Well, what subject do you like? What do you want to be when you grow up? I asked, eyeing her pile of textbooks. She was barely 12, yet her workload was that of a college student. Her parents had her days booked from 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. School and then tutoring. Work after work. She was, as I had been, chained to the American dream of her mother and father. Nothing. She muttered in her raspy Sichuan accent. I miss Sichuan. Then miss it. And make that your dream, I said, wishing mere words could free her of her parents preconceived life for her, fully installed in a cushy job with a European car and handbag to match, eating a burrito, her Sichuan accent a distant memory.
Posted on: Fri, 05 Dec 2014 23:59:01 +0000