Listen to the Squawking Chicken: When Mother Knows Best, What's a Daughter To Do? A Memoir (Sort Of) (5 page)

Chinese people believe that pregnant women attract ghosts. Those who’ve died prematurely, and without closure, are always looking to come back. We call them
yoon gwai
, or “clinging spirits”; they yearn to return to the land of the living, loitering in the space between life and beyond, like gamblers who’ve lost everything but still can’t leave the casino, choosing instead to stand around the poker table
watching other people play, desperate for a chance to get back into the game.

For the
yoon gwai
, the chance to get back into the game is by process of
tao toi
. The expression literally translated means “jump into the womb,” the Chinese version of reincarnation. The vessels are unborn children whose souls in the womb remain pristine and unformed, perfect. In the competitive unborn child department, Ma was carrying the most perfect one, a baby every ghost wanted to inhabit, the ultimate
tao toi
candidate. While my birth was unremarkable, my ma’s pregnancy was extraordinary.

The
yoon gwai
could only affect Ma when she was asleep, which is why she had such terrible dreams when she was expecting me. They haunted her every night for months. They followed her into dark alleys and backed her into damp corners, reaching toward her belly with their decomposed fingers, sometimes on their knees, begging to be born again through her. She said they bargained and cajoled. They told tragic stories: one girl was betrayed by a lover who pushed her off a cliff so that he’d be free to marry a rich girl for her fortune; another man was poisoned in the night by his brother who wanted to take over his business; there was a boy, no more than six, with no fingers and only thumbs who’d hook them into her pockets and beg for the
opportunity to live a different kind of life. They wailed at her in her nightmares, inching closer and closer to take her baby, and Ma would sacrifice herself every time. Her subconscious suicide was the ultimate act of parental selflessness—and she’d wake up in the middle of the night, just before stabbing herself, my eternal hero and savior. It was this remarkable courage that caught the attention of the Old Wise Man.

Have you ever been in a Chinese home? In addition to the ceramic cat with one fist in the air, most Chinese homes display statues of the Three Wise Men.

Fu’s the dude on the left. He’s for Good Luck. Lu is in the middle. He brings Prosperity. And the ancient one with no hair holding a staff in one hand and a peach in the other, a Gandalf of the East, is Shou, who represents Long Life.

The ghosts were especially persistent the night before Ma went into labor.
Pick me! Pick me!
they cried, surrounding her on all sides, clutching at her hair, her nightgown, greedily eyeing her stomach; she was petrified, too afraid to act. And then suddenly they shrank in fear. Old Wise Man Shou, with his benevolent smile and kind eyes, had come to rescue her.

Shou waved the ghosts away and helped Ma to her feet. He told her not to be afraid. He told her he was there to protect her, and that she deserved his protection because she was so appreciative, respectful and brave. Then he gave her his peach.
Eat this
, he said.
It will keep your baby safe.
Ma protested, claiming that she did not feel worthy. Wise Man Shou insisted and blessed her humble nature.

I will come back for my fruit once you no longer need it. Take care of your daughter.
And then he hobbled away slowly. Ma woke up. She knew she was having a girl. And she was in labor.

A friend once asked me why an old Chinese lady at the park gave her the evil eye while she was walking by her with her newborn. Chinese custom dictates that a child must pass his or her “full moon” before leaving the home, otherwise it’s very bad luck, for both the baby and the mother. After a month of seclusion, there’s a great celebration to mark the baby’s introduction to society. I cried and cried at my first-moon party. Ma said people were whispering that it was a
bad omen and the gossipy aunties and neighborhood rumormongers suspected that she’d given birth to a curse. The next morning when Ma picked me up out of my crib, she noticed a small red dot on the corner of my right eyelid. Initially she thought it must have been because I was crying so hard the night before. But the red dot continued to grow, week after week. By the time I turned one, it had become a large red mass, with a faint line through the middle. It was the color of a ripe peach and, Ma says, in the shape of one too, although in photographs it looks more like a yin-yang symbol to me.

Specialists from around the world flew in to look at my eye-peach. Every week my parents took me to appointments. The doctors said it was a medical anomaly and, in the end,
they told my parents that if they operated, there was a strong possibility there could be nerve damage and I could lose my eyesight. So my parents decided to leave it. It just added to Ma’s resolve. She had the courage and the character to raise a daughter with a freak spot on her face.

