Friday, 28 January 2005
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young sassy Shanghainese mademoiselle with a sensible job and of suitable child-bearing age must be in need of a male equivalent.
This universal truth has brought me to my new home in Melbourne, though perhaps I should elaborate further lest you think I’ve somehow been sold as a child bride.
Two days before I left, I was still without a place to live inMelbourne
Aunt T met my mother and I at the airport. She even took to the trouble of making two trips because we arrived on different flights. I was a picture of perfect Chinese upbringing, addressing her as Aunt and her husband as Uncle upon first meeting. I am sincerely grateful to them for letting me stay, so much so that I address her son as gege (older brother).
“There’s no need for that kind of formalities,” said Aunt T.
“Really no need,” said Uncle L.
“We don’t have any other kids,” continued Aunt T. “When you start work next week, feel free stay over here on weekends.”
“Yes, I’ll make nice healthy Chinese broth,” said Uncle L.
“She’ll be like a part of our family,” Aunt T assured my mother.
“Broth with abalone and corn fed chicken. Very good for nourishment,” continued Uncle L.
Gege is a man in his late-twenties. He is generously proportioned and lives at home with his parents. At dinners, he slurps his way through the soup and literally throws his food down his throat. Sometimes, he leaves the dinner table half-way through, but not before announcing: “I’ve got to go poo!”
Did I mention that he is in his late twenties?!
One morning when he was running late for work, he gulped down his breakfast while Aunt T fed him his vitamins in between bites.
Have I reminded you that he is in his late twenties?!
(Pixie, are you getting a kick out of this yet? Obviously couldn’t tell you this over the phone while still under their roof.)
One night I joined Aunt T, Mum and gege for a game of mahjong. I was confused for most of the game, but very much entertained by the prodigal son who decided to sing Communist revolution songs of yesteryears. They went something like this:
I am not making this shit up. He was singing non-stop for an hour or so before he left us to “pee”.
“He seems to like singing.” Mum said, ever so diplomatically.
“He’s not like this usually when we have company. I think he’s so comfortable with you here that he sees you as family.” Aunt T told Mum.
“Yes. Family. You're like family to us.” Uncle L reiterated. “I'll make broth this weekend.”
I am fucked, I thought.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young sassy Shanghainese mademoiselle with a sensible job and of suitable child-bearing age must be in need of a male equivalent.
This universal truth has brought me to my new home in Melbourne, though perhaps I should elaborate further lest you think I’ve somehow been sold as a child bride.
Two days before I left, I was still without a place to live in
Aunt T met my mother and I at the airport. She even took to the trouble of making two trips because we arrived on different flights. I was a picture of perfect Chinese upbringing, addressing her as Aunt and her husband as Uncle upon first meeting. I am sincerely grateful to them for letting me stay, so much so that I address her son as gege (older brother).
“There’s no need for that kind of formalities,” said Aunt T.
“Really no need,” said Uncle L.
“We don’t have any other kids,” continued Aunt T. “When you start work next week, feel free stay over here on weekends.”
“Yes, I’ll make nice healthy Chinese broth,” said Uncle L.
“She’ll be like a part of our family,” Aunt T assured my mother.
“Broth with abalone and corn fed chicken. Very good for nourishment,” continued Uncle L.
Gege is a man in his late-twenties. He is generously proportioned and lives at home with his parents. At dinners, he slurps his way through the soup and literally throws his food down his throat. Sometimes, he leaves the dinner table half-way through, but not before announcing: “I’ve got to go poo!”
Did I mention that he is in his late twenties?!
One morning when he was running late for work, he gulped down his breakfast while Aunt T fed him his vitamins in between bites.
Have I reminded you that he is in his late twenties?!
(Pixie, are you getting a kick out of this yet? Obviously couldn’t tell you this over the phone while still under their roof.)
One night I joined Aunt T, Mum and gege for a game of mahjong. I was confused for most of the game, but very much entertained by the prodigal son who decided to sing Communist revolution songs of yesteryears. They went something like this:
The Party teaches us great things.
From humble peasants we become hopeful children,
Children of the Party with bright red futures.
The blood of the revolutionists make us strong,
Our voices sing their songs.
We sing with strong hearts,
We sing a mountain song for the Party.
I am not making this shit up. He was singing non-stop for an hour or so before he left us to “pee”.
“He seems to like singing.” Mum said, ever so diplomatically.
“He’s not like this usually when we have company. I think he’s so comfortable with you here that he sees you as family.” Aunt T told Mum.
“Yes. Family. You're like family to us.” Uncle L reiterated. “I'll make broth this weekend.”
I am fucked, I thought.
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