Christmas Vacation

       I dodged the kamikaze taxi driver just in time. Yet just as quickly, another took its place. The flashing fluorescent hieroglyphs above me seemed to taunt me with their unfathomable complexity. My brow drooped. What was I doing here? How could this be my “hometown”? This is a place where I can barely say ‘Hello’ to anyone, nearly lose a limb every time I ride my bike, and even the food seems so incredibly unfamiliar that it sends my gastrointestinal system into a twisting fit at every bite. Yet as soon as I step into my family’s simple apartment and see the ever-present smile on my mother’s face welcoming me home, I know that I do belong, even in such a foreign place. It is my family’s small actions, which make me feel the most as though I am one of them.

       Ba hates Yang Rou Pao Mou, but one night, he did not even raise a brow to Ma’s suggestion that we eat at a restaurant whose specialty was Ba’s least favorite dish. I felt that he knew it was my last dinner with the family for a week, as I was leaving to spend a week with my biological uncle the nest day, so Ba didn’t make an issue out of something that he normally would have. When the waiter came to take our order, I thought nothing of it. Soon, the dishes came. Each steaming bowel of Yang Rou Pao Mou looked identically absolutely mouth watering, but mine stood out from the rest. My family’s bowls were loaded with cilantro; mine was not.

       Now, to anyone else, this slight difference would mean nothing. Others, might even, be mad that their dish had been neglected of a sprinkle or two or flavorful seasoning. But I, on the other hand, absolutely hated cilantro, and even if the slightest hint of cilantro invades food that I consume, I can taste it. The smell, the flavor, even the look of cilantro makes me sick to my stomach. I had not told my family at the beginning of the meal, the day before, or even the week before that I didn’t like cilantro – they had remembered from a day long ago and made sure that the “devil spice” had not soiled my virgin dish. I realized that they had remembered so that the food would be edible to me. My own mother at home would not have remembered to make such a request on my behalf.

       After dinner, we spent the evening walking around the lively streets and visiting bustling open-air markets. Mother was constantly asking me if I wanted to eat, to which I responded: unfortunately, I only had the eating capabilities of a mere mortal, and was therefore unable to eat whatever sweet treat she was pointing at. Every time she came back scolding me for being too skinny and informed me that I needed to eat much more. My father, on the other hand, attempted to tell me epic stories in his think, slurry, Beijing speech, of which I understood every tenth word, if I was lucky. I didn’t really care though, because my parents were spending the evening making sure my last night before my week away would be a memorable one.

       The next day at the Beijing Capital Airport, I gave my father a firm handshake and my mother a brief embrace before I disappeared into the crowds in the departure hall. They had woken up at five that morning to take me to the airport and see me off, despite my countless refusals. I looked back and squinted – was that a tear in my mother’s eye? It was then, that I realized that my new parents cared about me. I too realized that I would miss them, their smiles, and their unquestioning acceptance. I was no longer just a wai guo ren, but a jia ren, I was one of them.