When I was four, my eye-peach started to get smaller. Back we went to the doctors, and again, week after week, they’d measure the gradually shrinking peach and shake their heads, flummoxed by its sudden retreat. This is when Ma remembered Wise Man Shou and her dream. Wise Man Shou was taking back his peach. It/He had protected me through the worst, and now I was ready to go on without his stewardship. By the time I turned six, the eye-peach was barely noticeable, a very faint pink shadow but only if you looked closely.

And yet, it lives on. Ma believes the eye-peach not only guarded me from spirits, but it also must have blocked illness and disease. I was rarely sick as a child, if at all, because Wise Man Shou’s gift inoculated me against what could have been a deadly infection, or maybe even a devastating accident. Wise Man Shou’s gift, however, was only given as a direct result of Ma’s protective love.

So it turns out that I’m Harry Potter. Except not. There’s no seven-book series dedicated to my legend because from the very beginning of the story of my life, I have always
been a supporting character. The Squawking Chicken is the leading lady.

Most children’s stories mythologize the child—the children are golden, special, chosen. And most parents mythologize their children, making their children the stars of the show, the focus of the attention as they lurk just offstage, eagerly accepting any leftover warmth from the lights that are positioned to shine primarily on the protagonists, their sons and daughters, settling for the small credit that comes occasionally for creating these extraordinary creatures.

For the Chinese Squawking Chicken,
she
was the extraordinary creature. She mythologized herself. The legend of my eye-peach had nothing to do with me and everything to do with her—her remarkable courage in the face of the ghosts, her profound love. She did for me what her parents didn’t do for her: she was my mother and my hero; she gave me life by saving me from the ghosts. And she taught me to spend the rest of my life paying her back.

These sound like tall tales, I know. Entertaining but improbable, the kind of stories a child outgrows when her world becomes bigger. And yet, I haven’t outgrown the Squawking Chicken’s stories. I hear the conviction in her voice when she
tells them. She tells them because she believes them. And because she believes them, I go on believing them. Such is the power of my mother’s storytelling—for me it has been greater than reason, stronger than doubt, more enduring than fact. The moral messages embedded in Ma’s stories form the foundation of my life code and standard of conduct. Nothing could be more real.

Fittingly then, the Squawking Chicken’s best ghost story is also the one that was meant to teach me her most important lesson: Mother loves best, Mother knows best.

Every year on my ma’s birthday, I call to wish her happy birthday. Every year on
my
birthday, I call
her
to wish
myself
happy birthday. Ma does not call me on my birthday. I am expected to call
her
. There’s a reason for this, of course, and I’ll never forget it, obviously, but some years, for fun, I’ll ask her why, just to hear her say it again.

“Why should I call you on your birthday? You should call
me
on your birthday. To thank me for giving birth to you. Now where’s my money?”

There is no better way to demonstrate gratitude for Ma giving birth to me than to give her money. If it’s not the first thing she says when she sees me, it’s definitely the second thing out of my ma’s mouth when she sees me: “Where’s my money?”

It’s a question that many Western parents might find appalling. How could a mother hit up her kid for cash, and so blatantly? Growing up in North America, I’ve learned that money is an uncomfortable subject for most people. It’s considered bad form to talk money. It’s considered in poor taste to discuss how much things cost, how much you paid for something, how much you are paid to work. Many of my friends who did not grow up in immigrant households never discussed money with their parents. They never knew how much their parents earned. They were unaware of mortgages and expenses. Their parents treated money as a taboo subject.

Chinese families, however, are generally more open about money. Much has been made in the media about the growth of Chinese materialism after the 2008 U.S. stock market crash and subsequent recession. As China continues to rise as an economic superpower, business analysts and cultural anthropologists have noted the Chinese consumer’s seemingly insatiable appetite for luxury items. Many Chinese people are not shy about throwing around their cash and telling you about it afterward. It’s the second part of the sentence that makes us different, not the first. In my opinion, Chinese people aren’t more materialistic; it’s just that we’re more candid about our materialism.

In Chinese culture, money is directly connected to respect and love. Money is how we demonstrate our gratitude.
Money is how we show we care. Money is an uncomplicated symbol of feeling. It is more tangible than a hug, it is more useful than a kiss, and often longer lasting. Most importantly, money is
helpful
. And between parent and child, between family members and friends, it is dispensed in this spirit. This is evident in most of our customs and traditions. This is why elders gift the young with red paper envelopes called
lai see
stuffed with money on birthdays and holidays.
Lai see
means “lucky money.” So the money does double duty—its primary function is obvious, but it also comes with good vibes and wishes to keep you safe and happy.

