I.

It was from the red placemats at a Chinese buffet that I first learned about the Chinese zodiac.

“What do these mean?” I inquired of my mother, staring at the twelve prettily drawn animals on the placemat with interest.

“These are sheng xiao, the twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac. In Chinese culture, our calendar has a twelve-year cycle, where each year is assigned an animal,” my mom explained.

She pointed at the small red text beneath each animal on the placemat that described the attributes each zodiac animal exemplified. “You were born in 2005, the year of the rooster,” my mom told me. “I was born in 1970, the year of the dog. Your cousin Catherine was born in 2004, the year of the monkey. Your cousin Alex was born in 2002, the year of the horse. Your aunt…”

As my mom listed my relatives’ zodiac signs, I read each animal’s description, finding delight in any similarities between the signs’ attributes and my relatives’ personality traits. Dogs, the placemat said, were “loyal and honest,” exactly like my mother. Monkeys were “very intelligent” and charismatic, which described my witty and fun cousin Catherine perfectly. Horses were energetic, just like my cousin Alex. And I, as a rooster, was assertive and devoted to the pursuit of knowledge, a description that made me preen as an overachieving kindergartener.

“Do you know what your grandma’s zodiac sign is?” my mom asked.

At the mention of my grandma— or “Lao Lao,” as I called her in Mandarin— I instinctively glanced at her across our table, before looking back at my mom and hesitantly shaking my head. I didn’t even know how old my grandma was, so I couldn’t calculate the year of her birth, and therefore could not find the corresponding zodiac sign. I winced, hoping my mom would not scold me for not knowing my grandma’s age.

“She is a rabbit.” My mom smiled, and I relaxed, relieved that my ignorance had not irked her. “It’s a very good zodiac sign.”

I peered at the description of the animal in question, crouching primly at the upper left corner of the placemat. “Luckiest of all signs,” I read aloud. I stared. After our family left the restaurant, I sat silently in the car.

I never had the heart to tell my mom that the placemat had also said roosters and rabbits were enemies. Saying this would probably anger my mom, and the thought of the ensuing shouting made me shudder and keep the observation to myself.

 

II.

She was at it again.

The sight of my grandma with a damp towel under her foot as she tried to clean our house’s wooden floor was familiar by now.

“Why doesn’t Lao Lao use a mop?” I once asked my mom. “Wouldn’t that be much more efficient than scrubbing the floor using a towel under her foot?”

My mom shrugged. “I’ve offered to buy a mop for her, but she thinks using a mop isn’t as effective.”

I opened my mouth to press for more, but the way my mom had sighed told me it was better not to dwell on this topic.

I knew by then that Lao Lao could be a headache for my mom. To be clear, my mom didn’t mind driving her to doctor’s appointments (since Lao Lao could not drive) or constantly translating for her (since, despite living in America with us for over a decade, Lao Lao still could not understand or speak a word of English). She was very grateful to Lao Lao for volunteering to cook and help with other chores in our home. What aggravated my mom was how stuck in her ways Lao Lao was. The mop was just one of the things my mom could never manage to change Lao Lao’s mind about.

“You could take some walks outside,” my mom told Lao Lao in an attempt to get her to engage in some health-boosting physical activity, but Lao Lao refused, preferring to spend hours lying on the couch. “Your doctor wants you to take this medication,” my mom urged Lao Lao, but Lao Lao refused, citing ill-supported claims about Western medicine that she had seen on a Chinese website. “I can get you a new coat this winter,” my mom offered Lao Lao, but again Lao Lao refused, not wanting her daughter to spend money on anything that was, in her view, “unnecessary.” “There’s a place where you can take English lessons with some other elderly Chinese people on Sundays,” my mom suggested to Lao Lao, wanting to provide her with an opportunity to make friends. Lao Lao stopped attending after only a couple classes, saying she couldn’t keep up with the material. “You don’t need to do so much around the house, I don’t want you to overwork yourself,” my mom would say in exasperation to Lao Lao; Lao Lao still cleaned as much (and as unnecessarily) as ever, even if her work left her with a sore back. “You should eat more,” my mom pleaded; Lao Lao made no changes to her eating habits. I would have been relieved that Lao Lao was at the mercy of my mom’s frustration instead of me, if not for how annoying hearing their arguments echo throughout the house was.

Lao Lao’s diet had always perplexed me. She refused to eat meat— an understandable restriction she put on herself as a Buddhist— but the problem was that the few foods she ate weren’t all that nutritious. Often, she would happily go a whole day without eating vegetables or fruit, opting instead for carb-heavy foods like congee, rice, and bread. Lao Lao only ate two meals a day at most, never dinner. And though she would unfailingly whip up omnivorous dishes for me, my grandpa, and my parents, the foods she prepared for herself were, more often than not, barely-microwaved, congealed leftovers from days ago.

 

III.

