A Totally-Normal-Not-Special-Nor-Strange Family Dinner

It’s a Thursday night.

All the lights in the house are off except where the three of us sit, eating dinner.

The last remnants of light slide down the curtains to my left, tree branch shadow puppets fading.

John Coltrane’s smooth saxophone drifts from the kitchen radio.

To my right is my mom, at the head of our coffee-dark dining table.

She wears a black silk blouse with a petrified beetle brooch pinned a few inches below her left collarbone. Black and white checkered trousers adorn her crossed legs, knees hanging a few inches past her seat. Her bare feet face upwards, resting snugly in her lap.

She sits on a red cushion tied to vertical wooden rods that support the back of her chair. They look like drumsticks. Or jail cell bars. I run closed pens across them sometimes to make music.

My sister Liana sits across from me.

Her thick black hair splits into two long braids, dangling just above her belly button, dark lines contrasting her white tank top and light blue jeans.

Her face is devoid of any emotion except contempt, as Mama starts to lecture her about school.

“I’m fine with you missing as many school days as you want but only,” Ma pauses for emphasis, “only if you continue to get straight A’s.”

Lia's crossed arms tense as she rolls her eyes. “Mhmm.”

“I understand you don’t like school—”

Lia leans against the table's edge and interjects. “I have straight A’s and I always have, and this has always been your rule. I get it. The A minus was a quarter grade and minuses don’t even show up on official transcripts! Eugh. I just want to get my diploma and get out of this school. I hate Kerry High.”

Mama, not missing a beat, bulldozes her way through the point my sister was making about grades. “We can look into that if you are serious about finishing high school early…” Tilting her head to her left, my mom begins to outline the process of getting a GED to Liana, while I push spaghetti noodles around my plate with a fork.

Aluminum foil crinkles loudly as I grab the second to last piece of garlic bread from the center of the table. I rewrap the last piece in foil. The bread is still warm from the heat of the oven. I chew quietly.

Today at school the cast list for our sixth-grade performance of Mulan was released.

After English class ended Jolene handed out the scripts and told everyone the cast list was posted in the hallway. I moved slowly towards it, waiting for the initial wave of clamoring girls to pass.

••

I’m a shoo-in for the part of Mulan.

There’s a nearly 99% chance I’ll get the part.

Firstly, since our grade is split into three flower classes (Dahlia, Lily, and Marigold) there are three different casts. Three different Mulans! I hate math but I’m pretty sure the odds are freaking high. There are only 20 people in each class!

Secondly, duh, I’m Asian. Sixth generation Chinese-American on my mom’s side plus a quarter Japanese (and Irish) from my dad’s side.

Finally, and most importantly, Jolene and Dan both know that I can act. I had to miss class several times for my last show's tech week and a performance for my mom’s work. I was a lead in the play Crafted Kingdom and I dance and act at Fate Center for the Arts.

Obviously they know I can act. I even missed regular auditions because I was in a show.

For my audition I belted the song that I practiced with the vocal coach Daddy got me a few months ago—"Set Fire to the Rain" by Adele—all so they got to see that I’m good at singing too.

I was simply displaying my range.

The cast list is spread across three pages, each carefully stapled to the board in the hallway. Split into Dahlia, Lily, and Marigold cast lists, I assume.

I lean towards the first page, eyes racing to find “Mulan: Biizu Whelan-Kuàng” and claim my rightful role.

I’m so excited and ready to—wait a second.

I… Uh…

That’s… not my name.

What.

I glance at all the pages to see if this is an error.

They must have cast me as Mulan for a different class.

Right. Of course.

That’s the only logical answer.

Instead, drawn in like a magnet, my eyes lock onto an asterisked section at the very bottom of the third page.

My gaze sinks robotically to the last line.

**All Classes: Hun Soldiers**

Hun Soldier #1:

Hun Soldier #2:

Hun Soldier #3:

Hun Soldier #4:

Hun Soldier #5:

Hun Soldier #6:

Hun Soldier #7: Biizu Whelan-Kuàng

What?

…?

Um…?

Am I seeing things clearly?

Hun Soldier.

Number 7.

I…

I’m speechless.

I cannot imagine anything more insulting.

••

In science class I hid behind the manila folder test dividers and cried.

I cried so hard I was hiccupping. I made gross ugly wet gasps and completely tear stained my glasses.

Caroline let me go into the hallway with Avari before she handed out the quiz, and I managed to calm down.

I tune in again when I hear Mama saying, “Liana, your shirt shows so much cleavage. You should not wear such revealing clothing. It is unsafe.”

