Saving Fish from Drowning - Heal Burma

AMY TAN
father said it was close-sounding to “Bao Tian,” and my mother had
been known as “Little Bit,” which was how she pronounced the
Western name Elizabeth, which my father had given her. My father
called me Bibi, which was both a Western name and short for Bifang,
the name my mother bestowed on me. As you can imagine, we were a
worldly family. My brothers and I had English- and French-speaking
tutors, so we could receive a modern education. This also gave us se­
cret languages that we could use in front of Sweet Ma, who knew
only Shanghainese.
One time, Nobel reported that our Bedlington terrier, whom Sweet
Ma detested, had left a small offering in her room—“Il a fait la
merde sur le tapis”—and because the pattern in the rug masked the
appearance of fresh fecal deposits, our stepmother could not figure
out why every room in the house stank until it was too late. The boys
had a fondness for adding surprise elements to Sweet Ma’s vials of
medicines and snuff bottles. Caca d’oie, collected from the scummy
shoals of our goose pen, was a favorite because it encompassed the
trifecta of disgusting things: foul, slimy, and bilious green. To hear
them tell me what they had done left me laughing helplessly on the
floor. I so miss my brothers!
More often, however, my brothers were not at home to buffet
Sweet Ma’s assaults upon me. Whenever I sat before the keys of the
piano, Sweet Ma recounted my mother’s poor musicianship as a pos­
sible cause of mine. I defended my mother once, telling Sweet Ma
that my father had recently told some guests that she “could make
Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu sound like fast-running water in a
spring brook.”
“Ssss!” Sweet Ma countered with irritation. “That was said to
guests who are foreigners. They expect inflated talk. They have no
shame, no propriety, no standards of excellence. Besides, any school­
girl can play that easy song, even you, if you practiced a little
harder.” And then she poked the side of my head for good effect.
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