ROSA: PROLOGUE
They were talking again.
They were talking in that hushed, serious voice; and I knew something was wrong. Not only were they trying not to let me hear, they were also trying not to let me understand: they were talking in Mandarin.
My parents knew that I’ve despised my native tongue ever since they had forced me to go to Chinese school while all my friends played soccer or Little League baseball - you know, typical Canadian stuff (this is Kamloops, BC, after all). I had to sit there for an hour and half listening to ‘Teacher Wang’ rattle away in fluent Mandarin (with a distinctive Shanghai accent, as I was so kindly told by my mother) and understanding about three words out of her twenty word sentence. I remember bringing home stacks of pages with words to copy into little boxes (“Ten times each,” said Teacher Wang); and of course: having my first taste at exams at age five (most which I just barely passed, as I obviously didn’t care about the four tones of Chinese words).
Needless to say, I thought it was hell.
My parents had to practically bribe me into going to every class: new Barbie dolls, toys, and junk food. Mother still blames my father for spoiling me, not that I think I’m spoiled at all! But I quit after two years, no Backstreet Boy CD were going to change my mind.
Later I managed to live something of a fairly normal life. I had an English name, preppy clothing, and ate pizza just like the rest of my friends. Even though no one was ever racist, there were barely any other Asian girls at my school. The rare few were all geeky and uninteresting to me; I remember how my friend Alice said how they were just different from the rest of us, and that was why they didn’t have many friends. I could feel the gears in a teacher’s head moving the minute I got into a classroom, and I know they were thinking, “She is Asian, so she must be smart, I’m expecting a lot from her,” and I detested that to no end. I would be lying if I said I didn’t disappoint them every single time.
Not that it had anything to do with what my parents didn’t want me to know. They still talked in that hushed voice, except now they kept on turning to dart little glances at me. Something was definitely up.
“Rose? Can we talk to you for a second?” Either I was in big trouble, they’re getting divorced, or just some kind of big trouble altogether. Otherwise, they never call me Rose.
I sat down to face my mom and dad (who had always asked me to call them Mama and Baba, but I never do). I stared into their almond shaped eyes, I could only see worry.
“Rose, your grandmother was just diagnosed with cancer,” Dad said, “We are going back to China to take care of her.”
I was pretty sure that I haven’t seen my grandmother since I was two. So of course, I don’t remember a thing about her. Lots of my Caucasian friends are completely shocked when I tell them that I’ve never met 80% of my family and don’t see 18% out of the remaining 20% on a regular basis.
“We? As in all of us?”
“No, Rosa. Just me and your mother,” He examined me carefully, waiting for me to react. As if I was going to faint of shock or something. I must have twitched or something, I suppose, but otherwise, pretty apathetic.
“You are going to Vancouver, North Vancouver to be exact,” Mom moved on, seeing she was not going to get much of a reaction from me, “Your father and I agreed on homestay.”
“Homestay?” It must be some Asian thing, because I had no clue what it was. It didn’t sound all too appealing though.
“I contacted a friend. There are two girls who have been her homestay for at least five years. She also has a daughter and a son. The girls are your age, so you can stay with them,” Mom didn’t say until when, and I didn’t ask. I was sure they would rather not think about that. But I knew it wasn’t going to be short.
I blinked, nodding blankly. Living in a house with three other Chinese girls, huh? This was going to be one hell of a year.
They were talking again.
They were talking in that hushed, serious voice; and I knew something was wrong. Not only were they trying not to let me hear, they were also trying not to let me understand: they were talking in Mandarin.
My parents knew that I’ve despised my native tongue ever since they had forced me to go to Chinese school while all my friends played soccer or Little League baseball - you know, typical Canadian stuff (this is Kamloops, BC, after all). I had to sit there for an hour and half listening to ‘Teacher Wang’ rattle away in fluent Mandarin (with a distinctive Shanghai accent, as I was so kindly told by my mother) and understanding about three words out of her twenty word sentence. I remember bringing home stacks of pages with words to copy into little boxes (“Ten times each,” said Teacher Wang); and of course: having my first taste at exams at age five (most which I just barely passed, as I obviously didn’t care about the four tones of Chinese words).
Needless to say, I thought it was hell.
My parents had to practically bribe me into going to every class: new Barbie dolls, toys, and junk food. Mother still blames my father for spoiling me, not that I think I’m spoiled at all! But I quit after two years, no Backstreet Boy CD were going to change my mind.
Later I managed to live something of a fairly normal life. I had an English name, preppy clothing, and ate pizza just like the rest of my friends. Even though no one was ever racist, there were barely any other Asian girls at my school. The rare few were all geeky and uninteresting to me; I remember how my friend Alice said how they were just different from the rest of us, and that was why they didn’t have many friends. I could feel the gears in a teacher’s head moving the minute I got into a classroom, and I know they were thinking, “She is Asian, so she must be smart, I’m expecting a lot from her,” and I detested that to no end. I would be lying if I said I didn’t disappoint them every single time.
Not that it had anything to do with what my parents didn’t want me to know. They still talked in that hushed voice, except now they kept on turning to dart little glances at me. Something was definitely up.
“Rose? Can we talk to you for a second?” Either I was in big trouble, they’re getting divorced, or just some kind of big trouble altogether. Otherwise, they never call me Rose.
I sat down to face my mom and dad (who had always asked me to call them Mama and Baba, but I never do). I stared into their almond shaped eyes, I could only see worry.
“Rose, your grandmother was just diagnosed with cancer,” Dad said, “We are going back to China to take care of her.”
I was pretty sure that I haven’t seen my grandmother since I was two. So of course, I don’t remember a thing about her. Lots of my Caucasian friends are completely shocked when I tell them that I’ve never met 80% of my family and don’t see 18% out of the remaining 20% on a regular basis.
“We? As in all of us?”
“No, Rosa. Just me and your mother,” He examined me carefully, waiting for me to react. As if I was going to faint of shock or something. I must have twitched or something, I suppose, but otherwise, pretty apathetic.
“You are going to Vancouver, North Vancouver to be exact,” Mom moved on, seeing she was not going to get much of a reaction from me, “Your father and I agreed on homestay.”
“Homestay?” It must be some Asian thing, because I had no clue what it was. It didn’t sound all too appealing though.
“I contacted a friend. There are two girls who have been her homestay for at least five years. She also has a daughter and a son. The girls are your age, so you can stay with them,” Mom didn’t say until when, and I didn’t ask. I was sure they would rather not think about that. But I knew it wasn’t going to be short.
I blinked, nodding blankly. Living in a house with three other Chinese girls, huh? This was going to be one hell of a year.
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