"Mei ling, don’t you forget to bai sin a goong" nagged mamma from the kitchen"Okay, I will" and with that I took 3 steps left to a goong’s alter and bowed 3 times, showing my utter respect for him. A goong died before I was even born, he was a dormant member of the CCP, so my father had no respect for him, but since my father is the oldest of his 8 brothers, he’s responsible for keeping the altar. Baba is a typical Chinese father, never happy with anything, not even his own children. He rules over our family with an iron fist, as I said before he is the last word on everything, even the dcor of the house. The walls are covered with banners with ‘good luck’ messages written in lucky Chinese red, we also have an overwhelming amount of tapestries made by some of China’s most famous artists. The furniture in our living room is so precious that it is not meant to be used; strange that our furniture is not meant to be sat on, but is only meant to sit, collecting dust and being admired. It doesn’t matter anyway, the wood backing is too hard and the seat cushions are like rocks, it is old Mao furniture. I dropped my book bag to the ground beside my favorite tapestry of the Great Wall of China; it shows the full extension of China’s most renowned architectural wonder. I continued down the narrow hallway past Mamma fidgeting with a can, and turned left to the room that was je je’s and mine. There is a definite division between our living spaces, almost like a country at war with itself. My side is sterile, bland and has everything in order; meanwhile, Jing Yee’s side is a wonderful mass of great disorder, her clothes all over the floor, her posters of American superstars and rock stars overlap one another on the wall, and her mattress is not made. I do not think it ever has been, and worst of all, there is a 2-day-old glass of soybean milk decaying at her bedside. I sigh and sit on my m...
