…the role emotional courage plays when an individual experiences separation.

Text: The Paper Menagerie by Ken Liu

 

My mother’s homemade green onion pancake, congyoubing, was my favourite food. The taste brought back memories of hot summer days in Shanghai that lingered on my tongue in every bite. This dish was the perfect mix of salty spring onion filling with a crunchy exterior. That was my favourite food until I had my mother’s macaroni and cheese. It switched pretty fast after that.

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My friend Gabrielle is playful, picky, and popular. She was my best friend. Though the two of us seemed inseparable, an invisible string tying us together at all times, the friendship was not a two-way street. Gabrielle was always meticulous about what she approved of and what she did not. This applied to her friends as well. Her presence oozed royalty and superiority in the classroom. As a diffident young middle schooler, I was honoured to be accepted by her and would stop at nothing to make her happy. 

It was our first playdate- the first time Gabrielle came to my house. I slaved hours, cleaning every corner of the house to be pristine for her arrival. I implored my mother to make the most delicious meal for her, and that she did. My mother had managed to pull off the most extravagant and delicious meal plan that I would pay hundreds for. In a spring onion and ginger broth were hand-crimped shrimp wontons, accompanied with traditional spring rolls and gali ji huifan, our family’s Chinese chicken curry recipe, was just the basis of the menu. I even convinced her to add congyoubing to the list, delicious yet very tedious to make. I paid assiduous attention to every aspect of this playdate to ensure nothing would jeopardize the invisible string between the two of us. 

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I do not remember much from this play date. I can vaguely remember the dances we made and the movie we watched, but the rest of the day seemed foggy and distant. It seems my own thoughts are trying to protect me from the words that haunted my confidence and self-worth. “This food smells awful. I already know I am not going to like any of this, so I’m ordering pizza.” Her defiant eyes and her expression of disgust are forever embedded in the caverns of my memories. My instinct took over and I immediately responded with a mess of apologies and support for her words. I gave her the home phone to call Dominoes and ran to the kitchen. In a fit of flaring anger, formed from embarrassment, I whispered to my mother, “Never make Chinese food again. No one here likes it. Why can’t you just cook American food?” and ran back to Gabrielle. 

My hours of preparation were no match for her look of disgust- words of disapproval. My trepidacious behaviour was proven to be pointless; the invisible string I knew was soon to be broken. But little did I know I had already cut my most valuable tie of all, the one with my culture. 

Mom stopped making Chinese food, taking routine visits to T&T, and spending afternoons learning how to make macaroni and cheese and lasagna. My lunches miraculously turned into sandwiches and juice boxes instead of leftovers. I remember feeling such relief knowing that. 

When I look back on this date, I overflow with guilt and shame for what transpired. It is an ache that I can never take away. 

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My mother’s homemade green onion pancake, congyoubing, is my favourite food. The taste brings back memories of hot summer days in Shanghai that lingers on my tongue in every bite. This dish is the perfect mix of salty spring onion filling with a crunchy exterior. I taught myself from memory how to make it the other day. Mom said it was just like hers. I am bringing lots for my friends at school tomorrow, and I could not be more excited.