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Like mother, like daughter?

It’s supposed to be autumn, THE TIME OF YEAR WHEN THE CLOUDS ARE HIGH IN THE SKY AND THE AIR IS FRESH. THAT’S HOW AUTUMN WAS WHEN I WAS LITTLE. BACK THEN, WE LIVED HOURS FROM THE CITY CENTER ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF BEIJING. TODAY, WE LIVE IN 1508B, 15 FLOORS ABOVE THE STREET, AND THERE’S ONLY A CRISP BITTERNESS IN THE AIR–CRISP LIKE THE MILES OF STEEL THAT SURROUND US.

The heavy door to the apartment building slams shut behind me, and I get into the elevator and press 15. The elevator obediently lurches into the air even though it’s probably too old to meet any safety codes. I nervously check the signs rolled up in my backpack: small, bright green posters with “Say NO to McDonald’s” scrawled across the top. The McDonald’s corporation is trying to build a huge complex next to the temple. A group at school was handing out the posters, and when I saw them, I had to grab a few. One more McDonald’s probably won’t matter; it seems like Beijing already has hundreds of them. But I get so sick of seeing giant, neon fast food signs that I have to do something to stop the takeover.

I slap one of my posters onto the elevator wall and stuff the rest of them back into my backpack. I wouldn’t want Mom to see them–she wouldn’t approve. The elevator doors squeak open, and I step into the hallway of floor 15.

Floor 15: Where the occupant of 1502A, Mrs. Li, is a lonely widow who leaves her apartment door open and quizzes anyone who steps off the elevator. Floor 15: Where the occupant of 1503B is an American poet who visited Beijing 15 years ago, just after I was born, and “fell in love with the city.” Floor 15: Where the occupants of 1504B are artists who leave their large canvasses in the hall to dry and invite us to trendy art shows. Floor 15: Where the occupants of 1506A are restaurant owners who store all of their leftovers in their industrial-size fridge. (What does a family of four do with 17 leftover servings of roast duck, anyway?!) Floor 15: Home.

Immediately after Mom gets home from work, she starts filling our apartment and the hallways with the smell of her cooking. But sometimes she works long hours so she can send money home to her factory-worker cousins in Shenzhen. On the days she works late, I know the second I get off the elevator because I don’t smell food–just paint from the neighbors’ apartment. Today, the strong odor of tofu with pickled greens overwhelms me. I escape Mrs. Li, who has captured the American poet like a Venus flytrap devouring her victim. I step around a wet canvas and let myself into 1508B.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, entering the kitchen. It’s a mess of unwashed pots and pans–the downside to Mom’s extravagant cooking.

She turns to me, hands full of chopped peppers. “Lian!” I get a standard kiss, then the usual survey. I can just see my mother’s mind working. Ooh, those shoes are too big. Showy. And I wish she would wear a respectable blouse. But she doesn’t go into her usual rant about how my appearance reflects on the family name. (“We can’t have one of us walking around looking like … like … well, never mind. Looking bad. If you look bad, the rest of us look bad.”) She only shoos me out of the kitchen with, “Go to your room and change before Father gets home.”

My closet is divided in two. The right side is my clothes–the jeans and t-shirts I wear every day. The left is what I wear to please Mom: conservative skirts, my school uniform, polyester slacks. I even have the clothes I wore when I was 6 and 7–Hello Kitty tops, cotton leggings, tiny pleated school uniforms, and pink outfits adorned with bows and bears.

The clothes I find most embarrassing are the ones that please Mom the most. So I choose a pathetic yellow sweater with a crisp white collar and a pair of navy chinos. Goodbye, yoga pants. (“Why so tight? Aren’t you uncomfortable?”) Goodbye, green tank top. (“Won’t you be cold?”) Goodbye, fuzzy sweatshirt. (“Sort of sloppy, no?”)

Kitchen, take two: “Hi, Mom.”

“Lian! Much better. The yellow shirt is very, very nice. How are you?”

I shrug. “Good, I guess.”

“Guess?”

“You know. Pretty good.”

“Just pretty good?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Well, want anything to eat before dinner?”

“No, thanks.” I pick up a copy of the Renmin Ribao, the daily paper. Mom looks at me and frowns.

“Just Communist stuff, you know,” she says.

I know. Why else would it be called the People’s Daily?

“Communists …harrumph,” Mom mutters. She grew up during the Cultural Revolution and still blames the Communists for destroying her family’s art gallery. Mom wanted to be an artist like her parents, but she ended up selling computers wholesale to American companies. Instead of painting in a cluttered studio, she sits obediently at a desk high above the streets of Beijing.

“Well. What’s the news, then?” My mother is always curious and looking for rumors, news–anything she could talk about later. She finds the laundromat exciting because she can pick up gossip while doing chores. Call it multitasking.

“Not much.”

“That’s the problem with those Communists–nothing good ever happens.”

“Yeah.” I know Mom doesn’t really care about politics. She just likes to criticize. It could be the grade on my history test, the prices at the grocery store, the new high-rise next to her office…anything.

“Nothing good ever happens.” Mom repeats herself all the time. She’s like a little kid who keeps saying the same thing until someone responds. “All they ever do is talk about change, restrict the media, make regulations.”

“Yeah?” This is new. Mom usually only goes into detailed criticism when it involves loyalty to the family, obedience to Father, or reverence to our ancestors.

“Yes. You know, Lian, I really don’t like them.”

“Them?” Is she referring to the mushrooms she’s torturing with slow, accurate slices of the knife?

“The Communists!” WHACK! She splits a flesh head of cabbage in half, revealing the intricate folds inside. “When I was your age ….”

Oh, no. Mom stops chopping and squints until her eyes are slit like a snake’s.

“I was very political,” she continues. “Very … disobedient.”

“Disobedient?” I ask. I can’t believe it. For goodness sakes, this is my MOTHER! The only time she’s ever disobedient is in an effort to be obedient, like leaving work a few minutes early so she can have dinner ready by the time Father gets home.

“Yes,” she says, slowly stirring the onions sizzling in the frying pan. Either she’s really dwelling on her past or the onions are starting to get to her. “When your uncle–my brother–was in detention … I’m not always proud of my actions. But he’s family … what could I do? Sometimes obedience is wrong.”

The glimmer in her eye is different from any expression I’ve ever seen her wear. Suddenly she’s not just a corporate businesswoman or a strict, loving mother.

On an impulse, I pull the “Say NO to McDonald’s” posters out of my backpack and hand one to my mother. As she reads it, I take a closer look at the woman who stands in our kitchen every day with an apron thrown over her business suit, wildly–yet dutifully–creating an addictive mix of flavors, love, and mysteries. I think I see a hint of a smile on her face.

By: Thompson, Natalia M., New Moon, Sep/Oct2006