Revolution is not a Dinner Party

Father started my English lessons when I was seven. I hated remembering all the rules of English, such as the s, es, and ies. Yet I had fun pronouncing English words. They sounded like the frogs singing in the field behind the hospital. During my lessons, Father told me stories about America that he had learned from his American teacher. And he taught me English songs and new words and-best of all I had Father’s full attention, with few interruptions from Mother.
We often started our lesson with the picture in the heavy gold frame on the mantel.
We walked to the fireplace. I stood on my tiptoes and reached for the picture. “I’ll dust it today, Daddy.” Father took it down and handed it to me.
I slowly ran a blue silk handkerchief over the glass. Inside was a photograph of a long orange bridge with clouds wrapped around it. I dreamed of flying among those clouds. “Daddy, why are there so many wires on top of the bridge?”
“It helps strengthen the bridge.” He took the picture and put it back in the center of the mantel. Picking up the medical journal from the floor under his leather chair, he sat back down.
I climbed in beside him. “It’s called-I know, I know-it’s called ‘sus-pen-sion.”” After carefully saying the difficult English word, I bounced.
“Careful! You’ll fall.” Father took hold of my arms.
“But you could always stitch me back up, right?” I winked at Father.
Father smiled. “Remember the name of the bridge?” “Of course! It’s called the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, America.” I proudly said all this English in a single breath.
“Very good!” Father patted my shoulder.
I had heard the story many times. Dr. Smith gave Father the picture as a farewell present before going back to San Francisco. He had invited Father to go to work in a hospital near the Golden Gate Bridge. But Father decided to stay to help build the new China.
Our entire building used to be Dr. Smith’s home. What was now our apartment had been his study and living room. It was here Dr. Smith taught Father and other doctors Western medicine and told them stories about his hometown near the Golden Gate Bridge. Father liked to share those happy times by telling the stories again and again.
“Daddy, I know why you put the picture in a thick golden frame. Because the bridge is heavy!” I burst into laughter. Father laughed, too.
“Ling,” Mother yelled from the kitchen. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t laugh like that!” Plates clattered in disapproval.
Father covered his mouth with his right hand.
I covered mine quickly, the way Mother had taught me, even though I was no longer laughing. I didn’t understand why Father liked my laugh but Mother didn’t.
She disapproved of me much of the time. I laughed too loud and forgot to cover my mouth, rudely showing my teeth. I forgot to cross my legs and tuck in my skirt when I sat down. I talked too much. I ate too fast. My feet were too big, and my hair was too dry.
Maybe I could have a good laugh without showing my teeth. But how could I change the size of my feet, which were almost as big as hers? And what could I do about my dry, tangled hair? I ate fast because I loved to eat. If I took small bites like Mother, it would take all night for me to finish dinner. Or I would be hungry all the time. I wished she loved me the way I was, like Father did.
I believed Mother was unhappy with me because she had never wanted to have a daughter. She told our neighbor Mrs. Wong if she were younger she would try to have a son. But Father loved me. I was his special girl.
Mother walked into the living room with a bamboo tray. I glanced at her as she moved closer to the dinner table. Her white lace apron covered her slender waist and part of her black silk dress. As always, her silky black hair was neatly pinned back, with every hair in place. Her pearl necklace shone in the last bit of summer sunlight coming through the windows. I could smell her jasmine perfume from across the room. She was more beautiful than the lady on the jars of powdered milk sent to us by Father’s friends in America.
How could I ever be as beautiful and perfect as she was? Mother narrowed her eyes as she looked at me. “Ling, you are too old to play with your father’s hair. Take the ponytails out right after your lesson.”
My stomach tightened. It was Father’s hair, and he hadn’t told me I was too old.
Mother set the blue rice bowls covered with small lotus flowers on the tray, one at a time. I still remembered how hard she scolded me when I stacked the bowls together.
How could I learn every one of Mother’s rules so I wouldn’t upset her?
As soon as Mother left the room, Father patted my back. He whispered, “Your mother has a lot on her mind these days. Be patient with her. Let’s start our new words for today.”
I wanted to ask Father what was on Mother’s mind. Was it because she wanted a boy? But I was afraid she would hear my questions from the kitchen.
I worked hard to pronounce new English words after
Father. “Pick, pike, big, beg, dig.” I imagined father and daughter frogs singing in a pond.
“Fountain, mountain…” Looking up at him, I burst out laughing again. I had forgotten about his ponytails.