Tsang, Ching Chi

POSITIVE TRAITS

NEGATIVE TRAITS

FREEFORM

She was brought into this world in the back of a Kowloon taxi. Silent, gently shifting in the hands of her grandfather; the only man that would be there for her in those early times. Her mother, forcing her nails out of the upholstery, bellowed every breath as she looked on in quickly developing horror. There were no cries or screams, just the subtle movements. Half-blinded in the aftershock of childbirth, she only came to the worst conclusion. Lin’s father smiled underneath his beard, that big toothy grin that came up to meet his daughter’s. It faltered; his nose contorting into a wrinkled heap. Her skin paled. The iron in the air thickened. It was then that Ching Chi Tsang began to cry.

Ishmael Yeun had given her a traditional name. He disliked his own bastardization of Cantonese and English. He disliked the English. He disliked the Chinese even more. He lucked into a special hell of having to be under both thumbs while the puppets of Hong Kong still claimed to be independent. He was a grumpy old man, and every day he had to look into his granddaughter’s blank eyes, at her sallow cheeks, and ill-fitting clothes. His wrinkles would always deepen when she entered his view, resentment and guilt tightening the knuckles on his cane. She was fitting her schoobag on.

“Stay away from that damn beggar,” he coughed, smoke sputtering out of him. The gangly English boy that rocked on his toes in the alleys on Fortress Hill. Twice her age he guessed, around twelve or thirteen at least. She tugged up the collar of her shirt where the end of a strap of purple would be safely hidden. A reminder to keep the Queen’s outside of his home.

“Yes, Grandfather. I will stay away from the beggar.” Her first step swayed. The second stilted. The shambling set in and she was out of the door. Yeun grumbled. To think she’d give what little to eat they had to some colonizer.

She did not lie. She stayed away, but he didn’t. The first block was pleasantries, the next half block was pestering, and then she turned heel and ran back home. Chased the whole way, vision fading with every other heartbeat as what little energy she had from the morning’s dinner roll was sapped. Her bag clung so desperately to her back no matter how she tried to throw it. If he had the food he’d leave. Grandfather’s hearing was all there and he was ready. Ching hid behind that steady, yet crippled frame as it was shoved again and again. There was a crack, and the boy crumpled.

Yuen was sentenced to seven years for the unintentional death of a minor. He would later say in interviews he slept more soundly for it.

She too was sentenced, though only to four years in the orphanage. There she cultivated her giving with careful consideration, with isolated observations. Weighing, measuring, and no sign of any of it. Smiling became easier. She spoke English more often. She would refuse her friend’s refusal for help, no matter the task. She would always refuse help. Helping her seemed zero sum, then.

The Troys were good enough people. Stable income, spacious home, and infertility made them ideal candidates. It was, however, their extensive music collection that enraptured her. Ching loved music; the easiest medium to be lost in. With movies and books, she all too easily glanced about and saw that she was right where she was. With music, she simply closed her eyes. Closed her eyes and saw things, real and unreal and it was breathtaking. In those songs, she found reminders of how she could feel, beyond the awful that she relegated herself to.

Soon, she could face the world with full ears and open eyes when the move to Edinburgh came. She could face the remarks about her normally narrow eyes or petite physique or about her ‘chinglish’. No one called her by any other name. She couldn’t answer; she didn’t hear. She would sit at lunch with what she saw: someone alone. Someone like a mirror of herself, even if it was just a little. She’d offer half her sandwich and an earbud, and would just be.

The world would be fine.