Thursday, May 3
I thought I could do this, but I cannot. Ma is not coming. I
Sunday, May 6
Oh, Diary, what am I going to do? Every time I try to write about how I feel, the tears come. They are there now, prickling at the backs of my eyes. I have cried for days, ever since Ma’s reply telegram came. It said very little, other than she could not come now, that Baba’s parents could not be left and that the time was not a good one.
Baba’s eyes were wet too, when he told me, but he did not seem angry, or even surprised. I am the angry one. As I listened to him talk, trying to explain why Ma would make this choice, that this was a delay, not a final thing, I could not bear it. He had many reasons: how she was fulfilling her duty to his parents; how she could not leave little Sing-wah; even how she might have heard stories from those who return which would make her think that coming to Gold Mountain was to come to a scary, unwelcoming place.
These are just excuses! But what about me, I wanted to shout. I am here. Does that not mean something to her? Has she forgotten me? Are Baba and I less important to her?
Baba did not sound like himself, but he tried to make his voice strong and smooth as he told me some silly story about the Old Man of Yu who one day decided to move the mountain in front of his house so that he could get to market more easily. People laughed at him and said that he was wasting his time because he was too old to accomplish such a huge undertaking. In turn, he laughed back at them and said that when he died his sons would take over, and then their sons, and when they died, as they must, their sons would complete the task.
This is nonsense, just a story to placate a child. It means nothing to me — it has nothing to do with Ma and our family being together.
I feel like a wild girl, wild with the feelings that rage inside me. I shouted at Baba. He was trying to calm me down, telling me again and again that our family would be together some day. “Some day is not good enough!” I shouted. “I want my Ma now.”
Then my words were unforgivable. Just as Baba used an old story, I used a proverb. Now I wish I had not. My words cut Baba like they were stones I threw at him. “Just remember,” I told him, “for a girl to grow up without a mother, is to grow up no better than a worm!”
Monday, May 14
It is worse when people are sad for me — it makes me cry more. School is good, because Mr. Hughes did not keep on when he asked if something was wrong, and I said no.
Bess — Bess is trying to help. She says things like, “Your dad’s right, Mei-ling, it will all work out one day.” This is not a help to me. How far away is that one day? If that stupid law is passed that one day might be never! At recess I go off by myself and sit in the cloakroom. I thought it would be a place that no one bothered me, but I was wrong.
My head was on my knees, but I knew someone else was there. When I looked up, it was Ivor. He was just staring at me. I waited for his meanness to come out, but it did not. Finally he reached into his pocket and brought out a handkerchief. His movement was jerky as he thrust it to me.
“You should wipe your eyes,” he said. His voice was stuttery, like he was scared. Then, just before he turned and ran away, he whispered. “I’m sorry, May.”
Tuesday, May 15
Those words I said to Baba have not been mentioned, but they hang between us. I want to apologize, to tell him that my life here with him is a good one, but my hopes of seeing Ma soon — the hopes that have been broken and flung aside — make my apologies stay inside me. I do not yell any more, nor stamp my feet. I still do not understand Ma’s choice. It is a choice that cuts me deep inside.
But it is not fair to blame Baba. I do little things. I make sure that tea is ready for him in the morning. I sponge his jacket clean. I make him eat before he starts work in the restaurant. I think he knows how I feel. His eyes are sad when they look on me, but he pats my hand.
Friday, May 18
I used to complain that Baba did not talk much to me of plans and important things. Now it is as if he talks too much. Each night he and Wong Bak sit me down and say soft things to me, telling me that things will work out eventually. That we will continue to work hard and in two, three, maybe even ten years we will have money saved, enough money to bring everyone. That if the law, the one they are calling the Exclusion Act, is passed now, there will come a day when it will be changed again. “Hah!” is what I say in my head to their words. I do not say that aloud. I cannot forget the look on Baba’s face when my other cruel words wounded him.
Miss MacDonald is the one whose words comfort me most. Her words are not apologies or ones that soothe. Instead she says I must make plans, must work hard, do well, and perhaps this will enable me to find a way to see my family again. She will not say exactly what she means, but there is a sureness in her words that lifts my heart a little.
I have only three pages left now, Diary. I will save them, and the last one will be for the day I see my Ma again.