If It Feels Good Do It

I said it before and I’ll say it again: L and her mother were a dynamic-duo of criticism. Monday through Friday, plus the other two days of the week, they had a hobby. It was to sit at the dining-room table and criticize everything that came within five feet. They were like guard-dogs. But rather than barking and biting me, they’d laugh, yell and tell me that what I was doing wasn’t as good as what they did in China.

I hate that shit. How many times am I going to have to hear about how much better things are in China? Fuck China. Actually it would be alright if someone simply told me something cool about where they were from. Like for example, if a Chinese woman said “You’re looking good today, Ian. You’re almost as good looking as the West Lake.” I could work with that. But it’s never that way.

One day I read a fish recipe out of “Men’s Health” magazine. I was pumped.

L and her mother asked me what I was doing. I told them: I was going to go to the store to pick up some fish and a new Iron skillet. I needed an iron skillet because I didn’t have one. Then I was going to cook the fish.

The usual circus started. L translated for her mother what I said. L’s mom yelped something in Chinese. And then L translated a sentence that invariably began with, “You should not” and end with, “do that!”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

This was shortly after MTL moved out so I was trying to cook more and be healthier.

“My mom says that you shouldn’t go buy that skillet.” L said. “And you don’t need to go buy fish. Why don’t you cook with the food you already have here? My mom says, ‘That’s what Chinese people do. They cook with what they have. American’s are always going to buy stuff. They buy more than they need. So wasteful.’”

Her mom really was saying it. “Zhongguoren… (Chinese person)” this. “Meiguoren… (American person)” that.

Finally I just yelled “Hey!” I yelled it so loud that they immediately shut the fuck up. It was pleasant.

“Do I look, like a Zhongguoren?” I said.

They both stared at me blankly.

“Do I look… like a Zhongguoren?”

L translated my semi-Chinese question to her mother. She nodded.

“I am not a Chinese person,” I said. “I am an American person. If you’re offended by that, that’s your problem. Stop telling me what to do.” Then I went to the store.

Not in a rickshaw. And I didn’t buy any pirated copies of Windows on the way home, either. Or a counterfeit Gucci belt.

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