English Original
I fell in love with the minister's son the winter I turned fourteen. He was not Chinese, but as white as Mary in the manger. For Christmas I prayed for this blond-haired boy, Robert, and a slim new American nose. When I found out that my parents had invited the minister's family over for Christmas Eve dinner, I cried. What would Robert think of our shabby Chinese Christmas? What would he think of our noisy Chinese relatives who lacked proper American manners? What terrible disappointment would he feel upon seeing not a roasted turkey and sweet potatoes but Chinese food?
On Christmas Eve I saw that my mother had outdone herself in creating a strange menu. She was pulling black veins out of the backs of fleshy prawns. The kitchen was littered with appalling mounds of raw food: A slimy rock cod with bulging eyes that pleaded not to be thrown into a pan of hot oil. Tofu, which looked like stacked wedges of rubbery white sponges. A bowl soaking dried fungus back to life. A plate of squid, their backs crisscrossed with knife markings so they resembled bicycle tires.
And then they arrived --- the minister's family and all my relatives in a clamor of doorbells and rumpled Christmas packages. Robert grunted hello, and I pretended he was not worthy of existence.
Dinner threw me deeper into despair. My relatives licked the ends of their chopsticks and reached across the table, dipping them into the dozen or so plates of food. Robert and his family waited patiently for platters to be passed to them. My relatives murmured with pleasure when my mother brought out the whole steamed fish. Robert grimaced.
Then my father poked his chopsticks just below the fish eye and plucked out the soft meat. "Amy, your favorite," he said, offering me the tender fish cheek. I wanted to disappear. At the end of the meal my father leaned back and belched loudly, thanking my mother for her fine cooking. "It's a polite Chinese custom to show you are satisfied," explained my father to our astonished guests. Robert was looking down at his plate with a reddened face. The minister managed to muster up a quiet burp. I was stunned into silence for the rest of the night.
After everyone had gone, my mother told me, "You want to be the same as American girls on the outside." She handed me an early gift. It was a miniskirt in beige tweed. "But inside you must always be Chinese. You must be proud you are different. Your only shame is to have shame."
And even though I didn't agree with her then, I knew that she understood how much I had suffered during the evening's dinner. It wasn't until many years later --- long after I had gotten over my crush on Robert --- that I was able to fully appreciate her lesson and the true purpose behind our particular menu. For Christmas Eve that year, she had chosen all my favorite foods.
中文翻译
在我十四岁那年的冬天，我爱上了牧师的儿子。他不是中国人，像马槽里的圣母玛利亚一样白。为了圣诞节，我祈祷能得到这个金发男孩罗伯特的爱，还有一个纤细的新美国鼻子。当我发现父母邀请了牧师一家来过平安夜晚餐时，我哭了。罗伯特会怎么看我们寒酸的中国式圣诞节？他会怎么看我们吵闹的、缺乏得体美国礼仪的中国亲戚？看到餐桌上不是烤火鸡和红薯而是中国菜时，他会感到多么可怕的失望？
平安夜那天，我看到母亲准备了一份奇怪的菜单，可谓煞费苦心。她正在从肥美的大虾背上挑出黑色的虾线。厨房里散落着一堆堆骇人的生食：一条黏滑的石斑鱼，鼓着眼睛，仿佛在恳求不要被扔进热油锅。豆腐，看起来像堆叠在一起的、有弹性的白色海绵楔子。一碗正在泡发、恢复生机的干菌菇。一盘鱿鱼，背上交叉的刀花让它们看起来像自行车轮胎。
然后他们到了——牧师一家和我所有的亲戚，伴随着嘈杂的门铃声和皱巴巴的圣诞礼物。罗伯特咕哝着打了声招呼，而我假装他不值得存在。
晚餐让我陷入了更深的绝望。我的亲戚们舔着筷子尖，把手伸过桌子，把筷子伸进十几个盘子里夹菜。罗伯特和他的家人则耐心地等待盘子被传过来。当我母亲端出整条清蒸鱼时，我的亲戚们愉悦地低声赞叹。罗伯特却做了个鬼脸。
接着，我父亲把筷子戳进鱼眼下方，挑出一块软肉。“艾米，你最喜欢的，”他说着，把那块嫩滑的鱼脸颊肉递给我。我真想消失。用餐结束时，父亲向后一靠，大声地打了个嗝，感谢母亲的美味佳肴。“这是表示满意的中国礼貌习俗，”父亲向我们震惊的客人们解释道。罗伯特红着脸低头看着自己的盘子。牧师设法勉强回了一个轻轻的嗝。那晚剩下的时间里，我惊得哑口无言。
所有人都离开后，母亲对我说：“你外表上想和美国女孩一样。”她递给我一份提前的礼物。那是一条米色粗花呢迷你裙。“但内心你必须永远是中国人。你必须为自己的与众不同感到骄傲。你唯一的羞耻就是感到羞耻。”
尽管当时我并不同意她的话，但我知道她理解我在那晚的晚餐中承受了多少痛苦。直到许多年后——在我早已不再迷恋罗伯特之后——我才能够完全理解她的教诲，以及我们那份特殊菜单背后的真正目的。因为那年平安夜，她选择的全是我最爱吃的食物。