THREE POEMS
by Nellie Wong

 


TYPING THE MENU

Not a day goes by
when Ma, in her blue waitress uniform,
stops me reading The Oakland Tribune
to dictate, precisely at 3:30 P.M.,
the next day's menu.

All right, Ma says, in English,
tomorrow we'll serve
Baked Spaghetti
Beef Stew with Potatoes and Carrots
Fried Breast of Lamb and
Boiled Ox Tongue with Spanish Sauce.

My mouth waters
as she decides the next day's specials.
Ma doesn't need to say
Breaded Veal Cutlets
Fried Oysters or
Prime Rib of Beef
because these are always
on the menu every day.

Though I can write in shorthand,
I scribble the specials in long hand
and step down into Bah Bah's office
and insert a a piece of paper
into the old Royal typewriter.
I type tomorrow's menu
watching the purple letters spring up
like soldiers marching in union
filling up the sheet, such plums and grapes
for our daily lives.

I proofread carefully,
the typed menu, making sure
I typed the correct specials
that Ma dictated,
making sure that each item
was spelled correctly
just from memory
because Spell Check
was a futuristic ploy.

With the labor of my fingers,
my back, my eyes
staring at the list of items
that ranged from Halibut Steak
for 50 cents to
Prime Rib of Beef
for 95 cents
knowing that my fingers
helped to support the family,
my secretarial skills a blip
of the family business
known as The Great China Restaurant
Ai Joong Wah
at 723 Webster Street
in Chinatown, Oakland, California.

When my sisters and I labored
without wage
but survived with tips
and ngow ngiook fahn
Beef over Rice
served us by Bock Gung
the head cook
when Ma and Bah Bah
weren't looking.

When World War II filled
The Great China with customers
Pinky of Milen's Jewlers
Mr. Carlson of Carlson's Confectionery
Johnny, the boxer, and his girlfriend Lucille
with her ruby red lips and white teeth
Thlon doy
single men
families
pensioners
workers from gas stations,
the parachute factory
and herb and poultry stores,
tenants from The Aloha Hotel,
gypsies with their love
for bowls of steamed rice overflowing
with gravy.

Typing the menu
a job I didn't apply for
but became mine
in between making coffee,
milkshakes and lettuce and tomato salads,
anxious for tips that filled
the glasses kept beneath
the formica counter,
understanding, even then,
that money grew not on trees,
but through our labor
typing the menu
drying silverware
stringing string beans
refilling granulated sugar jars
washing the coffee urn on tip toes
sweeping
mopping
Bah Bah inventorying and planning
the next day's supplies
vegetable oil
flour
50 pound sacks of long grain rice
Flank steak, pork butt,
Jello.

The Great China,
our second home,
sandwiched between
regular school and Chinese school,
our days of wonder,
questions,
fatigue,
anticipation and
simmering American dreams.

© 2004 Nellie Wong

Note: The Chinese words should be in italics.


TYPEWRITER KEYS PANTOUM

Typewriter keys dance to human fingers
Attached to hands searching for love
Amid a chorus of harmonious singers
Digging underground for a treasure trove

Attached to hands searching for love
Perfume of stargazers captivates the body whole
Digging underground for a treasure trove
Villages and cities alight in rapturous glow

Perfume of stargazers captivates the body whole
Moving in concert with the forces of labor
Villages and cities alight in rapturous glow
Workers' councils gather neighor to neighbor

Moving in concert with the forces of labor
Solving problems with cooperation and care
Workers' councils gather neighbor to neighbor
With food and water and dwellings to share

Solving problems with cooperation and care
Indigenous people no longer asunder
With food and water and dwellings to share
Mountains and rivers but two of nature's wonder

Indigenous people no longer asunder
Earth's inhabitants strive to live side by side
Mountains and rivers but two of nature's wonder
Expropriating property far and wide

Earth's inhabitans strive to live side by side
Playing bamboo flutes both young and old
Expropriating property far and wide
Free to nourish children, humanity's gold

Playing bamboo flutes both young and old
Amid a chorus of harmonious singers
Free to nourish children, humanity's gold
Typewriter keys dance to human fingers

© 2003 Nellie Wong


WINTRY INTERLUDE

Waiting in line outside Wing Sing Bakery
as the rain falls over our heads,
my eyes roam
over the chuern jook guern, spring rolls
of foo jook, soybean skin, stuffed
with cellophane noodles and grass mushrooms.
The gin duey, voluptuous, deep-fried balls
of dough sprinkled with sesame seeds.
And there's the doong, known also
as the Chinese tamale, stuffed
with sticky rice and boneless chicken.
My mouth waters as I wait patiently
listening to the tall white guy
who says he works in construction
in Chinatown, but buys his dim sum
here at three-tabled Wing Sing on Judah
while the Filipina in line nods as she names
all the hah gow, shrimp dumplings,
chicken sieu mai
and baked cha sieu bau that she and her family love
when suddenly a young voice sings out,
"Ng gaw bo lo bau."

My attention turns to the young white man
with blue eyes and short-cropped hair
in the ubiquitous blue jeans and sweatshirt.
I say, "You speak Cantonese beautifully.
Where did you learn it?"
A smile blossomed as he answers,
"At Alice Fong Yu School."
"Was it required?" I continue.
"Yes, it's required."
He picks up the bagged order
of five pineapple buns,
putting three dollars onto the counter
as the woman clerk beams at him with
"Dai yee wuey geen," see you next time.
The boy bounces out of the store,
its window steamed from platters
of chicken skewers, stuffed tofu,
curried chicken, don tot, egg tarts,
chow fun, glistening rice noodles.

© 2005 Nellie Wong

 


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