Roast-pork and rice, takeway

I walk inside, with my phone tickling the edge of my pocket,
I rehearse my words again, my tongue silently rolling
Out my half-learned Cantonese,
The mono-syllable-d words I heard so often yet spoke
So little of, ringing in my ears.
My aunt’s voice reminds me painfully (and rightly) I need to
Start speaking my mother tongue,
Bananas, they said I was, a yellowed, black-eyed Asian without, white and empty within.

And I feel the tinge of shame of me never daring to speak Chinese even though
I am
One.

The coffee shop is small, the little corner-block Greasy
Spoon, its occupants sweltering under the heat, vainly trying to
Battle off the heat with ice cold cups of water from the
Tap, as the old men chatter in old Hokkien and Cantonese (both of which are common dialects for the Chinese around here). And then see a kid in school-uniform,
Bending over calligraphy homework, and I quickly glance
The other direction.

The hawkers from their little side booths entice me to buy some snack
Or dish. Mixed vegetables with rice...Malaysian-style noodles…a stuffed
Roll with all the crispy bits of fried egg and sliced gourd?? in-
Side.

I come up to the booth I want, tentatively waiting for his glance to
Meet my eye, (I am still unsure how to intonate ‘three’ in Cantonese right).
He sees me, and asks what I’d like to order.
Take-away or eat here? He fires at
Me in Cantonese.
I manage stammer out “take-away”.

With Pork or Chicken?
Pork.

Roasted or sweet-sauce barbeque?

Roasted please, (I say please, not sure if I said ‘please’ all right, and then glanced at his face to
See that twitch or raised brow that means I said something wrong)

And how many?

Three packs, please (I said it again, no twitch or raised brow yet).

He starts, pulling the slabs of roast meat from the hooks and throwing it brusquely onto the round chipped chopping board it up.
He calls the boy next to him to pack on the rice,

And starts to
Chop it, one slice after another, knife flying like an axe,
Soaring through midair,
Again and
Again.

He look up, his balding head
Gleaming a little, as he scoops up the meat into the
Styrofoam boxes, steaming rice waiting for the slices to just
Fall…in

He makes a quick mental
Count.

Fourteen forty, he tells me in Cantonese.

Nuts, I say, I don’t have time to translate, but I hand a ten-Ringgit bill with a five-Ringgit
Bill, and I’m halfway through translating before
He slaps the change into my hand with the plastic bag with the packs
Of roast-pork and rice.

I’ve translated it by
Now, and I bite my lip tentatively, and thanks him.

“Um koi,” I say, a little stilted, worrying again if my intonation is all right. He presses his lips tight a little, as if to
Say thank you and welcome, then calls out

NEXT!

And I walk off; content to leave the shop and get back to the car (Mom and my brother are waiting).

It was not so bad. I may end up a little less a banana, after all.