Dear Mom and Dad,

 I could write a whole book for all the things that I am thankful for, but at least in this chapter, I want to thank you both for choosing to raise me instead of raising a piece of pork. I understand that there were many pros and cons to both decisions but I am glad that you both decided that I was a better investment. 

Dad, when I was growing up,  you would take advantage of any moment to tell me and Derek, my brother, about how you started cooking for your siblings when you just were just five years old. At five years old, I didn't even have the strength to pick up our non-stick pan, so I question the logistics of that story.

 Regardless of all the times we complained "Ugh, not bitter melon again!" or "There is too much ginger, green onions, and oil!",   I feel fortunate to have savored every Cantonese dish that you whipped up in our kitchen. I hope you know that despite both of us being in our early twenties, the best that Derek and I can do is chicken fried rice and pasta. If it isn't obvious already, we are better at eating than cooking. 

 In the following stories, I reminisce about the times when actions speak louder than words. There’s that famous saying in American English: A picture can mean 1000 words. In Chinese it is 书意能达万言. In this case, a bowl of fruit can mean 1000 ‘I love you’s’. If that’s the case, then I can only wish that I can send a basket of fruit back home every day. 

 From your daughter who is always willing to eat but never willing to wash dishes,

 Janette

My mom once threw the dirty pan in the sink and said: 

“生你干嘛？生旧叉烧好过生你 ！” — "Why did we even give birth to you? We would be better off giving birth to a piece of Char Siu (barbecued pork) instead of you!"

 Disappointed Chinese mothers use this sarcastic Cantonese saying whenever they scold their child for misbehaving. Hence, in the Wu household, my mom would say this to let me know that I was a good-for-nothing child who wasn’t helpful with the chores around the house.

 I am no economist, but I’m about 87% sure that it is cheaper to raise a piece of pork than to raise a kid. And as for another added bonus,  a piece of pork won't talk back to its parents like I did. 

 However, this saying is merely friendly banter. My mom and grandma weren't serious about wrapping me up in tin-foil, taking me to the local butcher, and exchanging me for a juicy piece of pork. On second thought, what is the social services number again? — I'm asking for a friend.

 After 10 minutes of taking the hard blows from being compared to a piece of pork to being asked "为什么你不是个乖孩子？"— "Why can't you just be a well-behaved child?" — I dragged myself off the couch and dutifully wash the dishes like the obedient, well-behaved piece of pork I was raised to be.

 One weekend during my sophomore year of college, I charged through the stairwell door of my grandparents’ first floor after a long commute back home. The first floor always had the lingering aroma of whatever my grandma was cooking on the stove along with the scent of burning incense and just old people's pajamas. 

Grandpa was sitting in his usual spot at the dining room table. His swollen legs were already propped up on the leg stool and he was routinely shifting through the tray of orange pill bottles filled with medications. A couple of feet away,  grandma was hovering over some pot on the overworked stovetop with an oil sifter in one hand and an empty bowl in another. I grabbed a handful of chopsticks and put it to the side of the 20-year-old table that was still covered in the original plastic wrapping. 

I couldn’t help but snap a quick picture of the food that my grandma was cooking in the wok and sent it over to my boyfriend, Rauful. The meat was glistening under the range vent hood lights and nicely marinating in the simmering sauce. I was drooling more than Pavlov’s dogs.

I sent the picture over to Rauful and typed: "Dinner is ready and I'm actually drooling."

He replied: "Wow!! That looks delicious, what dish is that?"

My thumbs twiddled over the keyboard on the screen trying to think of the name of the dish.

"Braised chicken..." Backspace "Braised Beef..." Backspace again "Braised meat...I think."

I tapped on my grandma's shoulder as she was transferring the dish from the wok to a clean plate.

"麻麻，这是什么菜？“— Hey grandma, what dish is this?

She said some name of a dish I don't recall.

"这是什么样的肉？“ — I mean, what kind of meat is this?

"猪肉“ — "Pork" she replied.

”哦，那这个呢？“ — “Oh, What about that one?" I said as I pointed to another dish on the table.

"猪肉“ — "Pork," she said.

”哦，旁边那个呢？“ — “What about the one next to it?”

