28 February 1899
I can’t talk to my parents; they just don’t understand me anymore. They are so dense. Brother has an easy life in America- he does not get picked on at school for the clothes he wears, he does not have to worry about disappointing the family, he does not have to come right after school to help mom with house chores. I’ve decided that instead of keeping everything inside of me, I would vent through paper; words that my parents will never hear nor uncover. Some American girls are so spoiled and mean. I hate them. Yesterday at school, I heard this white girl telling my other classmates that my family and I live in a dirty alley and are homeless. Instead of standing up for myself, I just sat in seat quietly, with my eyes looking down at the floor. It’s all my mom’s fault for letting this happen. Mom believes in many of the Chinese ‘old wives tales’. I am only allowed to wash my hair once a week because she said that if I wash my head too often, I will get headaches when I get older. So, my hair often stinks up the whole classroom and everyone starts pointing fingers at me. Uck, two more days and then I can wash my hair again. It’s not fair how some girls in class get to wear all these nice dresses and clothes to school. Mom believes in being practical. I’m only given one pair of shoes and 5 dresses, which must last me a whole year. I often feel left out when girls talk in class because I don’t keep up with the latest fads. Dad keeps telling me about how fortunate I am to be born in Hawaii- I probably would’ve been put up for adoption if I had been born in China. Or if they had decided to keep me, mom probably would’ve pulled me out of school by now if we were in China and kept me at home to learn how to be a ‘proper’ housewife. My lifestyle would’ve been altered completely.
2 March 1889
What is so wrong with asking a simple question? Is being curious a curse? Once I asked them if they could take me back to China so that I could meet my relatives. She said “Never,” because it was too dirty and we wouldn’t enjoy it. Other times I would keep asking Mom and Dad about how China was like, but they just would ignore the question. Though, when I brought up the subject again with mom just yesterday, she exploded.
“Stop bothering me. Go clean the house.”
“But...”
“Why can you just be a quiet obedient girl and do what you are told? You talk too much, back in China you would be punished by now. Others say that I should’ve just spent you away.”
After that, I can never feel like asking her again. I think it’s because my parents believe that I can’t handle the truth; they think I have a weak spirit. Maybe they are afraid to look back at their past. But I feel like I will never know my parents, they hide so much inside of them. Do they keep secrets to protect us? How am I supposed to answer my children when they ask about how their grandparents were like? The way I see it is that by keeping secrets from us, they are hurting us even more.
“Stop bothering me. Go clean the house.”
“But...”
“Why can you just be a quiet obedient girl and do what you are told? You talk too much, back in China you would be punished by now. Others say that I should’ve just spent you away.”
After that, I can never feel like asking her again. I think it’s because my parents believe that I can’t handle the truth; they think I have a weak spirit. Maybe they are afraid to look back at their past. But I feel like I will never know my parents, they hide so much inside of them. Do they keep secrets to protect us? How am I supposed to answer my children when they ask about how their grandparents were like? The way I see it is that by keeping secrets from us, they are hurting us even more.
21 March 1889
Oww… it still hurts when I sit. The red slap marks are still embedded in my skin… well let me start from the beginning of how I became ‘injured’.
School hasn’t been going so well lately. Right now we are learning to comprehend readings in class. English has not been my best subject, so school is a nightmare. The teacher thinks that I don’t participate enough in class, but the real situation here is that she just doesn’t call on me when I do volunteer in class… its like my hand is invisible to his eyes. What am I suppose to do, jump up and down in my seat so that the teacher can see me?- that would be considered disrespectful.
Back to what I was saying, two days ago in class, my teacher called on me and said, “May," that's my American Name, only my relatives call me by my Chinese name, "what do you think the author was trying to tell us? What is the moral?”
I paused for a moment. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say because I wasn’t really paying attention in class. I was too busy trying to keep an eye on the Japanese girl two seats on the side of me, the girl doesn’t talk much but she is evil-I can see it in her eyes, I just don’t know when she is going to make her move. So, as I was trying to come up with an excuse and whispered under my breath, “Shoots.” The teacher must have bad hearing and bad vocabulary because the next couple of words he said I did not understand. But I did understand his feeling through his actions. He pulled me to the front of the class and made me sit in the corner. Then, I saw him pick up the phone on his teacher’s desk and call someone. Didn’t know who it was until my mom came barging into the classroom, if she were an ox I bet everyone would be able to see steam coming out from each ear. My mom apologized to the teacher and kept bowing to him… why was she sorry, I didn’t do anything wrong? Then, she took me by the hand and escorted me out. The whole bus ride home, she didn’t even look or touch me. When we arrived at our apartment, she slammed the door shut and little did I know it, all hell was about to break loose.
"What's wrong with you, did I teach you no good manners? Don't ever speak to your teacher like that."
"I don't know what you are talking about Mama."
