A Claim of Identity

I was pregnant, sitting in the passenger seat of the car whilst my father drove in somberness. “She was such a quiet pretty thing” my father sadly recounted. “And then she turned into this…” he shuddered in disbelief at what was happening against the backdrop of a grey drizzle wet day, where even the sound of traffic outside us was subdued to a whisper, punctuated with the smearing wiper blades that counted down with the clock to our unwanted destination.

This was an unfortunate re-uniting with my own parents, whom I had reached out to as a result of learning I was pregnant. I had run away from home years before and neither of them had sought for my whereabouts or any explanation. They not only let me go, but had called upon my known circuit of high school friends, to lay threats and demand I return their house keys, as I was no longer allowed to return home.

It pained me grievously, to learn that all I had endured in childhood, all I knew as family, could so easily be switched off, as though I never even existed to them. Upon the fear of reality discovering I was pregnant, and not knowing of anyone I could turn to, I reached back to my father, who was the suppressed one out of the couple, in the hope of finding some comfort.

But unfortunately, instead of testing the waters as to my mothers wrath of me, his revelation of my condition of pregnancy to my mother, re-ignited her demented anguish to slander me. Over the course of the next few weeks when my mother learned of my condition and whereabouts, she bombarded me with threatening mad hate mail.

I was pregnant and noticed the postman reading intently over a brown envelope, that was scrawled upon in red ink for every square inch, insidious words that read a whole lot of anger and hate. I didn’t even need to open the letter, because what was spidered over the outside was already pure venom and madness.

On the envelope, there were words amounting to; “your father is a peadophile”, “no daughter behaves like a whore!” And some, were much, much more, venomous. Had I had known the postman was merely entertained at clearly a mad-woman’s writing, I could have dismissed it as much. But in those days, I had still not overcome years of shock into being exiled, it pained me that my own mother didn’t care for me, let alone love me, and I was about to become a mother myself, with no understanding and support from anyone. I was I suppose, particularly vulnerable in victimhood.

“I should have known, I should have seen this all coming! What a waste of a lifetime!” My dad implored to me, as a coward that he really is. “The day we were married, she was expecting something different, and after the ceremony she brooded and screamed and scared me so much I nearly crashed the car. That was the first time I ever saw her temper, and you remind me of her from back then right now.” I was a little taken aback, I felt it was a cruel gesture that he should hate her so much, and pivot to say I looked just like her.

“Just like her,” I thought, as I imagined that day they were married, and my mother recounting that day, saying how his family was a disgrace! Such embarrassing turnout of NO ONE. No one there to enamore my mothers pride with a crowd of witnesses. I remember her being outraged at this simple wedding, insisting that it should have been something grand.

“But it was too late to divorce already, as *you* were born.” Was my father really this uncaring? I sat in the car uncomfortable with disbelief. That even now, as I am pregnant, my father blames me for his own misfortune of marrying a banshee tornado.

It never occurred to me at all, in those days, that the reason they were married so fast, was because my mother was pregnant, at about the same term of pregnancy I was. My father was merely recounting that based on our journey to something of notary importance, was almost a replica of his feelings and emotions that very day. But in reality, although my father was a respectable enough man, he too, never loved me. But at least I could cope with that resounding lack of empathy, because he carried no malice, he was simply, self absorbed and nothing malignant about him, so I believed.

As we pulled up on a cobblestone drive, ahead of us, the imposing decor of the crown courthouse. We sat and tried to comfort ourselves against the forboding events that were about to occur. My mother was going in the dock, for having committed a crown offense against the people. This was a big case, and there were reporters waiting for us outside the steps of the courthouse for some juicy entertaining gossip to line their newspapers with something out-of-this-world for their paultry idea of news.

The crime my mother committed? Was to send abusive mail by the Royal Service, to members of parliament, the prime minister, embassies and police departments. It was nothing more than the delusional rants of an anguished mad woman, but the police department had had enough. They collected together some 17 targets of her volatile rashes, and we were part of a crown class action of the people, against nee Lee Mee-San Reed.

Papers loved putting her Chinese madam image on their front pages, which made it impossible for my mother to go anywhere without being recognized as the crazy chink, which my mother merely regarded as some kind of popular achievement - to have real standing in the public awareness, even as a mad woman, she was proud.