"猪肉“ — "Pork," she said again.

”这里面是什么？“ — "What's in here?" I said gesturing to the big pot still simmering on the stove.

"汤...." — "Soup..."

I let out a sigh, "Oh thank god..."

"汤...猪骨汤“ — "Soup...Pork Bone Soup"

I stared at her in disbelief. Then asked if there were any dishes that weren't pork.

She gave me a dumbfounded look and mumbled to herself as to why she didn't turn me into a dinner dish for asking such a stupid question.

She pointed to the dinner table again and said "当然！这道就是鱼啊！“ — "Of course! There is fish!"

Afterward, I texted my boyfriend, "Pork...everything is pork."

Did I mention that my boyfriend is Muslim?

When I wasn’t savoring my grandma’s food on the weekends, I spent most of my week reheating leftover take-out food at the dorms. One night, during my sophomore year in college, I was hanging out in the 8th-floor lounge, taking my second 45 minutes break of the night. It was mid-November of 2017, right after midterms month and a few weeks before finals week. As expected, instead of getting a head start for final preparations, I was procrastinating. 

My friend, Sophia, had sent over the 5 Love Languages quiz, a personality quiz that gives insight into how people express and receive love differently within five different categories: acts of service, words of affirmation, receiving gifts, quality time, and physical touch. This quiz applies to all relationships—especially married or dating couples but it also applies to our relationship with our parents. After taking this quiz, I started to wonder what my parents’ love languages were and whether their love languages have influenced me.

When I was growing up, I would watch a lot of American TV shows and Disney movies like Freaky Friday starring Lindsey Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis. In the movie, the teenage daughter (Lindsey Lohan) would be leaving the house and the parent (Jamie Lee Curtis) would say "Love you, have a great day at school!" and the daughter would nonchalantly reply "Love you too bye!" as she swipes a piece of toast from the breakfast table. 

Scenes like this often stuck out to me for two reasons. The first is that these American parents have enough time in the morning to make breakfast, plate it nicely on the table, sit down, and enjoy their breakfast with their morning paper and cup of joe.  In comparison, during weekday mornings, my Chinese parents were scrambling me and my younger brother out the door with a Tupperware of frosted flakes cereal to eat on the car ride to school. 

Before I transferred elementary schools, the car ride to school was at least 40 minutes. (Thank you NYC morning traffic.) During the car ride, my brother and I would unconsciously raise our tupper-bowl of cereal milk in the air whenever we are near the highway bump. We learned our lesson the first time we thought that we could “ride out the wave” but that only resulted in a chest full of soggy flakes. On some days, breakfast would be the high-fructose-corn syrup-injected cereal. On other days, there would be a sad hotdog dipped in cold ketchup. Nonetheless, both days are served in plastic tupperware — never on a ceramic plate with accompanying toast, sunnyside eggs, or crispy bacon.

The second thing that struck out to me was how unrelatable the movie’s dialogue was. The ‘L word’ is never spoken out loud — at least in my Chinese household. Whenever I witness scenes like this in movies, something always felt out of place. Love was never spoken or expressed verbally, instead, it was expressed through actions. 

Afterward, I realized that I wasn’t being fair to my parents for their inability to express love the way that traditional white-Americans do without considering my immigrant parents’ childhood environments. When my parents were growing up in the villages of Taishan, China, they lived in drastically different times. Meat was considered a luxury (which helps in explaining why they are obsessed with pork now) but more importantly, their families’ main focus was survival. My parents learned to express love from the way their parents’ expressed love —which at the time consisted of bringing home food and the occasional meat product.  Hence, it is only logical that my parents grew up thinking that love should be expressed and reciprocated through these acts of service and gift-giving.

That is why for them, "I love you" is replaced with "Have you eaten yet? I'll make you some food"

"How are you? I hope you are doing okay" is replaced with "I made you a bowl of fruit."

However, for me, nothing screams “I love you” more than having someone’s undivided attention during deep talks at 2:00 AM. Perhaps this is a sign that I am shifting away from a materialistic mindset and becoming, dare I say, more aware of the little things in life. Nothing is more personal and intimate than sitting in the presence of your loved ones or simply helping me fold the laundry when I am swamped.

