What a bad, bad Christmas! Cho, she came home with wands, and silly western ideas in her head. She didn't care anything about me.
Wrote to her, three times, even sent it through owl post, like she likes it. She writes back? Wah! Of course not, she too big for her own mother, perhaps?
Maybe I should write Luling. Her daughter is obedient, Luling says so. Going to school, getting good grades. Very pretty, Luling says. But how could I face Luling and say,
"Ah, old friend, you were right all along. Move to San Francisco is best, yes. Much more obedient children are in America."
Luling would laugh, say I was just foolish old mother, should have listened all along. No, I will not give Luling that pleasure.
Instead I dealt with Cho. Even made her English Chrismas-turkey for dinner, lots of British foods. I gave her new robes, a nice scarf for keeping warm. Very good presents, got the wool at Harrod' s, a meinlul shop, 50% off, very cheap and nice color, too. Good and soft, very fine quality. You see, I want the very best for my daughter.
I wrote to Luling telling her of my good luck. But did Cho like my presents? No, instead she throw them, under the real, British Christmas tree like they were dirt, after all my work. Very nice color--I looked everywhere for them, pretty jade, very rare color, looks nice against Cho' s skin.
You see the ways a daughter can hurt her mother, ways she cannot even imagine? I wonder often, if Luling's daughter hurts her the same. Doesn't Cho realize all my love for her. You know, when I was a girl people didn't tell you they loved you, not even your mother. When I was a girl things were different, people were treated bad, women especially.
And still she cannot see my sacrifice, she cannot see the pain in my eyes when she says,
"Oh mother, you're in England, not dumb old China."
And oh, I get so angry! I crumple my fists but then I remember. Cho and me, we are the same. I see her eyes, her hair, her heart, and they are my own. She is all my good intentions, everything I have hoped for. Wah, and then let me ask you....how can I be angry at myself?
And in a couple days, it seem, she just pack up, go back to her school, not say goodbye, mother. I come back home, you know what? She left that scarf, the jade one, the one I looked so hard for the color. That scarf, I found under my real, English Christmas tree.
Wrote to her, three times, even sent it through owl post, like she likes it. She writes back? Wah! Of course not, she too big for her own mother, perhaps?
Maybe I should write Luling. Her daughter is obedient, Luling says so. Going to school, getting good grades. Very pretty, Luling says. But how could I face Luling and say,
"Ah, old friend, you were right all along. Move to San Francisco is best, yes. Much more obedient children are in America."
Luling would laugh, say I was just foolish old mother, should have listened all along. No, I will not give Luling that pleasure.
Instead I dealt with Cho. Even made her English Chrismas-turkey for dinner, lots of British foods. I gave her new robes, a nice scarf for keeping warm. Very good presents, got the wool at Harrod' s, a meinlul shop, 50% off, very cheap and nice color, too. Good and soft, very fine quality. You see, I want the very best for my daughter.
I wrote to Luling telling her of my good luck. But did Cho like my presents? No, instead she throw them, under the real, British Christmas tree like they were dirt, after all my work. Very nice color--I looked everywhere for them, pretty jade, very rare color, looks nice against Cho' s skin.
You see the ways a daughter can hurt her mother, ways she cannot even imagine? I wonder often, if Luling's daughter hurts her the same. Doesn't Cho realize all my love for her. You know, when I was a girl people didn't tell you they loved you, not even your mother. When I was a girl things were different, people were treated bad, women especially.
And still she cannot see my sacrifice, she cannot see the pain in my eyes when she says,
"Oh mother, you're in England, not dumb old China."
And oh, I get so angry! I crumple my fists but then I remember. Cho and me, we are the same. I see her eyes, her hair, her heart, and they are my own. She is all my good intentions, everything I have hoped for. Wah, and then let me ask you....how can I be angry at myself?
And in a couple days, it seem, she just pack up, go back to her school, not say goodbye, mother. I come back home, you know what? She left that scarf, the jade one, the one I looked so hard for the color. That scarf, I found under my real, English Christmas tree.