Mom came home after a long day with four cold slices of pizza to feed the inept men she’d left at home like baby birds. Dad and I scrambled to the kitchen, dividing and heating our pieces on separate plates before joining her on the couch to start the latest season of “Dear White People”. Mom asked me a question in Chinese and I responded in English.
“Why don’t you answer her in her language, George?” Dad asked.
“Why don’t you learn Chinese?” I shot back defensively.
“I should, but I still don’t understand why you don’t…”
“I don’t want to entertain this conversation right now.” I replied.
Dad was genuinely curious and I felt bad for answering him sharply. There was too much to unpack in the few seconds between his question and pressing play on the remote, and I didn’t know where to start. What sounded like a simple question touched on my relationship with Mom, a shared language I...
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