Portrait of Appalachian Chinese Girls in Their Grandmother’s Garden

Navigating Ngin Ngin’s maze of winter melon and zucchini, my little sister and I simmered under the late summer sun where men zoomed by in pick-up trucks, hollering, “Chinese girls!” like they were hurling butter knives at our heads.

Ngin Ngin’s neighbors, college boys, liked to bake themselves on their roof. We hated college boys. A swarm of them worked at Dad’s restaurant, always reeking of sock sweat and bourbon & coke. They’d loll around while we ate Chinese sausage rice, pointing at us, their laughter, a chorus of snot trumpets.

Inside the metal crisscross fence, we meandered as two boys eyed us from their shingled perch. Standing up, they yanked down their trunks, butts facing us, yelled “Nyahhh!” and out came their tongues.

The gourds I was lugging dropped from my arms onto the concrete. “Sis, don’t look!” Being only four, my little sister stared. She remembers now, “I wondered what was hanging between their legs.” I remember the butts.