I waited in nausea, for my turn at the witness dock, to confirm the various hate mail that was sent to me. And although it was true, I felt like I betrayed my mother, for I was used to this kind of perception of threat, that had already plagued my life since childhood. It was merely a common thing, for a letter to appear once every few years, with photographs of family members, execution dates and details, and that vile red spidered lettering. It seemed to me almost an Asian culture one comes to expect, to fall on the wrong side of someone, and have it be known they will “hate you forever!” I knew there was something wrong with MaMa, but just didn’t know what. The identity of her family was always so shrouded to me.

I remember when MaMa had to return to her country, for her Mother Princess’ funeral. The Princess was well liked in the town, and the procession filled the streets with screaming mourners. But, even her obituary was too frightened to admit this was an assassination. The Princess’ cause of death was instead written off as “an accident” because the regime was now all powerful and didn’t like to be called out. Hence the death threats to my mother.

When Mama returned from her Princess mother’s funeral, mama later on explained to me that she had barely gotten back out of the country alive. She was there for the funeral, and even as she arrived in the country the Mansion had been ransacked, the lock-up safe of gold had been emptied, the properties of customary garments and anything of value was stolen, and the stains of a viscous murder, still bore trace.

Upon arrival they confiscated my mother’s passport, and she was held for questioning for two weeks before they sent her back to England with her passport. Officials knew there was a will, and listed was only one heir - my mother. All the other children were renounced due to family politics at that time. My eldest Aunt who I never met, was a vain woman who spent the families money like water, but managed the family’s opium and was a drug trafficker to Bangkok.

Another Aunt I was told had become a movie star, and was also just as unenviably vain and hot temperament. A third daughter of the Princess had already been “disappeared” for whatever that meant. And I don’t know much about the rest.

What I do remember though, is a strange memory I had, of a Chinese man lovingly puppeteering me by my upstretched hands to motion me picking and and walking over the cobble beach of Brighton. Mama had been in disbelieving shock that I had such a memory, and she recounted to me;

After my father and herself were married, it was on such short notice that Princess Mother could not arrive in time to oversee the wedding and make plans. So she waited one year for my naming celebration, to come and acknowledge her new granddaughter. It was after recollecting my mothers descriptions, I realized my mother had become pregnant almost immediately after meeting my father, and they were hence married within three months as soon as my father could get Princess Mother’s permission.

Mama recounted to me, that Princess Mother, or “Queenie” as she was nicknamed, had come to England along with Mamas favorite brother Ju-San for my naming ceremony, and bore gifts of gold, jewels, silk clothing, and many things to make up for the fact she was not there at the wedding. But, upon seeing the house my father owned, was sincerely surprised that my father was, infact, just an ordinary man of little means. And upon showing disapproval for such standards, my mother riled up once again and refused the handing off, of her own dowry.

My father stood looking at this large gift of spectacular riches that were out of some storybook, and just remained stunned and silenced the whole time. His dismay that his tiny wife had a violent temper and sabotaging willpower to turn against any offering she could have simply acknowledged and taken as her own - simply because she was “offended” at Princess Mother’s implied disgust that my Father was no better than a commoner.

One last day to discuss privately with my mother these affairs of family brought them out to Brighton Beach where Ju-San, was bessotted with “baby-me”, and played with me out of earshot on that cobble beach. It was the surfacing of this curious memory, that ignited my mother to recount what happened that day.

“Your grandmother approved your name,” she said, and since I would not accept my dowry, she begged me to take it all to pay and look after Ju-San, your uncle. She said “I cannot protect him any longer”. It was then in her recollection I felt the regret rising in my mother's throat. Because what queenie had meant, was that poor Ju-San, the schizophrenic, was being too often bailed out of trouble, and the siblings were going to “off him” sooner or later.

Queenie denounced her entire horde of spoiled children, and proclaimed Mama, was now the only one written in her will, and wanted to deliver Ju-San for his safety to stay with Mama in England. But, for whatever reason, Mama and her thick skinned willpower, refused based on the “offense” her mother plaid onto herself. That even though as child number four, she had been outcast and forced to live among servants, she could not forgive Princess mother for diminishing her chosen common husband. Queenie should have no say in the matter, for Mama was disposed of from the day she was born and suffered the of jealous siblings for the remainder of the time she served in the noble household.

And my mother recollected that after Princess mother was murdered, Ju-San followed next. She grieved when a death letter came, with a photo of Ju-San, scrawled upon in almost fervish glee, that they had taken him unknowing to the rivers edge, and smashed his skull and threw him in. So this was what to expect, if she ever came back to seek her sole share of the mansion and estates.

For one time in her life, I saw my mother grieve for someone other than herself, and burned into my memory was the trigger of her grief, that I remembered my own fun-loving Chinese uncle, whose fate was decided upon that day, by my mother.