吃饭了吗? / Time for Breakfast
In the shuffle of moving to a new home, I lost my mailbox key.
Calling locksmiths around the valley, men picked up the phone and didn’t have patience for the voice of a woman. One company offered three copies of a new key, and I accepted. They would send a locksmith the following afternoon.
I’ll call you with my ETA, he said. But he didn’t call.
I’m here, he wrote in a text.
I felt bad to make him wait and rushed to the other side of the neighborhood where our mailbox cluster was located.
From my car, I saw that he wore no mask, so I didn’t put mine on either, to avoid antagonizing him. I was used to men in the trades, having worked at a trade school the year before. They made jokes about the size of my eyes and people bringing the virus from China.
With the locksmith, I kept distance and made small talk. Chatty, upbeat small talk, demonstrating my perfect American English, compensating for how he seemed wary, hesitant around me.
The locksmith watched me but made little eye contact. Maybe he just wasn’t used to talking to someone who looked like me. Or maybe, like so many others, he distrusted and hated me but couldn’t express it.
He installed the new lock with a sleight of hand.
I’ve been doing this for many years now, he said.
The bill was a few dollars higher than they’d told me, but I added a tip. Thank you so much, I said.
He seemed to tense. Have a good day, he said, got in his truck, and drove away.
I don’t know why I did that, why I tried to present myself as an American, the opposite of a quiet Asian, a cheap Asian. I guess I was anxious, in spite of myself.
What would it take for me to be powerful?
***
This month brought more news of harassment and violence used on children and the elderly. I think of my grandfather back in China, safe from this at least, my last living grandparent. In his lifetime, he’s endured incarceration, torture, horrors that my family has never shared with me. Angry at the government, he’s always writing, composing essays on music and beautiful pieces that he plays on his guqin and erhu, music of heartache and energy. He plays in the morning, before breakfast. Of all the injustices he’s experienced, racism isn’t one of them.
I use last night’s leftover rice to make egg fried rice, or dan chaofan: scrambled eggs mixed into salted white rice and stir-fried in a wok. My dad taught me a trick, to make a mixture of eggs, salt, and green onion first and then fry the mixture in oil. That way, the green onion is super fragrant, and its flavor is retained.
Egg fried rice is my mom’s favorite, and my grandfather’s, too. According to Mom, he can still eat a full bowl of it for breakfast.
Today, I think of our elders here, their strength unseen by people who think they are soft. Raised by their love, we know they are powerful.
***
On my way home, a man approaches me.
He’d been standing idly by the patio of a bar. He closes the space between us with labored steps.
Excuse me, miss. Can I ask you a question?
Okay, I say, frozen in place.
I know you’re not like the girls in this country, the American girls. He tips his head toward the young people at the patio. Can I ask, are you from Korea, Vietnam?
No, I say. I’m from here. My parents came here from China. An automatic response—and a small attempt to throw off his expectations. Right away, I regret telling him anything about my family. Even the idea of my family should be protected from him, but here I am again, hoping that being American born will somehow be a momentary shield.
Can I ask you a question? Something personal, very personal.
In my mind, I say no. Out loud, I say nothing.
He lowers his voice. Have you had, or can I say, are you a virgin? Not like those American girls. They sleep with everybody they see, but you, you’re a good girl, right?
I nod because I’m fearful, and I know he expects quiet affirmation.
Come, sit with me. Like a parent, he pulls me by the arm and guides me to the bench facing the bar.
I have a gift for you, a special gift. He undoes the clasp on his thick golden watch. It’s very valuable, but I want to give it to you. I want to. Will you accept my gift?
He holds it out on his palm
A) I stand up slowly and say, I’m sorry, I have to get home. It’s getting late. Turn away, walk away, run when it feels safe to pick up my pace.
What I did in real life, ten years ago.
B) I take the watch, say Thank you, then stand up and say, I’M NOT A SEX TOY YOU RACIST PREDATORY PIECE OF SHIT and hurl the watch directly at his balls.
What I will do in real life, with a belly full of breakfast.