I've come to realize that the form of love I crave cannot always be fulfilled by others. Especially when I have immigrant parents who work full-time to keep a roof over my head.  I am forced to look inwards and give myself the quality time I crave.

When I retook the 5 Love Languages quiz for the second time, my results were: 37% quality time, 27% acts of service, 23% words of affirmation, 13% physical touch, and a shocking 0% for receiving gifts. When I first took the test, my top two love languages were also quality time and acts of service. However, I don't remember getting a fat zero for receiving gifts. Don't get me wrong, I do love gifts. Even more so, I love the intention that goes into buying the perfect gift. To my friends and family, please don't use this as an excuse for showing up empty-handed at my next birthday party. 

This quiz led me to reflect on how I ultimately express love. Although my love language is 0% for receiving gifts, I paradoxically find myself expressing my love in this exact manner. It turns out that my way of expressing love is parallel to how my parents do so through acts of service and gift-giving. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?

There are many instances in my life where I would coop myself up in my room. During middle school, I would be catching up with the friends on Oovoo (The Zoom video communication platform of 2009) even though I had just seen them a few hours earlier. Then throughout high school, I would be pulling all-nighters, passively reading the same paragraph of a textbook for the third time. 

Sometimes, my parents could hear bursts of laughter. Other times, they could hear quiet groans of frustrations and stress from the heavy schoolwork load. However, to my parents on the other side of the locked door, it all looks the same.

They would often call my name from the other side of the house.

"JUNE-NET" My grandma would scream from the floor beneath me. 

"么啊“ — “What is it?" I scream back.

silence

“么啊” — “What is it?" I screamed again, more frustrated this time.

silence

That is when I would drag myself out of my room and put out whatever fire my grandma needed to be extinguished on the first floor of the house—which usually required me to unplug then replug the TV cable.

Other times, my temper would get the best of me and my patience is the danger zone. Then I would snap back at my parents faster than a turtle with a finger dangled in front of him.

There was a time during my junior year of high school when I was knees deep studying for three Advanced Placement (AP) courses.

"Junior year is the most important year!" said everyone from the college counselors to the neighbor's cat.

"I know. I heard it the first 27th time you said it," I would mumble to myself.

I was rereading the same paragraph in my AP United States History (APUSH) textbook when I heard an abrupt knock on my door.

knock knock

The sound of the knock took me by surprise and I screamed out “么啊” — “What is it?”

knock....knock

I rolled my eyes and immediately felt an incoming wave of frustration. I dragged my feet towards the bedroom door and just before I even opened it, I screamed "WHAT IS IT? WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

My mom stood a foot away from me with a wide smile on her face impervious to my burst of anger. My face softened and the waves of anger immediately retreated. She stood at the doorway holding a small bowl of fruit in her hands. I looked down and saw a couple of wedges of apples and a handful of strawberries staring back at me.

She said with a big grin on her face "吃生果“ — Here, eat some fruit!

I quickly grabbed the bowl and slammed the door.  My body immediately surrendered to the overwhelming emotions as I sat back down at my desk and stared at the bowl of fruit as it now sat in my hands. My vision blurred from the tears when the wedge of apple I picked up between my fingers came into focus. 

On the surface, it was just a bowl of fruit—a snack for my hours spent on writing APUSH outlines. But what wasn't visible in this bowl were the hours that my parents spend going to the supermarket, picking out the best fruits, carrying them home, sometimes even surviving a few bumps in the car ride, washing them to be free of dirt, peeling them to get rid of the stubborn pesticides, carefully cutting them into bite-size wedges, and finally plating them into a bowl to deliver to my doorstep. Their ways of offering condolence were displayed through immense acts of service—the same acts of service I hope to one day attempt to reciprocate.

And as I drowned in an endless stream of tears and snot, the tears rolled down my face into the bowl and ricocheted onto my APUSH outlines. The blue ink bled from one sentence to another, but at that moment, the deadlines and assignments seemed insignificant. That night, with an apple wedge in one hand and a blue pen in another, I thanked the universe for my parents, their ways of expressing love, the home-made Chinese food, clean water, a roof over my head, and finally, for my parent's decision to raise me instead of a piece of pork.