The Joy Luck Club

At my grandma’s house, I was greeted with far too much food (“It’s only leftovers”) and cheers of “Happy Birthday.” The kitchen was crowded with women gambling at cards. Note: these aren’t the usual cards, but the thin kind without numbers, skinnier than a finger and decorated with symbols I can’t comprehend. I’m not even going to pretend to understand the game itself.

It is beyond me how they manage to track the progress of play, bluff and gossip all at once. Upon our entrance, my dad and I were inspected and pumped for information. How’s your mom? Has she gotten any fatter? No? That’s too bad. How about your brother, how tall is he? How are his grades? I heard he went to China last summer, how’s his Chinese? Oh, he didn’t really learn anything? Well, you’re the smart one in the family anyway. That’s not true, both of them are smart. Is he working? Oh, that’s good; my son is such a lazy bum. What’s your new job? The Federal what? Wait, what’s that again? Oh great, so you can give us stock tips, right? Is that your new car in the driveway? How much did you pay? Let’s see your hands. Wow, you will be rich in the future! So, do you have a boyfriend? That’s okay, you’re still young! Just be sure to bring home someone Chinese, haha. Just kidding, the only thing that matters is that they are a good person!

As I spoke, comments, judgments and compliments were volleyed across the table at near-yelling volume. And you thought I was loud? I’m telling you, it’s a survival mechanism.