American Panda: Chapters 1–6

My instinct to be deferential (heightened by my mother’s side-eye) warred with my desire to shake off Mrs. Pan’s bacteria-covered hands.

“Aiyah,” my mother said, using the Chinese word of exasperation that, for her, preceded every faux brag. “I do hope Mei makes money in the future, not for her sake, but mine. She just started at MIT this week, premed of course, and her tuition is driving me to an early grave..."

Right before they disowned my brother, they had stopped criticizing his negative attitude, his laziness, his weight....It had been the last step before cutting him out. Reprimands meant they still cared...right?

“Do you think the concubines won the emperor’s attention by being cute? Be a cat. They know how to sājiāo and get the man’s attention. They’re nián rén without being clingy—the perfect rice. Not too sticky, not too independent.”

“Apt example, Mămá. People declaw cats, essentially cutting off their ‘fingers,’ and our ancestors used to break women’s feet to bind them into three-inch monstrosities. Except that was to keep them from running away.”

When his head bobbed up and down emphatically, I smiled, excited to have one more person in on the secret.

“Honesty is sometimes misconstrued as rudeness, which is probably why it’s so rare.”

After I had chastised everyone for laughing at her—which had been a spur-of-the-moment decision fueled by my own experiences as the pìgu of the joke—I had told the girl, in an attempt to make her feel less alone, about that time in elementary school when I had brought my stuffed goat, Horny, to show-and-tell.

Instead of trying to make sense of the confusing mix of envy and sympathy fomented by his words, I simply nodded.

Her lips pursed to the side, then returned to a demure smile as she stepped to the left to clear him an exit path.

“I already found your husband, Mei. Eugene Huang. Dr. Eugene Huang. Búyào tuō kùzi fàngpì”—that is, Don’t take your pants off to fart, the Chinese idiom my family used for, Don’t waste your time doing something extraneous. In this case, dating."

I knew from experience not to fight this one with logic, which only instigated tongue clicks and guilt, my mother’s number one weapon.

My age alone suggested I was a maladjusted, socially awkward introvert.

A boisterous student in an MIT CREW cap swept in with leftover Bertucci’s pizza from the Student Center.

My pointed feet slid across the linoleum as if they were already intimately acquainted.

I had started dancing at age six under my parents’ coercion as a tactic to make me stand out on college applications.

I started my playlist, and the studio exploded with the crashing of cymbals and the twanging of the Chinese lute.

Next a Dai song flowed from the speakers: smooth, sultry, and slow.

I hated her and the castanets that would click her disapproval, just like my mother’s tongue.

My insides felt cold, not because of the impending embarrassment at reneging (which yes, sucked), but more because I wouldn’t get to teach dance.

I chuckled, picturing the gross red bean Popsicles Mrs. Ahn used to force on me. I always had to thank her profusely, then find a way to flush them down the toilet.

Since the benches matched the rest of MIT’s funky eclectic architecture, their unique sound properties were a secret from most passersby.

“Giă xiláng,” she whispered in amazement, so softly I wouldn’t have been able to discern her words had we not been in the whispering gallery.

I knew I had to get over my uneasiness with nether regions before becoming a doctor, but I thought I had more time.

The germ-ridden trash can careened into me, and I lost my balance.

A strange garbled noise escaped from my throat before I managed to rasp, “That’s impossible.”

A strange garbled noise escaped from my throat before I managed to rasp, “That’s impossible.”

Grabbing my clothes in a huff, I stormed out in just my gown, my inner volcano—aka Lu-suvius—bubbling ominously.

Apparently her posture the other night hadn’t been from humiliation; even now, as the authority figure, she was the epitome of subservience, hunching so much she appeared to be trying to hide herself.

But despite the mortification, I relaxed because the Mămá Lu in my head had finally stopped chattering.

“I want to know what I’m getting into,” I said, when I really meant, I'm terrified I won’t be able to get over my squeamishness.

If I hadn’t been so disgusted, I might have reveled in witnessing my bully under such compromising circumstances.

After darting out of the room, I tried (and failed) to quell my turning stomach.

The stringy rods and circles were innocuous enough, but knowing where they came from made me dry heave.

I inched over to the hand sanitizer in the corner while trying not to breathe too deeply—the sterility of the cleaning chemicals was worsening my headache.

You know you’re going to have to do much worse in med school, right? Dissect a cadaver, rectal exams, abscess drainage, central lines—

You know you’re going to have to do much worse in med school, right? Dissect a cadaver, rectal exams, abscess drainage, central lines—

“You’ll get used to it. We all do.” But her voice was reedy with doubt.

My heebie-jeebies from the day...manifested as full-body shudders and jerky limbs, hitting before the music even started.

The fear traveled down my arms, the sinew serving as tracks, and exited through my extended fingertips.