Ma and I love having different currencies. Whenever she came back from supermarkets, she would swear loudly about how she’s been slain by the prices. She complained about an apple priced at six. Every time I had to ask her five consecutive questions before she finally admitted that it’s six yuan, not six dollars. I thought so. She was a person smarter than the super-marketers, graduated with accounting degrees, much more big-brained than people would imagine her to be. Marketers don’t stand a chance with her. She loves Zhan-Pian-Yi: taking advantage of discounts and cheaper stuff. I am not speaking ill of her, because Zhan-Pian-Yi could sometimes be of great quality, but gosh it was annoying when she complained about prices. She hated the price but bought five apples. Who’s being a hypocrite?
I played in another way. Every now and then I sat in front of a calculator for the whole afternoon and scratched the last bit of hair off my head. My fingers danced on the calculator, dancing with nervousness or excitement at different times. But eventually, there’s inevitable desperation and disappointment. This was expensive and I wanted to take a fire gun and torch the world for setting this price. My eyes swam in the computer screen, hoping to find a cheaper alternative, but since I didn’t graduate with an accounting degree, my brain couldn’t overcome the one setting the prices. So I would go to Ma, and quietly tell her the price. Without mentioning the currency, of course. She would think the fees were in yuan until the invoice came. But by then she had no choice except to pay for me. I wondered, in which family did the parents refuse when their children wanted to study? And in which family do you have to worry about the currency before you pay tuition fees?
And so the conflict came. I tried to slip the information about the tuition fee in our casual conversation but she is too big-brained to not catch it. I hated it when she started an argument. I felt a sense of languishing, and powerlessness as I was being manipulated in front of her big words, the prices, and those currencies. I drained my last bit shouting, my mouth, an exploding saliva fountain. I knew I wasn’t any better than her but you gotta know children inherit things from their parents. Finally, she gave in and gave a speech about how I could have control over myself from now on. Her speech didn’t sound like a losing one, but instead, it was triumphantly crushing every last bit of my soul. The speech told me that in the future, I would be alone instead of independent, how I would be hurt without her comfort, how I would laugh with tears. And I hated her for giving that speech.
She stretched her neck and read every single detail of the invoice uncomprehendingly. She tried understanding languages but couldn’t quite. She tried Zhan Pian Yi but couldn’t find a single line that did not demand more of her money. She seemed as lost as I was. And things came together. She had no connections here. She knew not languages. She knew not the wealthiness of those with beer tummies. She knew not the rules. She knew not our powerlessness. Knew not anything about disadvantage and discrimination. Not about how colourless our lives have been and how marvelous others’ are. She knew not because I refused to disclose the information to her when I converted the currencies.
Amount of yuan, buried in heart. Amount of dollars, used to fool her.
On Mother’s Day I did nothing. And she said,
“Sometimes I felt like, if I had to make a choice about whether to have a baby or not, I would.
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The cost of family pressure. The cost of leaving dad. The cost of leaving her job. The cost of restarting a career in the forties. The cost of standing inferior in front of her high school students. The cost of naiveness in front of a bunch of foreigners. The cost to be forbidden to say I was her pride.
Sometimes I hate the world. How can anyone be any more deserving than my Ma? How can those ignorant, apathetic, pathetic, lazy, inconsiderate pigs stand above her divinity?
But her currency is worthless in front of me. I could only allow one kiss on the cheek after her twenty years’ raising. I would return no money to her, although she invested thousands. Her thousands of days of nurturing a soul are not even worth my love. My currency is too high for her love to be convertible.
I know all those above would happen. In the future. I tried, and I couldn’t stop its inevitability.
How could I deserve my Ma? How could my laziness, ignorance, and ungratefulness find her divinity? I am a straight-up Bai-Yan-Lang, a white-eyed wolf.
I love my Ma, and I want to say that before her currency raises higher.
