Personal Narrative: Joy Luck

Back when I was in Kweilin, people did not think about the fancy cars that make the putt-putt-putt sound or the mortgage on their house. Their worst troubles were their children’s moans of hunger. Most people only dreamed of their next meal. Everybody had humility, all these Chinese people bound under the same problems, all of them having to work hard. Even though they were so different, they learned to cooperate and work together.
That is what I had in mind when I first started Joy Luck with my friends back in the ruined peaks of Kweilin. We were so different, now held together by this idea of Joy Luck. From the East, West, South, and North, the four of us from different cultures able to stay happy together during those dark times by simply
I met her at the bus station, and showed her a bright pink winter coat. “Emporium Capwell, nineteen dollars! For you!” I said proudly. Recently, June had been going out in only a light sweater, and I didn’t want her to catch a cold. I held it up to her body, but June pushed it away and stuffed it into the bag. “Ma, I wish you wouldn’t do that in public. Besides, the color’s too bright,” she complained. “Tsk, health is most important,” I said. She got annoyed at this, and simply said, ” Whatever. Let’s just get lunch over with.” How can you rush lunch? Lunch is a meal for social interaction and enjoying the food, not just something to be checked off. We walked and talked, not really listening to each other. Soon we arrived at the markets, and there was on fish. “Nikan!” Look! “50 percent off all seafood, only today!” I dragged her over, and started my regular buying ritual, testing the fish and shouting to the vendors. My daughter stepped away from me and took out her cell phone. “Ma, I wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s embarrassing. Let’s just get to the restaurant.” Sometimes I wish I had disciplined her more. I was always too relaxed when she was younger, I had never taught her respect, when to keep her mouth shut. Now it is too late, I cannot teach her anymore. All I can do is ignore her and carry
Inside, I saw American vending machines, Italian waiters, all plastic golden cutlery. I knew immediately this is not a real Chinese restaurant, but one that caters to other people. This is what others think when they talk about Chinese food, the mere shell of Chinese that is revealed to others. My daughter turned to me. “ Do you like it, Ma? I picked it out just for you.” she said proudly. I realized that this faux Chinese culture is exactly what my daughter has become. She wears her identity vainly, open for everyone to see. If only she could see herself from my view.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur. I purposely washed the chopsticks and plate with hot tea, making a deal about the cleanliness. June criticized me for this, saying that I was so embarrassing and typically Chinese. I rebuked her, saying that she was born from Chinese roots, that she could never deny them. “It is all in the gene,” I said. I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince her or myself. She has my genes and she looks like me, yet she has become so different that I do not recognize