Growing Buds

The father sat alone surrounded by echoes. His daughter is now grown and newly on her own, he sits in a quiet and empty home. He sighs to himself as he goes about his usual routine, footsteps heavier than he remembered them being. The father walks to the garden to trim, water, and pick what he needs for breakfast. He pulls on a thick pair of gardening gloves, a single finger slips through one of the holes that Bao made. He was so upset that she cut holes in the gloves. He remembers yelling at her, demanding a reason. “Gloves are expensive Bao how can you be so irresponsible?” He remembers the neighbors calling the police concerned, not because of the yelling. Only that he was doing it in Chinese. The memory sits on his mind like a stone. He pulls the holed gloves over his wrinkled hands and begins to tend his garden. He checks each plant for growth as he picks the vegetables and spices that will go into his breakfast. As his hands dart over plants they land on a strange patch, the odd one out. A patch of sunflowers that Bao had been given for graduation. She loved them and the father was determined to grow them forever. Through numerous failures and efforts, the father tried to grow them from the seeds of the first flower. Only now months after Bao has left does the first bud show, the father smiles to himself. Walking inside lighter than before, he prepares the breakfast he eats every day. Softening the rice with water to make a pudding and then pulling the pickled veggies from the fridge. Placing the veggies he just picked into a jar to pickle and enjoy at a later date. The father heads to get the paper, stopping at the kitchen door to trace Bao’s height marks. The father sits to eat his Congee flipping through the articles, occasionally writing down a word to look up. The father sits in silence until the bowl is empty, and the paper is read. He washes the bowl and sets the table for his lunch later. Placing the bowl he will use for his katsudon on the alphabet that Bao had painted on the table. The father takes a moment to trace three letters. Drifting over the letter B, then A, and ending on the O. He shakes his head at the letters for a moment, before going to his chair. He spends the next hour looking up the words he read this morning. Reading them out loud and sounding them out the way Bao and Mr. Lin had taught him. One of the words jogged a memory. The father remembers an older woman at the market. He didn't know what she said at the time, but she kept pointing at Bao. Telling her to enunciate with greater and greater volume. Bao said it was nothing, just a makeup brand she had asked about. He remembers how embarrassed she had looked. So the father had taken her down the makeup aisle to find some for her, he was never able to. Only now did the father realize she had meant to say, “speak English.” The father's face falls with the realization. He had numerous regrets about moving to America. The first of those being how Bao was treated. Nitpicked at in a language he couldn't guard her against, simply because he didn't understand it. He regrets the way she had to help him read bills, and do taxes. Every shopping trip and every parent-teacher conference where he just took up space, The father stood from his chair, emotional and on the verge of tears at Bao’s childhood. He began walking with steps heavier than they’ve been all week. Moving where they always did in these moments, to Bao’s room. The father walks down the hall passing Baos smiling face in her graduation pictures. He opens the room, sad at how untouched it feels. His eyes pass over the trophies, medals, and certificates before they land on the framed speech. He takes the frame off the wall, careful not to drop it. Still tearing up as the father begins to read.

My name is Bao Liao, I am 19 years old and I am your valedictorian. I was born in Waco, Texas however my father and my mother were both born in Guangdong Province, China. My parents named me Bao because in Chinese it means treasure, but there is another meaning that I am more fond of, bud. To me, it is a symbol of my journey as an Asian American in a country that didn’t always see me as part of it. My mother who spoke English died when I was very young, and my father who spoke zero English was forced to raise me alone. It's hard for me to say this with him here, but growing up there were times I hated being Chinese. Not because I hated my culture but simply because of the language barrier. This intangible wall that normal Americans didn’t usually see but to me felt suffocating. When I was a child my neighbor Ellie and I were playing with dolls. I had cut out holes in my dad's gardening gloves to make little hats. When he found out he started yelling at me, trying to teach and discipline me. I didn’t think anything of it, I was wrong but Ellie didn’t know what was happening. She got scared, told her mother, and her mother called the police. My father had no idea what was happening and I had to explain what happened. In that singular moment, I knew that there was something different about my life and that there always would be. Growing up I translated everything for my father, from bills to people. One time at the grocery store I had just been speaking to my father when I asked the wrong woman a question. My accent, which was very thick at the time, seemed to offend her. She told me that I needed to learn English and enunciate. I was embarrassed, more than that I was ashamed. My father, who only knew I was upset, asked me what it meant and I told him it was a brand of makeup and they’re out. He took me to 4 different stores looking for it before I convinced him to give up. I say these things to you, not looking for pity. I clearly don’t need any, but because it leads to a big moment in my life. I was still thinking about it at school the next day and I started crying. Teachers tried to help but I couldn’t focus on translating the words until Ms. Walker said something. Ms. Walker who had recently become Mrs. Nguyen crouched in front of me and in Chinese asked if I was ok. I told her what had happened and she cried for me. She gave me a hug and I realized, that she saw me as I was. A scared girl, who was both Chinese and American, but was afraid she was neither. Mrs. Nguyen took me under her wing, every day after school she would drive me home and teach me. My dad saw how excited I was and tried to help by painting the alphabet on the table, but honestly, he used it more than me. She taught me how closely culture is tied to language, and how you can’t learn one without the other. She was what made me realize that I hadn't been watering myself and that my bud would never grow. I gained a passion for learning and it rubbed off on my father, who pretended he wasn’t listening to her teach. Learning English revealed opportunities that I had always second-guessed. I made a vast array of friends and devoured my studies in a way I couldn’t before. Until I reached this stage before all of you. Last week Mrs. Nguyen called me to her office, to inform me of the school's decision. After she told me she gave me the most beautiful sunflowers I had ever seen, and I knew that finally, I had bloomed. There are always going to be barriers in your life, and in everyone's life. Whether they stem from confusion, discrimination, hate, or numerous other reasons to just stand in your way. If you take care of your bud. If you allow the world and the people around you to enrich your soil. If you let them water you and help you grow. Without a doubt, you will bloom. One person can change your life. My name is Bao Liao valedictorian and future teacher.

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