eyes were wide.
Then I started to laugh and he did too.
“I don’t normally take things, you know. I just like bothering her. Come find me at the thread-cutters’ when you take a break. My name’s Matt,” he said.
When Ma urged me to take a break later, I edged up to the thread-cutters’ counter. The tiny old ladies and kids were busy examining the garments in their hands, snipping off the excess threads with special scissors that spring back open after each cut. Some of the children were as young as five years old. I spotted Matt working with fast hands next to a younger boy in glasses. A woman who must have been their mother sat next to the smaller boy. She wore large rose-tinted glasses that barely covered the enormous bags under her eyes.
When the mother saw me, she squinted through her thick lenses.
“Are you a boy or a girl?” she asked. Matt stifled a laugh.
I knew I looked like a boy, completely flat-chested, with my hair cut short by Ma because of the Hong Kong heat. I wished I could disappear.
The other boy next to Mrs. Wu was slight, with glasses that dangled from his protruding ears. He didn’t look up. He only kept working on the same skirt. As I watched, he turned it over again and again, looking for threads he had missed. On the table next to him was a toy motorcycle with a color picture of an American Indian printed on the gas tank. It looked worn, as if it had been chewed upon.
“Hello,” I said to him.
When the boy didn’t respond, Matt leaned over and gently waved his hand in front of the boy’s face. He made some gestures with his hand that looked like a kind of sign language. The boy looked up and then immediately turned his gaze downward again. In that brief glance, I saw that his eyes seemed unfocused behind the glasses.
“Park doesn’t hear so well,” Mrs. Wu said.
“Ma, I’m taking a break,” Matt said, and he jumped off his stool. He turned to Park and made a few more gestures. I thought probably he was asking if Park wanted to come with us.
When Park didn’t react at all, Matt turned to me and said, “He’s shy.”
“Don’t be too long,” Mrs. Wu said. “There’s a lot of work that needs to be done.”
Some of the other kids gravitated to us when they saw that we were free, and we all moved toward the soda machine by the entrance. It cost twenty cents per bottle and I learned later that few people actually purchased from it because of the expense, but the idea of getting a cold soda in the sweltering factory was so attractive that the soda machine was a popular hangout anyway.
I suspected that most of the other kids were at the factory for the same reasons I was. They weren’t officially employed by the factory, but there was no place else for them to go, and their parents needed their help. As Ma had explained earlier, all employees were secretly paid by the piece; this meant that the work the children did was essential to the family income. When I was in high school, I learned that piece payment was illegal, but those rules were for white people, not for us.
Leaning against the humming soda machine, I could see Matt was the leader of the factory kids. They seemed to range in age from about four to teens. To save money, Ma made many of my clothes herself, even though she couldn’t do it very well, so I had on a home-sewn shirt while the other kids were wearing cool T-shirts with English sayings like “Remember to Vote.” They interspersed their Chinese with English to show off how Americanized they were and everyone apparently knew I was fresh off the boat. There was some whispering when they found out Dog Flea Mama was my aunt, but Matt seemed to have taken me under his wing and no one dared tease me. Despite the hard work, I was relieved to be among Chinese kids again.
After ten minutes, though, everyone started wandering back to the work they knew awaited them if they ever wanted to leave. I returned to Ma and resumed work but I was exhausted.
Then I started to laugh and he did too.
“I don’t normally take things, you know. I just like bothering her. Come find me at the thread-cutters’ when you take a break. My name’s Matt,” he said.
When Ma urged me to take a break later, I edged up to the thread-cutters’ counter. The tiny old ladies and kids were busy examining the garments in their hands, snipping off the excess threads with special scissors that spring back open after each cut. Some of the children were as young as five years old. I spotted Matt working with fast hands next to a younger boy in glasses. A woman who must have been their mother sat next to the smaller boy. She wore large rose-tinted glasses that barely covered the enormous bags under her eyes.
When the mother saw me, she squinted through her thick lenses.
“Are you a boy or a girl?” she asked. Matt stifled a laugh.
I knew I looked like a boy, completely flat-chested, with my hair cut short by Ma because of the Hong Kong heat. I wished I could disappear.
The other boy next to Mrs. Wu was slight, with glasses that dangled from his protruding ears. He didn’t look up. He only kept working on the same skirt. As I watched, he turned it over again and again, looking for threads he had missed. On the table next to him was a toy motorcycle with a color picture of an American Indian printed on the gas tank. It looked worn, as if it had been chewed upon.
“Hello,” I said to him.
When the boy didn’t respond, Matt leaned over and gently waved his hand in front of the boy’s face. He made some gestures with his hand that looked like a kind of sign language. The boy looked up and then immediately turned his gaze downward again. In that brief glance, I saw that his eyes seemed unfocused behind the glasses.
“Park doesn’t hear so well,” Mrs. Wu said.
“Ma, I’m taking a break,” Matt said, and he jumped off his stool. He turned to Park and made a few more gestures. I thought probably he was asking if Park wanted to come with us.
When Park didn’t react at all, Matt turned to me and said, “He’s shy.”
“Don’t be too long,” Mrs. Wu said. “There’s a lot of work that needs to be done.”
Some of the other kids gravitated to us when they saw that we were free, and we all moved toward the soda machine by the entrance. It cost twenty cents per bottle and I learned later that few people actually purchased from it because of the expense, but the idea of getting a cold soda in the sweltering factory was so attractive that the soda machine was a popular hangout anyway.
I suspected that most of the other kids were at the factory for the same reasons I was. They weren’t officially employed by the factory, but there was no place else for them to go, and their parents needed their help. As Ma had explained earlier, all employees were secretly paid by the piece; this meant that the work the children did was essential to the family income. When I was in high school, I learned that piece payment was illegal, but those rules were for white people, not for us.
Leaning against the humming soda machine, I could see Matt was the leader of the factory kids. They seemed to range in age from about four to teens. To save money, Ma made many of my clothes herself, even though she couldn’t do it very well, so I had on a home-sewn shirt while the other kids were wearing cool T-shirts with English sayings like “Remember to Vote.” They interspersed their Chinese with English to show off how Americanized they were and everyone apparently knew I was fresh off the boat. There was some whispering when they found out Dog Flea Mama was my aunt, but Matt seemed to have taken me under his wing and no one dared tease me. Despite the hard work, I was relieved to be among Chinese kids again.
After ten minutes, though, everyone started wandering back to the work they knew awaited them if they ever wanted to leave. I returned to Ma and resumed work but I was exhausted.