Authors: Lensey Namioka
“‘Celtic' means Irish, doesn't it?” said another kid. “Why should you be interested in something Irish?”
“Why can't a Japanese American enjoy Celtic storytelling?” demanded Amanda.
“Scots are Celts, too,” I said, “and Amanda is coming to watch the Scottish dance program.”
“Say, is it true that you'll be one of the dancers, Fiona?” asked Harry.
I didn't want to tell my friends that I might not appear in the program after all. So I just said, “My grandfather is directing the junior group of Scottish dancers.” I added proudly, “He used to be a really good dancer when he was young.”
“Your grandfather was a dancer?” said one of the other boys. “I thought all the dancers were girls. I saw a picture of the Highland Games once, and the dancers all wore little skirts.”
“Look, let's get this straight once and for all,” I said. “The little skirt is called a kilt, and it's intended for men. In
Scotland, only men wear the kilt, never women.” Honestly, I was beginning to sound just like Grandpa.
“Okay, okay!” said the boy. “You don't have to get mad.”
Just then, Ron walked past our table on his way to the playground. “Hey, Ron, since you're part Scotch, I bet you have your very own kilt!” said Joel, one of the other boys at our table. He was in Ron's class, and was new that year.
Joel had guessed right. Ron did own a kilt. But it was not something he wanted people to know about.
The boy next to Joel poked him. “Chill out, Joel. Better not mess with Ron Cheng.”
Joel ignored the advice. “I bet you'd look great in one of those cute little skirts, Ron.”
Ron stopped and looked at Joel. His face turned very white, and then red. “I never knew you were so fascinated by skirts, Joel,” he said. “There's a sale on skirts at the mall this weekend.”
Everybody at our table tensed. Whatever was going to happen, it was too late for us to stop it. With a low growl, Joel launched himself at Ron.
We were having pizza for lunch, and I had seen Ron
measuring the distance to our table, so I knew what he was going to do.
I quickly picked up my slice of pizza, just as Ron used the momentum of Joel's rush to flip him over our table. Joel lay stunned for a moment, and then struggled up. It was a mess, with spilled drinks, half-eaten apples, and paper plates all over the place. When Joel climbed off the table and made it to his feet, we saw slices of pizza stuck to his back.
“Applying for a job at Domino's Pizza?” Ron asked Joel.
The teacher who had lunchroom duty hurried over to find out what the uproar was about. By the time he heard everybody's story, the bell rang and we had to go back to our classes.
TGIF, and the end of the school day couldn't come a minute too soon for me. But my problems were not over. I still had to face my family and decide what I was going to do during the Folk Fest.
I got home at almost the same time as Ron. Grandpa and Grandma MacMurray were in the living room. “Hello, darlings,” Grandma said. “You must be starved. Your pa left some raisin scones for your tea.”
Dad makes great scones, better than any store-bought ones. The only problem is that he and most Americans pronounce “scone” to rhyme with “stone.” When Ron and I did that, Grandpa MacMurray immediately corrected us. “To a good Scot, ‘scone' rhymes with ‘gone,'” he said. “Don't let me hear you say it any other way!”
But when I pronounced it that way to my friends, they laughed at me. So I try to say it the Scottish way with Grandpa and Grandma and the American way with my friends.
“Did you and Grandpa have your scones?” I asked, doing my best to make “scone” rhyme with “gone.”
Grandma smiled. Maybe she noticed the careful way I pronounced the word. “Yes, darling. They were very good, too.”
As I went into the kitchen, I thought about Grandma's smile. There was something sad about it. I also noticed that Grandpa didn't give us his hearty, booming laugh when Ron and I came back.
I found Nainai in the kitchen. For once she wasn't cooking. She was sitting at the kitchen table, sewing a loop for the button on a silk jacket. I caught my breath. It was
the most gorgeous jacket I had ever seen, made of pale green silk, with brilliantly colored embroidery.
“Is that …” I had to swallow before I could continue. “Is that part of the costume you made for me to appear on Dad's talk?”
“It's the top,” answered Nainai. “I made a pair of silk trousers to go with it, but they're much more plain.”
Ron sat down at the kitchen table and took a big bite of his scone. “Dad told me that in the old days, Chinese women wore trousers, while the men wore those long gowns with the slits and buttons up the sides,” he said. I knew he was trying to lighten things up.
