Hapa Girl: A Memoir

13. The Fall of the Prince

That June, my father left for Harvard to attend a summer institute for university administrators, as he’d originally planned to do before his resignation, and the rest of us stayed on the farm. At first, we were all optimistic. My mother was confident that my father would find a new job soon, and this time, he promised, it would be in a warmer climate. I was close to ecstatic. We would be leaving, I knew, in one year’s time. Suddenly my perspective changed. I no longer dreaded each new day. Instead I felt as though I were a journalist or anthropologist studying the ways of a newly discovered exotic land. I kept copious notes in my diary. Everything seemed curious and important—the menu at the bowling alley/steakhouse, the way the high school kids cruised up and down the three blocks of the downtown in the evening, circling round and round, revving engines and calling to each other from the windows of their pickups. I tried to pick up the local accent—an interesting short “u” sound that fell somewhere between the “oo” in root and the “u” in rut; the flat, nasal “a”; the slight upturn in the middle of sentences rather than at the end. Creek was pronounced “crick,” wrestling,“wrassling.” Unfortunately, at age thirteen, my tongue was not very flexible, and whereas my brother soon sounded like a native, I could not. I also recorded the differences in vocabulary I had noted thus far. For example, lunch meant a sweet, 13 The Fall of the Prince midday snack. The noon meal was called dinner, the evening meal, supper. There was no such drink as soda; instead everyone referred to pop. When I tried using a different word for any of these, such as calling a Coke a soda, I was met with blank stares. This situation had driven me nuts in the beginning, but now I found it merely curious. Naturally, I also kept lists of all the unique ethnic slurs I had picked up. Someday this type of knowledge might come in handy. Who knew? My mother was determined that we should have our farm experience before we left, so she bought two Nubian goats, which I named Erma Bombeck and Madeleine L’Engle. My brother was allowed to start a flock of ducks and geese. She also bought two puppies from a farmer who assured us that they would be good around other animals. They were jet black with brown, mask-like markings around their eyes. At first they were heavy, slow-moving creatures. We were barely able to lift them and they spent most of the day dozing in the shade. Within weeks they ballooned in size, like small buffalo, and learned to bark whenever anyone drove up to our house, including us. They didn’t seem particularly bright, but they were loyal. My brother and I named them Bert and Ernestine in honor of the Muppets. Finally, my mother decided we should have a barn.What good was a farm without one? And she figured it would increase the value of the property. She drew up the designs, hired a local carpenter, and my brother spent his summer learning to build, helping the man dig the foundation, pour and spread the concrete, and even shingle the roof. When it was finished, we painted the whole thing a deep brick red. “Isn’t our farm beautiful?”my mother proclaimed with satisfaction. Even I had to agree that it was. When my father returned in August, he was surprised to find all the animals. But my mother convinced him that what’s fair is fair. She had wanted a farm. Besides, if he could resign from a job without consulting her first, surely she could buy a few animals. 98 • Chapter 13 He put up a fuss in the beginning, claiming he could smell the stinky geese even from inside the house. And our dogs—we now had four—ate tremendous amounts of food. But after Bert and his sister began barking ferociously every time someone drove by our house, scaring unknown visitors away, running right up to the tires when people slowed their pickups, my father came to like the dogs. “My father always had a watchdog in China,” he said. “To guard against thieves. I don’t mind dogs if they earn their keep.” Now, at night...