I was a head taller than Lao Lao by seventh grade, but my grandpa Lao Ye, looming at nearly 1.8 meters, was the tallest person under our roof. Unlike Lao Lao, Lao Ye gave me big hugs, and when I was little, he was able to pick me up, spin me, and hold me for a long time in his arms.

He smiled and laughed more than Lao Lao, and unlike Lao Lao, who was perpetually soft-spoken, his voice always boomed when he was with me, as brightly as the whinny of a horse, his zodiac sign. Though Lao Ye, like Lao Lao, only spoke Mandarin, he could understand more English. Even in his seventies, he would single-handedly fix problems in our house that would leave professional plumbers or mechanics scratching their heads. Lao Ye had read much more Chinese literature in his life than Lao Lao, which meant I could eagerly listen to him tell fascinating stories. At gatherings, Lao Ye would light up the room as family friends hung on his every word (while Lao Lao preferred to sit by herself, a safe distance from anyone who might attempt to make conversation with her). Lao Ye was more open-minded and easier to reason with; if my mom ever gave him advice, he would listen to her and be willing to change his old way for a better one.

Ever since I was young, Lao Ye oversaw my learning of Mandarin. He would read me Chinese picture books, and when I began taking weekly Mandarin classes organized by my local Chinese community, he would faithfully sit at my side as I completed the homework and read the textbook. Lao Ye served as the teacher my mom was unwilling to be, as she knew she would lose her temper if I ever did not understand her explanations immediately. Lao Ye was happy to explain anything I did not understand, help me memorize new Chinese words and phrases, study for quizzes, pronounce new Chinese characters I encountered in the textbook, and proofread anything I wrote in Chinese. Thanks to Lao Ye’s guidance, I passed my Mandarin classes with flying colors, and was praised by all my impressed instructors.

Meanwhile, the closest thing to intellectual material that Lao Lao ever engaged with was the text displayed on the TV screen when she watched a Chinese news channel. Being somewhat illiterate, she could barely read that sometimes.

It was a wonder how someone as sharp as Lao Ye had stuck with this simpleton for so long. In my mind, a horse and rabbit could never be companions for long, with how much one towered over the other.

 

IV.

When I was in sixth grade, Lao Lao abruptly left our home and returned to China. In the month that she was gone, I was happy about how much more peaceful the house seemed without the constant sound of her objecting to my mom’s advice. When I asked my mom why Lao Lao had gone back to China, she avoided eye contact, mumbling that Lao Lao had been missing her home in China and wanted to visit. Though this did not explain why Lao Ye had not gone back with her, I opted to feel thankful that Lao Ye had been the grandparent who stayed behind with me.

 

V.

I was surprised when the peace afforded by Lao Lao’s absence did not last. My Mandarin was now strong enough that I could follow my mom and Lao Ye’s argument easily.

“I’m sick of your attitude toward me,” mom shouted at Lao Ye.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with how I treat you?”

My mom ignored his question and raised her voice. “And it’s not just me. You treat Mom badly too.”

“What are you talking about?”

My mom barked out a laugh. “Don’t play dumb,” she said shrilly. “Your behavior is the reason she’s in China.”

Lao Ye’s nostrils flared, and his eyes bulged as he incoherently spluttered denials.

“Oh, please,” my mom howled. “You think she’d want to take a break from you if you hadn’t been so unfaithful? If you hadn’t been such a terrible husband?”

Silence struck. I was able to make out the words from my mom that eventually broke it. Her voice, previously thunderous and biting, now sounded like the whimper of a mutt concerned for its owner.

“You might be likable and popular, but we know who in your marriage is truly more honorable.”
In the deafening silence, I contemplated the double-edged sword of Lao Ye’s charisma. Being the “people person,” his friendliness and need for socializing endeared him to everyone, but it had also made him stray from his marriage. I wondered how Lao Lao must feel about his infidelity and whether this was the first time her husband had galloped away from her. I wondered how many times her heart had been trampled by his hooves.

 

VI. 

She was at it again.

After her return, Lao Lao’s daily routine of cutting up fruits, stacking the slices on a plate, and placing the plate in front of me while I worked was familiar.

“Duo chi shui guo,” she always coaxed. (You should eat more fruit.)

I would nod, mumble my thanks (xie xie), and stare uneasily at the plate always heaped with more fruit than I could finish. The contents of the plate varied, depending on what we had left in our kitchen that day. Sometimes there were gem-like strawberries, and other times, uniformly cut pieces of juicy watermelon, or amber peach wedges. Whenever Lao Lao ambled over from the kitchen to set the plate of fruit in front of me, she beamed from ear to ear (a rare sight). Despite the plate of fruit being light enough to hold in one hand, Lao Lao always held the plate of fruit with both hands, with as much care as if she brought a sacred offering to a temple.

“Why does she always look so proud of herself for cutting up some fruit?” I often wondered, with the disdain of a snarky and tempestuous middle-schooler who always had something to criticize. I would then resume my work, not giving the question any more thought and being careful not to let my mother see me not doing my homework.

 

VII.

She was at it again.