Nainai nodded. “I remember my own father sometimes wore a qipao—that means ‘Manchu gown,' you know, because they were first introduced by the Manchus in the seventeenth century, when they conquered China.”
I had seen pictures of the qipao, and I couldn't believe my ears. “You mean those slinky things worn by girls trying to look sexy?”
“The ones worn by men were loose, not slinky!” laughed Ron. “I wonder how all those old kung fu masters managed not to trip over their gowns when they fought.”
“So you wouldn't mind wearing a qipao?” I challenged Ron.
“It's not what you wear, but what you do that matters,” declared Ron.
Nainai finished sewing on the button and folded the shiny jacket. Then she picked it up and left the room without a word. Ron and I looked at each other, then went back to munching on our scones.
I tried to do my homework on the dining room table, but I couldn't concentrate. Should I stick with the Scottish dance troupe and make Nainai unhappy, or appear on Dad's program and leave Grandpa and Grandma MacMurray in the lurch?
When Dad came home, he went into the kitchen to get dinner ready. I saw Nainai go in and join him. As I sat doing my homework, I overheard their two voices in the kitchen speaking in Chinese. Again, Dad's voice was much higher than usual.
I knew very little Chinese, but I did understand Dad when he said, “Bu yao jin,” which means “It doesn't matter.”
Then Nainai said, “Zhen kexi,” which means “It's really too bad!”
So Nainai was obviously very upset, and Dad was doing his best to console her. He had to be disappointed himself at the thought that I might not be going to his talk. But instead of sounding bitter, he was doing everything he could to make Nainai feel better.
I understood that this was what Mom had meant by “filial duty.” To Dad, Nainai's feelings are more important than his own. After listening for a while, I was no longer embarrassed at hearing Dad speak in his boyish voice. Mom is like a child when she's playing games at being thrifty. But when Dad speaks in his childish voice, he's really an actor playing a part, like that man in the Chinese story who babbled and drooled and crawled on the floor. He was doing it to be a good Chinese son. I was proud of how my father treated his mother, and I was glad that half of me was Chinese.
How could I be cruel enough to disappoint Nainai? But it was just as cruel to disappoint Grandpa and Grandma MacMurray. They had come all the way from Vancouver
looking forward to having one of their own grandchildren dance in the festival.
Across the dining table, Ron was also doing his homework. He finished before I did, and I watched him putting away his notebooks. He was neat in all his movements— maybe from all that kung fu training.
That's when I was struck with a brilliant idea: Ron could take my place in the Scottish dancing! After all, Ron was the one Grandpa really wanted for the dance troupe, and that beautiful kilt was his in the first place. Being quick and light on his feet, Ron wouldn't find the steps of the dances too hard to learn.
“Ron,” I called before he reached the door, “how would you like to take my place and join the Scottish dance troupe?”
“What?” he squawked. Actually, “squawked” isn't the right word. He squeaked. Ron's voice had changed, and most of the time it sounded deep. But once in a while, his voice still broke into a high squeak. “You're not …”—he stopped, took a breath, and got his voice back down again—”serious.”
“It'll be perfect!” I said. “You can take my place at the
rehearsal tonight and start learning the steps. We'll be having our final rehearsal tomorrow night, so you'll get enough practice to master the dances in plenty of time for the performance.”
“I've never taken dancing lessons in my life,” Ron said between his teeth, “and I don't intend to start now!”
“Look, Ron,” I said, “you'll be able to wear your kilt at last.”
“That kilt!” said Ron. “You saw what happened at school today!”
“When we were talking about the Manchu qipao just now,” I reminded him, “you said yourself that what you wear doesn't matter. It is what you do that matters.”
“I don't want to spend the rest of the school year flipping people around the lunchroom,” said Ron.
“Look, nobody's going to bother you after what happened to Joel, and it will make Grandpa so happy to see you wearing the kilt,” I coaxed. “Plus, I'll be able to wear Nainai's costume and be in Dad's show.”
“Don't you think about anything except what to wear?” demanded Ron. “First it's the kilt, and now it's that silk costume!”
I realized too late that we hadn't kept our voices down. I peeped into the living room and saw Grandpa and Grandma sitting stiffly upright on the sofa, their eyes looking straight ahead. It was clear that they had overheard.