When my cousins and I were growing up, we’d be disappointed at Christmas if our pile of boxed presents under the tree was particularly bountiful. Too many presents meant that we’d be receiving fewer
lai see
, and everyone preferred
lai see
to regular gifts. I can buy my own sweater, thank you very much, with the money you give me and, frankly, I’d rather buy candy. After dinner, when we were allowed to open our presents, we’d always gather at the very end to count our cash. My grandmother on my father’s side was the most generous. She gave ten bucks at a time. Ten bucks bought a lot of gummy bears.

Lai see
is the standard at Chinese weddings too. We don’t mess around with a registry. And we have no use for a gravy boat anyway. There’s your tip for the next time you’re
invited to a Chinese wedding. Take whatever it costs to buy a gravy boat and shove it in an envelope with a card. I promise you it will be more appreciated.

The subject of money comes up a lot at a Chinese wedding. One of my favorite traditions at a Chinese wedding is the Bride Bargain. It is customary for the bride and groom to arrive at the ceremony together. But, beforehand, the groom, along with his crew, picks the bride up at her home. He knocks on the door. The bride does not answer. Instead, she waits inside while the bridesmaids negotiate their fee to allow the groom access, shouting through the door. The denominations always involve the number nine. The number nine traditionally represents longevity. In other words, the more nines, the longer the marriage.

The game is played like a proper business transaction. The groom and his posse start low:
We’ll give you nine dollars and ninety-nine cents.
The bridesmaids reply:
That’s it? No way! We won’t take any less than nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, and ninety-nine cents!

And they’ll go back and forth for a while until they arrive at a figure that makes everyone happy. At that point, a bridesmaid unlocks the door so the groom can pass the cash through, and once the girls are finished counting the bills, he storms in to collect his bride. The money is then split
among the bridesmaids and is meant as a thank-you gift for their years of support and friendship.

From there, the bride and groom head over to their parents’ for a tea ceremony where they both kneel before their elders, offering tea with their heads bowed. In return for the tea, the older generation gives the couple their wedding
lai see
. The
lai see
represents the head start that the parents and grandparents can provide to their children and their well-wishes for a long and happy marriage.

At my wedding, Ma told me not to spend my
lai see,
but to tuck it into my pillowcase instead. For more than ten years now, I’ve been literally shoving
lai see
in my pillowcase, where it’s been accumulating as I sleep, a fertile place to nurture the well-wishes and hopes from my parents and, of course, my bank account. The
lai see
in the pillow symbolizes personal wealth and the idea is that as the pillowcase grows, so does your overall prosperity. And I’ve needed it too. Because the day I became a wife was the day my parents were not only no longer responsible for me, it was also the day I officially became responsible to them, financially at least. The flow of money changed direction. And Ma is getting more and more expensive.

Most people take their parents out for dinner for their birthdays. This is normal, right? After I got married and as I
was becoming more established in my career, I graduated from the birthday phone call to the birthday party. Now that I have a career and a steady income, it’s expected that I not only pay for Ma, but also for everyone in her Chinese opera class and her Buddhist prayer circle (even if they don’t really know each other all that well).

Every year, Ma celebrates her birthday with a party. She books out several tables at a Chinese restaurant and the private room too. She and her guests start at lunch with dim sum. After dim sum, they move over to the private room for several hours of mah-jong. Then they come back out for dinner. The best food is ordered: suckling pig, Peking duck, lobster, crab—basically the kind of elaborate menu served at a Chinese wedding, only every year, on March 9, it’s like Ma is remarrying herself and sending me the bill.

Ma doesn’t front like she’s the person paying for her party though. She makes it very clear to everyone there that I’m the one who’s treating her and her friends. It’s impossible to sign for it discreetly, and besides, I never pay for her birthday with a credit card anyway. Chinese establishments prefer cash. And Ma prefers that I pay cash. She’s always on me about it in the days leading up to the event.

“Don’t forget to bring cash. Best to bring twenties.”

“Why twenties?”

“It takes longer to pay in twenties. You have to count out your bills.”

Here’s how it goes down: After dessert, she’ll tell the staff that we’re ready to settle. They’ll present her with the check. She and Dad will inspect every line item to make sure they weren’t ripped off and that the 10-percent-off special was applied. Ma never eats anywhere Chinese unless she gets a discount. (I have no idea how she gets this discount. All I know is that by the time she brings me to whatever new Chinese restaurant she’s hot on at the moment, the discount is always in place and they always know her by name. Once I tried asking her whether or not she felt gross about eating her food at a discount. She told me that things taste better when they come as a deal.)