"Don't lie. Now I have a rude and dishonest child. What am I going to do with you?"
"I am a good child."
"A good child does not say the S#@% word. Now go to the outside and wait."
Well, I have only two words that can sum up the rest of this story, Double Punishment. My arms is too tired to explain the rest of the tale- its probably too brutal to even write in words.
School hasn’t been going so well lately. Right now we are learning to comprehend readings in class. English has not been my best subject, so school is a nightmare. The teacher thinks that I don’t participate enough in class, but the real situation here is that she just doesn’t call on me when I do volunteer in class… its like my hand is invisible to his eyes. What am I suppose to do, jump up and down in my seat so that the teacher can see me?- that would be considered disrespectful.
Back to what I was saying, two days ago in class, my teacher called on me and said, “May," that's my American Name, only my relatives call me by my Chinese name, "what do you think the author was trying to tell us? What is the moral?”
I paused for a moment. Honestly, I didn’t know what to say because I wasn’t really paying attention in class. I was too busy trying to keep an eye on the Japanese girl two seats on the side of me, the girl doesn’t talk much but she is evil-I can see it in her eyes, I just don’t know when she is going to make her move. So, as I was trying to come up with an excuse and whispered under my breath, “Shoots.” The teacher must have bad hearing and bad vocabulary because the next couple of words he said I did not understand. But I did understand his feeling through his actions. He pulled me to the front of the class and made me sit in the corner. Then, I saw him pick up the phone on his teacher’s desk and call someone. Didn’t know who it was until my mom came barging into the classroom, if she were an ox I bet everyone would be able to see steam coming out from each ear. My mom apologized to the teacher and kept bowing to him… why was she sorry, I didn’t do anything wrong? Then, she took me by the hand and escorted me out. The whole bus ride home, she didn’t even look or touch me. When we arrived at our apartment, she slammed the door shut and little did I know it, all hell was about to break loose.
"What's wrong with you, did I teach you no good manners? Don't ever speak to your teacher like that."
"I don't know what you are talking about Mama."
"Don't lie. Now I have a rude and dishonest child. What am I going to do with you?"
"I am a good child."
"A good child does not say the S#@% word. Now go to the outside and wait."
Well, I have only two words that can sum up the rest of this story, Double Punishment. My arms is too tired to explain the rest of the tale- its probably too brutal to even write in words.
15 May 1889
Our class went on a one night camping trip this weekend- mom was against it, but dad convinced her that this would help me build character. We roasted marshmellows and sat around a huge bond fire- everything felt safe and for once in my life I felt at home. I guess by being away from our normal lives, away from the school and our houses, we all felt like free spirits. Everyone was laughing and talking with each other regardless of our past histories with each other. As I was looking at the flames of the fire, I had one of those 'memory flashbacks.'
Almost every night, when I was about 4, I experienced a 'bad dream". One night I'd be imagining myself running away from ghosts with pitchforks, getting closer and closer to the edge of a cliff. Another time I was being kidnapped by people in black masks and shoved into a truck. I was even a pirate's hostage once, just about to 'walk the plank'. And every time I awoke startled and crying my eyes out. Mom would come into my room and kindle a small fire in a coffee can outside and tell me to jump over it. I use to think of it as a fun game that mom and I would only play at night, but its not until now that I realized the real situation that was going on. Mom isn't very religious, but she does have her superstitions. For the Chinese, it was believed that when a child has a bad dream, they must jump over fire to scare away the 'bad spirits.' I'm not sure whether this is true or not but it does make sense in some ways because dad once told me that bad spirits can induce bad memories or fears into someone's mind. Now when I look at my family, I think we are more spiritual that religious...
I think its weird how childhood memories can be arosed back to someone's mind by just a small action. Hopefully, when I get old, I will be able to remember my overnight stay at camp.
Almost every night, when I was about 4, I experienced a 'bad dream". One night I'd be imagining myself running away from ghosts with pitchforks, getting closer and closer to the edge of a cliff. Another time I was being kidnapped by people in black masks and shoved into a truck. I was even a pirate's hostage once, just about to 'walk the plank'. And every time I awoke startled and crying my eyes out. Mom would come into my room and kindle a small fire in a coffee can outside and tell me to jump over it. I use to think of it as a fun game that mom and I would only play at night, but its not until now that I realized the real situation that was going on. Mom isn't very religious, but she does have her superstitions. For the Chinese, it was believed that when a child has a bad dream, they must jump over fire to scare away the 'bad spirits.' I'm not sure whether this is true or not but it does make sense in some ways because dad once told me that bad spirits can induce bad memories or fears into someone's mind. Now when I look at my family, I think we are more spiritual that religious...
I think its weird how childhood memories can be arosed back to someone's mind by just a small action. Hopefully, when I get old, I will be able to remember my overnight stay at camp.
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