My sister scoffs in response. “Victim blame much? That’s not very feminist of you. Am I not allowed agency over my own body? What happened to Marise ‘women who are assaulted should never be blamed for the actions of violent men’ Kuàng? Do I not qualify for your definition of women?”

I raise my eyebrows. Liana is pissed.

Shifting on my seat cushion, I lean my elbow against the table next to my plate and prop my chin in my palm. “Yeah Mama that’s wrong of you. That's really feeding into the patriarchy.”

Mama sighs and responds to Liana. “Yes, of course you’re included—of course. Still, I worry about you… I remember when you were in elementary school and boys followed you home in their cars. That still scares me. I am your mother, it is my job to be concerned.”

Liana rolls her eyes. “Uh huh. Sorry to break it to you but men are going to sexualize me no matter what I wear. I am going to be sexualized no matter what I wear. And I am going to wear what I want no matter what you say.”

Mama concedes, “Alright. I will not bring it up again. Yes, of course you have agency over your body and of course I will not tell you what to wear. I want you to feel free to live your life. But you cannot stop me from worrying. I am your mother and I care about you and I love you and that will never change.” She glances in my direction. “You girls are my whole world, I would do anything to keep you safe.”

I stare at the green plastic bowl of spaghetti sitting at the center of the table. I guess that’ll be lunch tomorrow.

I am reminded of the plastic tupperware filled with leftover pasta and veggies in one of my lunchboxes that has been sitting in my room for the past two weeks. It’s probably super gross and moldy. Damn.

I’ll just sneak into the kitchen to scrape the lunch into the compost when Mama’s taking a bath later tonight, my usual plan for leftovers I’ve forgotten in my room. I don’t want to be lectured about wasting food again.

“Bibi, how was your day?” Mama questions.

I frown, a sinking feeling crawling its way down my spine. “The cast list for the sixth grade musical was posted.”

“I still cannot believe that an incredibly expensive elite girl's school is putting on a production of Mulan based on the Disney movie and not the real story of Fa Mulan,” she scoffs, “Anyway baby did you get Mulan?”

I pout petulantly in response.

“No. I didn’t.” I croak, gulping back tears.

I bite down hard on my lower lip before mumbling. “… I got cast as a Hun Soldier.”

My sister barks out a laugh. Chewed noodle threatens to spew from her mouth. My pout returns so severely that my upper lip grazes my nostrils.

“I think Jolene and Dan rewrote all the Hun Soldier lines. I'm pretty sure the seven of us are mostly comic relief for when the cast changes.”

My mom frowns, her eyebrows scrunched millimiters from kissing each other. “Who’s playing Mulan?”

“Meeka, Sierra, and Brigid. And none of them are even Asian.” I whine in response.

Mama adds, “Did Jolene do the casting?”

I nod.

Multiple expressions fly across my mother’s face like clouds passing the sun before settling on mild irritation. “Wow… I can’t believe she did not pick at least one Asian girl. Oh Bibi it’s their loss. You’re way more talented than anyone in your class. I am sure you will be a great Hun soldier. It sounds like a much more dynamic and interesting part to play. Can I read the script later?”

I nod again.

Mama continues, “Do you have your stuff together? Is your bag packed and ready to go? Clothes, toothbrush, Moomoo Cow?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“The carpool will pick you up after school on Monday and I'll be home by dinnertime.”

I shake my head once more. "They cancelled class on Monday—"

“So he'll have her for another day,” Liana finishes.

My mother’s jaw clenches and relaxes before she replies. “I will let him know and see if he will be in town for another day. He will probably stay just for Biizu." She inhales and exhales like it's a secret. "You'll be home on Tuesday then. Make sure to pack extra undies and socks Bibi my baby.”

Nodding with my whole body, I respond. "Okie dokie."

Daddy keeps reminding me convince Lia to see him. What was it he told me to say? Ah, right. I bite my upper lip before continuing. “You know Lia you could still see him if you want to. Daddy will give you nice things like he gives me if you do.”

My sister grits her teeth and flares her nostrils.

I finish my spaghetti.

Mama swirls noodles around her fork.

Liana replies, “I don’t want to see him Bibi.”

“Okay.” I shrug, chewing and swallowing the last of my garlic bread.

•••

Later, I lean my chair back as far as I can without falling, and stare at a passage on the dining table in front of me about the Egyptian God Osiris.

The West Wing blares from my sister’s open bedroom door.

In the kitchen, dishes clink and splash, harmonizing with my mother as she hums along to NPR.

A car passes and the bright light casts shadows puppets of branches on the curtain.

There are three lights on inside our house.

It’s dark outside.

Tomorrow is Friday.

....

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