Once my parents are pleased with the check, Ma will make a big production out of passing it to me, announcing to all her guests that I’ll be the one paying for it. Which is my cue to pull out my wallet with a smile on my face, as forty or so pairs of eyes are watching, and take out my stack of twenties, counting them out one by one. The first time I did this I had performance anxiety. That’s exactly what it is—a performance, the performance of paying for Ma’s birthday dinner, playing the part of the generous, dutiful daughter. That first time my hands were unsteady and when
two bills were stuck together I wasn’t very graceful in pulling them apart; they were wrinkled by the time I laid them down on the table. Ma criticized me afterward for my lack of coordination. She said that people who are magnanimous about paying do so smoothly and elegantly, and that I looked stingy and unwilling. Maybe unconsciously. It was a lot of money. My skills improved the following year. I know this because she didn’t mention it again.

The birthday-party-paying ceremony is an annual opportunity for Ma to show off. Her showing off, however, is not limited to her birthday parties and, therefore, my paying for things is not limited to her birthdays either.

I always know when Ma is calling me with an audience. For starters, she always sounds nice when she’s talking to me in front of other people. When I say “nice,” I mean strained. It’s an effort for my ma to modulate that squawking chicken noise into something she thinks sounds sweet but really sounds like she’s choking out her words. One day she called me when she was out with her friends. “Daughter, I told all the aunties at Chinese opera class that you are buying me a cruise and now they all want to come too! We are going to Europe!”

I never offered to send her on a cruise. Not exactly. We were on the phone the night before and she was complaining about how long it had been since she’d been back to Hong
Kong and even though SARS had passed over a couple of years before, in 2003, she was still afraid of going there. So I told her she should go to Europe, go on holiday with Dad. She said she didn’t want to go to Europe because it was hard to get around and the languages would screw her up. So I told her it’d be easier for her if she went on a cruise because that way there would be a set schedule. She said she’d think about it.

Not even twenty-four hours later, she not only had thought about it, I was now paying for it. I stayed on the phone silently and let her finish our conversation. She answered questions I didn’t ask.
Oh, daughter, that’s okay. Mommy will take care of her own insurance, you don’t have to worry about that. Yes, daughter, I will make sure to tell you exactly how much it is so that you can call the travel agent. No, daughter, I don’t have to fly first class. The aunties and I will all fly together.

When I hung up, my husband asked me if Ma was talking to me in front of her friends again. He was used to it by then. But it had been strange for him at the beginning, as it would be for those growing up in non-Chinese households. For an outsider, the automatic assumption here would be that my ma is greedy and opportunistic, taking advantage of her daughter’s resources for selfish gain, vanity and ego.

But my parents don’t need the money. They’ve worked hard. They can afford to pay for their own birthday parties.
And everyone at the party knows my parents can afford to pay for the birthday party. My paying for her birthday parties isn’t about exploitation. Rather, my paying for the birthday party is about honor. My paying for Ma’s parties is a very public honor. It is a demonstration of honor to the community. It’s a manifestation of one of the most important concepts in Chinese society: Filial Piety.

That children should be good to their parents is a common expectation across all cultures. In Chinese culture, children
have
to be good to their parents. For the Chinese, Filial Piety is considered the fundamental cornerstone of an enlightened civilization. It is the original building block of Confucian philosophy and therefore the defining virtue in Chinese culture: our primary objective in life is to respect our parents and our ancestors. It is, according to Confucius, the only way to ensure peace and happiness for future generations.

Filial Piety then dictates every action. We must care for our parents inside and outside the home. We must work hard to support the home. We must sacrifice for the home. Not for a day, not for a year, but
forever
. Filial Piety is a lifelong requirement. It is every child’s duty to respect the parent, to support the parent, and to bring pride and honor to the parent. Filial Piety puts the onus on the child and not the parent.

This is the critical difference between Chinese and
Western parenting philosophy. Modern Western parenting emphasizes the child over the parent. Being a parent is widely accepted as the most selfless of human acts. A mother wants only the best for her child—to provide opportunities for her child to achieve
her
dreams, to accomplish
her
goals, to live
her
best life possible—with no reward in return. A child is encouraged to pursue her own objectives independently. The parent is happy if the child is happy. According to the tenets of Filial Piety, however, the situation is reversed: a child can only achieve true happiness when she has successfully secured the happiness of her parents. And this has always been my ma’s position as a parent. It was also her position when she was a child.