Fish Cheeks by Amy Tan
I
fell in love with the minister's son the winter I turned fourteen. He was not
Chinese, but as white as Mary in the manger. For Christmas I prayed for this
blond-haired boy, Robert, and a slim new American nose.
When I found out that
my parents had invited the minister's family over for Christmas Eve dinner, I
cried. What would Robert think of our shabby Chinese Christmas? What would he
think of our noisy Chinese relatives who lacked proper American manners? What
terrible disappoint-ment would he feel upon seeing not a roasted turkey and
sweet potatoes but Chinese food?
On Christmas Eve I
saw that my mother had outdone herself in creating a strange menu. She was
pulling black veins out of the backs of fleshy prawns. The kitchen was littered
with appalling mounds of raw food: A slimy rock cod with bulging eyes that
pleaded not to be thrown into a pan of hot oil. Tofu, which looked like stacked
wedges of rubbery white sponges. A bowl soaking dried fungus back to life. A
plate of squid, their backs crisscrossed with knife markings so they resembled
bicycle tires.
And
then they arrived – the minister's family and all my relatives in a clamor of
doorbells and rumpled Christmas packages. Robert grunted hello, and I pretended
he was not worthy of existence.
Dinner threw me
deeper into despair. My relatives licked the ends of their chopsticks and
reached across the table, dipping them into the dozen or so plates of food.
Robert and his family waited patiently for platters to be passed to them. My relatives
murmured with pleasure when my mother brought out the whole steamed fish.
Robert grimaced. Then my father poked his chopsticks just below the fish eye
and plucked out the soft meat. "Amy, your favorite," he said,
offering me the tender fish cheek. I wanted to disappear.
At the end of the meal my father leaned back and
belched loudly, thanking my mother for her fine cooking. "It's a polite
Chinese custom to show you are satisfied," explained my father to our
astonished guests. Robert was looking down at his plate with a reddened face.
The minister managed to muster up a quiet burp. I was stunned into silence for
the rest of the night.
After
everyone had gone, my mother said to me, "You want to be the same as
American girls on the outside." She handed me an early gift. It was a
miniskirt in beige tweed. "But inside you must always be Chinese. You must
be proud you are different. Your only shame is to have shame."
And even though I
didn't agree with her then, I knew that she understood how much I had suffered
during the evening's dinner. It wasn't until many year later – long after I had
gotten over my crush on Robert – that I was able to fully appreciate her lesson
and the true purpose behind our particular menu. For Christmas Eve that year,
she had chosen all my favorite foods.
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