was stomped down by life. He lived as an invisible Chinese man. His big sis, my grandma Ruby, put the hammer down and he pretty much didnât put up a fight. She was fierce, all right. But at what cost?
As a kid, I would see my grandmother berating Uncle Bill at family dinners. He sat like a lump and took it. Chinese people have used passivity as a survival strategy for centuries, but sometimes I really wish he had stood up to her, even once. But I guess he just didnât have it in him to fight.
I think of Uncle Bill often. And as I write this I wonder, am I telling his secrets or am I keeping his spirit a little bit alive? At his funeral I couldnât bear to speak about the little, poignant things I learned about him while throwing out his lifeâs nibbles and bits. It was freezing in Colma that day, and the few of us who were there stood in a tiny huddle. I was blubbering cuz thatâs what I do. My grandmother, whoâd lain down the law and deemed the LUV of his life a loser, didnât even get out of the car. Of course, she was in her nineties and it was ass-cold, so Iâll cut her some slack, but dang.
They lowered Billâs smallish casket into the Astroturf-lined pit and I wished, suddenly, that I had placed some of his beloved souvenir toothpicks in there with him. Maybe he could have the cocktail party in heaven that he couldnât, or simply didnât, have here.
He was never Number One. I never saw him in any holiday photo. No one would have ever called him the best or brightest of anything. He was a dim star in a packed Milky Way of high-achieving, Chinese superstars. But let me stop and say that Uncle Bill mattered. He came and went quietly without a peep, but he was just like so many of us. He may never have achieved any conventional hallmarks of greatness, and wasnât particularly good-looking, didnât excel in his profession, have children, or even drive a cool car. In fact, he didnât even have a license. But it didnât mean he didnât have wants and needs, or dreams as big as anyone elseâs. Who was he? He was a Tiger Cub who never spoke up, struck back, or even talked back. There are thousands of us, millions even, all alone inside ourselves.
And to further remind myself that gentle souls always matter, I keep Billâs picture on the refrigerator. No one ever asks me about it. No one has asked me who he is. And I have not pointed him out to anybody. But he is there. And I know it. Oftentimes, at potluck dinners with our neighbors, I find myself talking to someone in my kitchen but Iâm looking slightly to the side, to the picture of him. My friends and I might be laughing and having a good time. We have appetizers and drinks, but weâve got no cocktail toothpicks from the Grand Canyon. I stand there remembering Bill as my friend talks. Despite the fact that I barely knew him, I feel like I did know him. Although he was painfully shy, his DNA is linked with mine and so, even still, is an invisible frailty. His shoulders were always slumped over, but nonetheless, the memory of him somehow holds me up.
9
Alpha Females in Separate Cages
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I began at UC Berkeley as a double major in English literature and fine arts. Although there were thousands of Asian American students, there were just a handful in the English department then, and even fewer in the art department. But that wasnât why my social life was nonexistent. I was just naturally kind of a hermit and spent most weeknights in my apartment doing homework and watching Jeopardy!
I still remember the time when the TV show was having âcollege week.â I was glued to the set because I was really hoping theyâd have a contestant from UC Berkeley. One evening I fixed my usual dinner of champions, Top Ramen with the âOrientalâ flavor pack, and sat down expecting some rousing entertainment provided by Alex Trebek and my fellow college-level
As a kid, I would see my grandmother berating Uncle Bill at family dinners. He sat like a lump and took it. Chinese people have used passivity as a survival strategy for centuries, but sometimes I really wish he had stood up to her, even once. But I guess he just didnât have it in him to fight.
I think of Uncle Bill often. And as I write this I wonder, am I telling his secrets or am I keeping his spirit a little bit alive? At his funeral I couldnât bear to speak about the little, poignant things I learned about him while throwing out his lifeâs nibbles and bits. It was freezing in Colma that day, and the few of us who were there stood in a tiny huddle. I was blubbering cuz thatâs what I do. My grandmother, whoâd lain down the law and deemed the LUV of his life a loser, didnât even get out of the car. Of course, she was in her nineties and it was ass-cold, so Iâll cut her some slack, but dang.
They lowered Billâs smallish casket into the Astroturf-lined pit and I wished, suddenly, that I had placed some of his beloved souvenir toothpicks in there with him. Maybe he could have the cocktail party in heaven that he couldnât, or simply didnât, have here.
He was never Number One. I never saw him in any holiday photo. No one would have ever called him the best or brightest of anything. He was a dim star in a packed Milky Way of high-achieving, Chinese superstars. But let me stop and say that Uncle Bill mattered. He came and went quietly without a peep, but he was just like so many of us. He may never have achieved any conventional hallmarks of greatness, and wasnât particularly good-looking, didnât excel in his profession, have children, or even drive a cool car. In fact, he didnât even have a license. But it didnât mean he didnât have wants and needs, or dreams as big as anyone elseâs. Who was he? He was a Tiger Cub who never spoke up, struck back, or even talked back. There are thousands of us, millions even, all alone inside ourselves.
And to further remind myself that gentle souls always matter, I keep Billâs picture on the refrigerator. No one ever asks me about it. No one has asked me who he is. And I have not pointed him out to anybody. But he is there. And I know it. Oftentimes, at potluck dinners with our neighbors, I find myself talking to someone in my kitchen but Iâm looking slightly to the side, to the picture of him. My friends and I might be laughing and having a good time. We have appetizers and drinks, but weâve got no cocktail toothpicks from the Grand Canyon. I stand there remembering Bill as my friend talks. Despite the fact that I barely knew him, I feel like I did know him. Although he was painfully shy, his DNA is linked with mine and so, even still, is an invisible frailty. His shoulders were always slumped over, but nonetheless, the memory of him somehow holds me up.
9
Alpha Females in Separate Cages
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I began at UC Berkeley as a double major in English literature and fine arts. Although there were thousands of Asian American students, there were just a handful in the English department then, and even fewer in the art department. But that wasnât why my social life was nonexistent. I was just naturally kind of a hermit and spent most weeknights in my apartment doing homework and watching Jeopardy!
I still remember the time when the TV show was having âcollege week.â I was glued to the set because I was really hoping theyâd have a contestant from UC Berkeley. One evening I fixed my usual dinner of champions, Top Ramen with the âOrientalâ flavor pack, and sat down expecting some rousing entertainment provided by Alex Trebek and my fellow college-level
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