The title is complete bullshit. Well, maybe not complete bullshit. But the content that follows is the true story of my life.
The first few years up on the hill were harsh.
Now my mother and I lived with Michael, my would-be Chinese step-dad. But at that time he was still would-be. He and my mother were not even engaged to be married.
Across the street, next door and two houses down were occupied by Michael’s relatives. In the first week or so, sometimes when I was sitting in the living room a Chinese person would come walking in through the back door. (All our backyards were connected — Michael and his relatives had taken down the fences.)
They’d introducing themselves.
“Oh,” I’d say. “Hi,” I’d say.
I was overwhelmed. I was overwhelmed seeing my mother with another man. It was so strange to me. I hated it. I spit and peed on the floor when no one was looking. I put glass and nails under Michael’s tires.
If he had to change his tire I’d ask him calmly, “What happened?”
“Oh, just a nail,” he’d say.
I was devastated over a cat.
When I lived downtown and my parents were still married I had a very beautiful cat whom I loved. He was a tabby cat. When my parents shouted at each other I would go in my room and turn on my alarm clock radio and pet my cat. Or we would walk down to the water together and play in the sand. Or when I took a bath, he would come and sit near me. He loved me too.
But Michael didn’t want to live with a cat. So when my mother and I moved in, he made me give my cat to my grandparents. Within a few days he ran away and I never saw him again.
At night I would sit up in my bed and stare out the window. What happened? I hoped my cat would run back to me and that I would feel okay. But he did not run back to me. I did not feel okay.
I prayed to God. “Please bring me my cat back.” I was sure that it would work. It did not. I took all my money and threw it in the trash. I looked at the clouds in the night sky. “Please bring me my cat back!” It still did not work. I still did not feel okay.
I had held birthday parties annually for the first eight years of my life, but when my next birthday came I was not interested in a party. I was afraid that my classmates would make fun of Michael because he was Chinese. But also I was ashamed. I was ashamed of myself and my situation.
There were other boys in my new suburban neighborhood. Their houses had crosses and pictures of Jesus in them. They would pray before dinner. They had chores and church on the weekends.
My house had none of those things.
“Is that your dad?” some would ask. “No,” I’d say.
“Well then who is that?” they’d ask. “That is Michael,” I’d say.
“What’s he doing with the telephone?” they’d ask. “He’s speaking Chinese,” I’d say.
“Oh, that’s Chinese? Do you know what he’s saying?” they’d ask. “No,” I’d say.
My mother was not strict, but she did expect me to be polite. Usually, I was not.
One of my would-be aunts and uncles very kindly held a family-style birthday party for me at their house. They lived two houses down. When they sang Happy Birthday I ran out of the room. I didn’t know why I did it. I just did it.
There was much awkwardness in my new family-style life. Suddenly, everyone else used chopsticks. “You know how to use chopsticks?” I asked my would-be cousins. They were girls, about the same age as me. I had never seen someone about the same age as me use chopsticks.
So I had to learn fast. Chopsticks. Many things. And some things got better.
I did not fit in, though. I was different. And at school I became different. Everywhere, I became different.
Eventually my mother married Michael, and I had a new step-dad. I had heard of a thing called a “step-dad.” So, I was less ashamed. But I was still ashamed.
Then one day I woke up. I was not only ashamed, I was embarrassed.
“Oops.”
That’s what I said.
“Oops. I shouldn’t have ran out of the room when they sang happy birthday to me. I shouldn’t have spit and peed on the floor. I shouldn’t have put nails under my step-dad’s tires.”
So, I tried to be nicer to my new family. And some more things got better.
And February 20th, 1988 was the happiest day of my life. And even more things got better after that.
2 responses so far ↓
1 alden // Feb 27, 2009 at 11:49 am
man, great post. i’ve got a guess as to what happened on the happiest day of your life and it starts with “marij…”, uh, i mean “hann…”
2 Rachel // Feb 28, 2009 at 10:42 pm
I really liked this.
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