Like always when my mom yelled at me for not meeting her expectations (an occurrence so common by now that I could count on it happening every day), Lao Lao was a safe distance away, having scampered from the conflict zone the moment she sensed the incoming storm. While Lao Ye would rear up and unflinchingly hold his ground when he defended me from my mom’s scathing criticism of my disappointing academic and extracurricular performances, Lao Lao always cowered, lacking the courage to utter even a word for my sake.

Long after my mom had finished her tirade, I would often sit still, mourning the heavy wounds dealt to my self-esteem at my inability to quell my oppressor’s fury. When Lao Lao felt the coast was clear enough for her to shuffle back into the kitchen, I would slowly raise my eyes from the tightly clenched fists in my lap and glare at her through hot tears. One night, despite her urging that I duo chi dian (eat more) as she pushed the dishes she had prepared closer to me, I refused to touch her food, not wanting to give her any reason to feel happy about her work. I cursed the buffet placemat for how accurate it had been when it said the rabbit zodiac sign was timid.

 

VIII.

“Ni shuo shen me?” Lao Lao would often ask whenever I spoke to her, craning her neck in an attempt to hear me better. (What did you say?)

Now in high school, I had grown accustomed to repeating things in a louder voice to Lao Lao, who had experienced hearing loss over the past decade. My mom had purchased her a hearing aid, but Lao Lao refused to wear it. I often avoided speaking to her, to save myself the trouble of needing to shout to be understood. And even if I managed to get my message across, I had no doubt that her dull mind would fail to remember it for long.

 

IX.

“I’m going to buy some groceries,” my mom announced in Mandarin. “Is there anything in particular you want me to get?”

Lao Lao stopped scrubbing the floor (which, as usual, she did using a towel under her foot). “More fruits. We’re running out.”

“What kind?”

Lao Ye, who was sitting on the couch, looked up from his phone and piped, “Peaches. They’re our granddaughter’s favorite.”

“No,” Lao Lao objected softly. “She doesn’t like peaches that much. Get some strawberries and watermelon for her.”

“Huh?” Lao Ye said, scratching his head. “She loved peaches when she was little.”

“These days, she’s mildly allergic to them.”

It was only a while after my mom left to go to the grocery store and after the exchange between my grandparents that I realized Lao Lao, despite being hard of hearing, must have somehow heard me complain to my dad, a doctor, about itchiness I felt in my ears after eating the peach slices she had prepared for me. Though Lao Lao had never defended me against my barking dog of a mother, she had been crouching in the shadows, quietly looking out for me.

 

X.

I am at it again.

It is a familiar scene in our house by now. Me, hunched in a chair, sniffling in the ruinous aftermath of an argument with my mom. Apparently our fight— this time, regarding my depressive episodes that my mom said were disrupting my academic performance and were a sign of my weakness— was so explosive that Lao Ye did not dare to intervene this time.

What did that placemat say about roosters? That people born in the year of the rooster are smart and assertive? What good did my supposed brains and confidence do for me in this argument and the countless ones before it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was less than the rooster, but I was also more. Maybe we all were.

At the sound of footsteps, I snap out of my thoughts and jerk my head to the side.

Though petite, Lao Lao stands taller than me when I am seated, and she gazes down with her bright, clear eyes, their papery corners eroded and etched by tear trails. The corners of her lips are pulled up as she gestures with her head for me to look at what is nestled securely in her two hands— a plate of freshly-cut strawberries and watermelon.

Fruits I love, I think to myself.

I watch as she quietly sets her gift on the table and nudges it closer to me. The pad of her small hand, callused from years of housework and wielding kitchen knives, is enough for me to understand what she wants me to do.

Duo chi dian.

I open my mouth to say something, but words fail me. Words are not needed. There is no confused “Ni shuo shen me?”, no raising of the voice. Just silence between two people— one who has been far too oblivious for far too long, and one who hears more than she seems to, feels more pain than she lets on, and understands much more than others assume.

I realize how foolish I was to have ever thought that the reason Lao Lao always appeared so happy when giving me fruit was that she was proud of her abilities. It was never for herself.

Duo chi dian.

 

XI.

There is an idiom in the Chinese language: jian tu fang ying. Loosely, “when you see the rabbit, release the bird.”

The idiom is meant to describe the response we give to deal with an external situation; we release our trained bird to hunt for, catch, kill, and retrieve a rabbit for us to eat. One thing— the bird— is weaponized by us to destroy another thing— the rabbit— for our gain.

But those four Chinese characters can be interpreted differently.

What if, instead, one saw a rabbit and was so fascinated by its characteristics and merits that they decided to give up (“release”) their bird?

What if “releasing” the bird was not about pitting it against the rabbit, but about letting go of one thing to accept another? What if it was not about fostering rivalry between them, but about reconciling their differences and merits and letting them coexist in harmony?

What if the rabbit was never inferior to the bird?

 

XII.

I weep. Luckiest of all, indeed.

 

Back to the Table of Contents