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By Root 309 0

and I had no answer. So I did the only thing I knew: I fought fire with fire. I gave not one inch. I called her a disgrace as a daughter, to which Lulu replied, “I know, I know. You’ve told me.” I told her she ate too much. (“Stop it. You’re diseased.”) I compared her to Amy Jiang, Amy Wang, Amy Liu, and Harvard Wong—all first-generation Asian kids—none of whom ever talked back to their parents. I asked her what I had done wrong. Had I not been strict enough? Given her too much? Allowed her to mix with bad-influence kids? (“Don’t you dare insult my friends.”) I told her I was thinking of adopting a third child from China, one who would practice when I told her to, and maybe even play the cello in addition to the violin and piano.

“When you’re eighteen,” I would shout as she stalked away from me up the stairs, “I’ll let you make all the mistakes you want. But until then, I will not give up on you.”

“I want you to give up on me!” Lulu yelled back more than once.

When it came to stamina, Lulu and I were evenly matched. But I had an advantage. I was the parent. I had the car keys, the bank account, the right not to sign permission slips. And that was all under U.S. law.

“I need a haircut,” Lulu said one day.

I replied, “After you spoke to me so rudely and refused to play the Mendelssohn musically, you expect me to get in the car now and drive you where you want?”

“Why do I have to bargain for everything?” Lulu asked bitterly.

That night, we had another big argument, and Lulu locked herself in her room. She refused to come out and wouldn’t answer when I tried to talk to her through the door. Much later, from my study, I heard the click of her door unlocking. I went to see her and found her sitting calmly on her bed.

“I think I’m going to go to sleep now,” she said in a normal voice. “I’ve finished all my homework.”

But I wasn’t listening. I was staring at her.

Lulu had taken a pair of scissors and cut her own hair. On one side, it hung unevenly to about her chin. On the other, it was chopped off above the ear in an ugly, jagged line.

My heart skipped a beat. I almost exploded at her, but something—I think it was fear—made me hold my tongue.

A moment passed.

“Lulu—” I began.

“I like short hair,” she interrupted.

I glanced away. I couldn’t stand to look at her. Lulu had always had hair that everyone envied: wavy, brown-black—a Chinese-Jewish special. Part of me wanted to scream hysterically at Lulu and throw something at her. Another part of me wanted to wrap my arms around her and cry uncontrollably.

Instead, I said calmly, “I’ll make an appointment with a hair salon first thing in the morning. We’ll find someone to fix it.”

“Okay.” Lulu shrugged.

Later, Jed said to me, “Something has to change, Amy. We have a serious problem.”

For the second time that night, I felt like crying uncontrollably. But instead, I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a big deal, Jed,” I said. “Don’t create a problem where there isn’t one. I can handle this.”

25

Darkness

My little sister Katrin and me in the early eighties

When I was growing up, one of my favorite things was to play with my third sister, Katrin. Maybe because she was seven years younger than me, there was no rivalry or conflict. She was also preposterously cute. With her shiny black eyes, her shiny bowl haircut, and her rosebud lips, she was constantly attracting the attention of strangers, and once won a JCPenney photo contest that she hadn’t even entered. Because my mother was often busy with my youngest sister, Cindy, my second sister, Michelle, and I took turns taking care of Katrin.

I have great memories from those days. I was bossy and confident, and Katrin idolized her big sister, so it was a perfect fit. I made up games and stories, and taught her how to play jacks and Chinese hopscotch and how to jump rope double Dutch. We played restaurant; I was the chef and the waiter, and she was the customer. We played school; I was the teacher, and she, along with five stuffed animals, was my student (Katrin excelled at my courses). I held McDonald’s carnivals