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The Cultural Hyphen
by Andy Lowe

When I was about 15, the Ju family somehow managed to assemble the full assortment of all relatives. We filled up an entire restaurant with numerous heads of basic straight hair. Very few of them were even close to my age. They came from all over: San Francisco, Vancouver, Los Angeles, and even Hong Kong. They were all related to me in one way or another, although many were not even blood-related.

My mother forced me to say hello to everyone. My job after that was to stand there and let my parents brag about me in Chinese. It mattered not that I did not understand a word of Chinese. I always could tell when my parents were bragging about something, namely me or my siblings.


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