Motif Story - Tradition

February 5, 2000
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year

 The surface of the table is cold and still wet from the rag the busboy used to wipe it down. I can hear the cooks in the back of the dirty little restaurant yelling at each other in the same language I've been hearing all night. It all sounds the same. Just a bunch of gibberish spoken too quickly and too loudly.
“Do you know what you want?” My mother says from behind a menu.
“No” I say with a shrug. I lift my head and rest my chin on my hands.
“Are you hungry?” She lowers the menu to reveal a raised eyebrow.
“I guess…,” I mutter.
“Choose something.” she says and closes the menu. It slides across the table. I squint at the small black print. I don’t even know what the majority of this stuff means.
“Can’t I just get a hot dog from one of the street vendors?”
Mom folds her arms and gives me a stern look.“It’s Chinese New Year. We’re being festive.”
“But, Mom,”
“Can we just enjoy something for once and have a little bit of fun?
“Mom,” I interrupt her rant.
“What?”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” I lean in closer. “we're not Chinese,” I whisper.
“Pick up the menu and choose your damn food because I will not hesitate to order without you, and no, you can’t get a hot dog from one of the street vendors.” I go back to squinting at the black print. I see a waitress wearing a white apron and a big smile making her way over to our table. My mother gives me a serious look and points her finger at my menu angrily. I go back to squinting.
“Are you ready to order?” I can barely make out the waitress’ words through her thick accent.
“Um…” Mom glares at me. I shrug. “I know what I want, but maybe you should just come back in a few minutes.”
“No!” I say louder than I mean to. I can’t take much more of this “celebrating”. “Order for me.” I demand.
“You sure?”
The smile doesn’t leave the waitress’ mouth. Not even for a second. Mom orders our food in gibberish and the waitress nods along, still smiling. It’s almost creepy. I struggle to decide whether she’s happy, or just finds the stereotypical ignorance of Americans funny. Or maybe she just has no idea what’s going on.
Lets go with number three.
She walks away, still smiling, and we sit in silence for a few moments. It’s nice. But, all good things must come to an end.
“James?”
“Yeah?” I say from inside the cave I have created with my arms on the table.
“I know you're upset Dad’s not here. He just had to work.” This is literally the sixth time she has said this to me tonight. I’ve been counting.
“It’s fine. He’s just busy” I respond.
“It’s not fine. He said he would be here.” She holds her head in her hands.
I try to make her feel better.
“He just, had a meeting or something.”
She gives me a weak smile. Our eyes drift to the waitress, who is now using her nod and smile routine on a man drinking a cup of coffee at the counter.
“I’m not so sure she knows what he’s saying.”


***


February 1, 2003
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year

Mom stared at me from across the table with a blotchy, tear stained face. I told her we didn’t have to come today.
“It’s Chinese New Year. This is a tradition.” she insisted.
If you ask me, coincidentally doing the same thing on a holiday last year and the year before doesn’t make it a tradition, it just makes you somewhat dull.
Dad left last Thursday, but not for the first time. He leaves all the time, but he always finds his way back after a guilty drinking binge.
“Want me to order for you?” she says.
“He’ll be back, Mom.” I say. She nods and covers her face. “He always comes back.”
“I just wish you didn’t have to deal with this.” She removes the silverware from her napkin.
“I’m used to it,”  I shrug.
“This isn’t something you should have to get used to.” She blots her eyes with the napkin.
The waitress quickly makes her way toward our table. Smiling, of course.
“Are you ready to order?” Her thick accent hasn’t gotten anymore understandable. It seems to be horrible enough to provoke tears because before I know it my Mother is sobbing so loudly the gibberish coming from all around us has silenced and the cooks all stare, gathered in a mass by the tiny door leading into the kitchen. The smile our waitress is known for suddenly leaves her face and she quickly turns and retreats to the counter.
I scooch myself out from my side of the booth and sit down next to her. I put my arm around her shoulder and pull her in close.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom. I swear.”
***

February 18, 2007
Chinatown, New York City, New York
Chinese New Year
    “James, I told you that you didn’t have to come home for this.” Mom says.
“Mom, it’s tradition.” I respond. “And I missed you guys.”
“Why do we even celebrate Chinese New Year? We’re not Chinese.” Charlie says as he puts his menu down on the table. He proposed to Mom last week. It’s nice to know Mom has company when I’m not around. He keeps her happy.
Mom and I exchange smiles. She turns to face Charlie.
“We don’t care. Didn’t you hear him?” She says pointing toward me. “It’s tradition.”