trouble,' my mother said. “You never rise. Lazy to get up. Lazy to rise toexpectations."“Time to eat," Auntie An-mei happily announces, bringing out a steaming pot of the wontonshe was just wrapping. There are piles of food on the table, served buffet style, just like at theKweilin feasts. My father is digging into the chow mein, which still sits in an oversize aluminumpan surrounded by little plastic packets of soy sauce. Auntie An-mei must have bought this onClement Street. The wonton soup smells wonderful with delicate sprigs of cilantro floating on topI'm drawn first to a large platter ofchaswei, sweet barbecued pork cut into coin-sized slices, and
“She’s not stupid,” said my mother on one occasion, “but she has no spine. Last week, I had a good idea for her. I said to her, Let’s go to the consulate and ask for papers for your brother. And she almost wanted to drop her things and go right then. But later she talked to someone. Who knows who? And that person told her she can get her brother in bad trouble in China. That person said FBI will put her on a list and give her trouble in the U.S. the rest of her life. That person said, You ask for a house loan and they say no loan, because your brother is a communist. I said, You already have a house! But still she was scared. “Aunti An-mei runs this way and that,” said my mother, “and she doesn’t know why.” As I watch Auntie An-mei, I see a short bent woman in her seventies, with a heavy bosom and thin, shapeless legs. She has the flattened soft fingertips of an old woman. I wonder what Auntie An-mei did to inspire a lifelong stream of criticism from my mother. Then again, it seemed my mother was always displeased with all her friends, with me, and even with my father. Something was always missing. Something always needed improving. Something was not in balance. This one or that had too much of one element, not enough of another. The elements were from my mother’s own version of organic chemistry. Each person is made of five elements, she told me. Too much fire and you had a bad temper. That was like my father, whom my mother always criticized for his cigarette habit and who always shouted back that she should keep her thoughts to herself. I think he now feels guilty that he didn’t let my mother speak her mind. Too little wood and you bent too quickly to listen to other people’s ideas, unable to stand on your own. This was like my Auntie An-mei. Too much water and you flowed in too many directions, like myself, for having started half a degree in biology, then half a degree in art, and then finishing neither when I went off to work for a small ad agency as a secretary, later becoming a copywriter. I used to dismiss her criticisms as just more of her Chinese superstitions, beliefs that conveniently fit the circumstances. In my twenties, while taking Introduction to Psychology, I tried to tell her why she shouldn’t criticize so much, why it didn’t lead to a healthy learning environment. “There’s a school of thought,” I said, “that parents shouldn’t criticize children. They should encourage instead. You know, people rise to other people’s expectations. And when you criticize, it just means you’re expecting failure.” “That’s the trouble,” my mother said. “You never rise. Lazy to get up. Lazy to rise to expectations.” “Time to eat,” Auntie An-mei happily announces, bringing out a steaming pot of the wonton she was just wrapping. There are piles of food on the table, served buffet style, just like at the Kweilin feasts. My father is digging into the chow mein, which still sits in an oversize aluminum pan surrounded by little plastic packets of soy sauce. Auntie An-mei must have bought this on Clement Street. The wonton soup smells wonderful with delicate sprigs of cilantro floating on top. I’m drawn first to a large platter of chaswei, sweet barbecued pork cut into coin-sized slices, and