“Listen, Ron,” I said more quietly, “Grandpa and Grandma are disappointed and unhappy. Nainai is heart-broken because I might not wear her costume. We've got to do something!”
“Fiona, you must be totally insane if you think I'm going to put on that little skirt—I mean that wee skirt—and hop around in front of people!” snarled Ron, and he ran out before I could say anything more.
Remembering the boys in our school lunchroom, I couldn't exactly blame Ron. Hopping around in a little skirt would sound really sissy to most American kids.
Supper that night was quiet. It felt weird to have Grandpa there and not hear his booming laugh. With Nainai's help, Dad had cooked a meal that didn't include anything too strange. Maybe Nainai thought she had already made her point with the jellyfish.
We ate our way steadily through dinner, but we didn't say much. Finally Grandpa cleared his throat. “The
dancers are coming over at seven-thirty tonight for another rehearsal.”
Dad opened his mouth but decided not to say anything. I saw Grandpa glance at me, but I didn't meet his eyes. Nainai was sitting right across from me. If I said I would continue as one of the dancers, it would be the same as telling her that I wouldn't be wearing her silk outfit.
The meal lasted forever, and even the dessert seemed to take a long time to eat. Usually it takes me one nanosecond to wolf it down. At last we finished.
While Ron and I cleared the table and started the dishes, Grandpa and Grandma went out to the back patio and sat on a wooden bench. The bench was right outside the open kitchen window, and I could hear their voices quite clearly.
“What do you think Fiona will do?” asked Grandma. “I feel sorry for the poor lass, having to make a difficult choice like this.”
I put the last dinner plate gently in the dishwasher and tried not to make any noise as I scoured the frying pan.
“We'd better let her go to her pa's talk,” Grandpa said
gruffly. “We'll try to find another dancer. Someone in the senior group might know a likely youngster hereabouts.”
“We can't let Fiona's pretty costume go to waste,” said Grandma. “Such a lot of work her other grandma put into it.”
“That kilt I brought is going to waste!” said Grandpa. Next to me, Ron froze as he was emptying coffee grounds into the garbage can.
“Our laddie hasn't shown the least interest in wearing a kilt,” continued Grandpa. “He cares only about kung fu and all those Asian martial arts. He wants nothing to do with his Scottish ancestors!”
“That's not true, Alec,” protested Grandma. “He loved the Highland Games! And remember the times when you held him on your lap and told stories about heroes like William Wallace and Robert the Bruce? He never could get enough of those tales, and he kept coming back for more.”
“And when was the last time I held the boy on my lap?” demanded Grandpa.
I saw Ron squirm with embarrassment. He didn't want a reminder of the days when he had been a little kid sitting on someone's lap. But I suspect that he was uncomfortable
for another reason. Grandpa MacMurray was right. It had been a while since Ron had shown any interest in Scottish history and culture. For that matter, I was pretty ignorant of Scottish things myself.
Mom doesn't talk much about culture or history. In fact I don't remember hearing her show any interest in history—any kind of history. Instead, she tries to encourage our interest in science and mathematics. If I ask her who the Jacobites were, she'll tell me to go look them up in the encyclopedia. But if I ask her about imaginary numbers or black holes, she'll tell me about them in detail, a lot more detail than I need.
Dad is different. He's always ready to fill us in about Chinese history or culture. Since he is a great storyteller, he makes it sound fascinating. That's why both Ron and I wound up knowing a lot more about China than about Scotland.
I've gotten into the habit of saying that I'm half and half, meaning half white, half Asian. But in appearance I was 30%/70%, and Ron 75%/25%. Culturally we aren't half and half, either. We both know much more about our Chinese half than our Scottish half. Grandpa and Grandma
weren't hurt just because Ron refused to try on the kilt. They must have been really bothered about our ignorance of Scottish culture.
“The dancers will be coming any minute now, Alec,” I heard Grandma MacMurray say. “We'd better go in and make ready the living room. But what are we to do about the missing dancer?”
The back door opened and Grandpa and Grandma came into the kitchen. Then Ron did something that left me speechless. He walked up to Grandpa and said, “Do you think it's too late for me to join the Scottish dancers?”