“Memorable Voices in Books” was first published in the September 2006 issue of Women’s Voices, the feminist newspaper by, for, and about women, published monthly in Sonoma County, California.

“MEMORABLE VOICES IN BOOKS”

A girl offers her own life in order to save her father’s when he is condemned to death for stealing a rose. She goes to the castle where the beast lives and speaks to him in spite of her fears. That [ Beauty and the Beast ] was the story that pulled me into the world of books when I was ten years old, an immigrant from Hong Kong who had not known a word of English just two years earlier. I was the oldest of three, and oftentimes I served as translator for my parents. What started out as a fun role for me soon became a burden.

Why couldn’t they speak for themselves? Why did I have to embarrass myself, asking a sales clerk at Woolworth’s whether they could lower the price of a pair of shoes when I knew that employees could not grant such requests? There were times when my parents did speak for themselves. I was more ashamed than embarrassed when they opened their mouths. They couldn’t get the “r” sound right or they would leave out the last consonant in words. “R” would sound like “L” so that “right” would come out as “ligh.” Thank goodness they never said “flied lice,” but then, they would never order that at a Chinese Restaurant since fried rice meant second or third-day old rice.

Sometimes I felt sorry for my parents, especially for my mother. While my father had the cocoon of working at a factory where his boss and coworkers all spoke Chinese, my mother did not have that sense of community. I saw how native speakers looked at her—at department stores, at clinics, at the donut shop. She didn’t speak like they did. I felt their contempt. Do I reclaim her dignity by speaking for her or do I side with the scornful critic? I chose the latter.

One day during summer break, I was grocery shopping at Safeway for my mother. [Back then, stores didn't have the hand baskets or check-out lanes for "10 items or less."] I was not about to push a cart; only housewives pushed carts. What if a classmate saw me?

A loaf of Wonder bread, half gallon of milk, a carton of eggs, and a bunch of bananas—that was the shopping list my mother dictated to me. And, she said I could buy a candy bar for myself.

The line was long and slow-moving; I had the five items in my two arms. I dropped the Snickers bar. When I dropped it a second time, that’s when a brilliant idea came to me. If I put the candy inside the bag of bananas, I would have only four items to corral. Then, at the check-out counter, I’d pull out the Snickers bar.

I was third in line. But, what time is it? I was wondering. My favorite television show, Dark Shadows, about a vampire living in a quiet town in Maine, was about to start any minute. I was now second in line. The woman ahead of me had a cartful of frozen dinners, sodas, paper products, and a TV Guide. After the clerk rang up the sale, the woman plopped her heavy purse on the counter, dug her hand inside and pulled out her checkbook. “How much was it again?” she asked the clerk. “What’s today’s date?”

She’s going to make me miss the first part of the show. The carton of milk was slipping from my grip. I shifted my weight to prevent it from falling. That’s when the candy bar fell out of the bag.

“Thief,” the woman screeched. Her checkbook fell to the ground, next to my reward for doing a good deed for my mother.

I couldn’t believe my ears. She thought I was stealing candy?

She bent down to pick up her checkbook and my Snickers bar. She shook her head disapprovingly and released a puff of air.

In my head, I had so much to say and I wanted to say it loudly so that everyone in line would hear my defense. To my shock, not a word came out. I couldn’t speak.

When I got home, Dark Shadows had already started. Barnabas Collins had turned into a bat and was flying into Victoria’s room. I put the groceries away. The milk went on the top shelf and the eggs went into the cups inside the refrigerator door. Even though I had paid for the candy bar, I didn’t want to eat it anymore. I threw it into the garbage can and covered it with the empty egg carton.

In the living room, when my mother asked me if I had gotten a treat for myself, I nodded yes.

Later that day I wondered what would have happened if I’d told my mother about the accusation. Would she have gone back to the store with me and yelled at the clerk for letting that other shopper shame me?

Almost forty years have passed. I love stories with feisty protagonists—from Lucy Honeychurch, in E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View, who had no inhibitions when voicing her opinions—to young Maxine, in Maxine Hong Kingston’s The Woman Warrior, who became so angry that she lost her voice.

I write about feisty women now—they start out not sure of themselves, and along the way they gain courage.

I often think about the story that captured my heart so long ago—the one about the daughter who spoke in her father’s defense. And I remember the incident at the grocery store when no one spoke up for me. My hope is that my stories do give voice, that they speak for people who cannot speak for themselves.

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