Rules of the Game/ Amy Tan

I was six when my mother taught me the art of invisible strength. It was a strategy for winning arguments, respect from others, and eventually, though neither of us knew it at the time, chess games. “Bite back your tongue,” scolded (גערה) my mother when I cried loudly, yanking her hand toward the store that sold bags of salted plums. At home, she said, “Wise guy, he not go against wind. In Chinese we say, Come from South, blow with wind-poom!-North will follow. Strongest wind cannot be seen.” The next week I bit back my tongue as we entered the store with the forbidden candies. When my mother finished her shopping, she quietly plucked a small bag of plums from the rack (מִתְלֶה; כּוֹנָן;) and put it on the counter (דלפק)

with the rest of the items. My mother imparted ( מָסַר, הֶעֱבִיר) her daily truths so she could help my older brothers and me rise above our circumstances. We lived in. San Francisco’s Chinatown. Like most of the other Chinese children who played in the back alleys of restaurants and curio shops (חנויות לחפצים נדירים), I didn’t think we were poor. My bowl was always full, three five-course meals every day, beginning with a soup of mysterious things I didn’t want to know the names of. We lived on Waverly Place, in a warm, clean, two-bedroom flat that sat above a small Chinese bakery specializing in steamed pastries (דברי מאפה מאודים)and dim sum (מאכל סיני שכולל כופתות ממולאות). In the early morning, when the alley was still quiet, I could smell fragrant (ריחני) red beans as they were cooked down to a pasty (דָּבִיק, בְּצֵקִי) sweetness. By daybreak, our flat was heavy with the odor (ניחוח) of fried sesame balls and sweet curried chicken crescents. From my bed, I would listen as my father got ready for work, then locked the door behind him, one-two-three clicks.

Which lessons does the narrator learn from her mother?

Why does the narrator call them “Daily Truths?”

What hopes does the narrator’s mother have for her children?

Is the family poor? Does the narrator think so?

Do You think the narrator’s childhood memories are pleasant?

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At the end of our two-block alley (סמטה) was a small sandlot (מגרש חול) playground with swings and slides well-shined down the middle with use. The play area was bordered by wood-slat benches where old-country people sat cracking roasted watermelon seeds (קליפות) with their golden teeth and scattering the husks to an impatient gathering of gurgling pigeons (יונים מגרגרות). The best playground, however, was the dark alley itself. It was crammed (עמוס, דחוס)with daily mysteries and adventures. My brothers and I would peer into the medicinal herb shop, watching old Li dole out  (מקציב כמות) onto a stiff sheet of white paper the right amount of insect shells (קונכיות), saffron-colored seeds (זרעים בצבע כורכום), and pungent leaves (עלים העלי ריח חריף) for his ailing customers. It was said that he once cured a woman dying of an ancestral curse  (קללה קדמונית) that had eluded  (חמק) the best of American doctors. Next to the pharmacy was a printer who specialized in gold-embossed  (מוטבע) wedding invitations and festive red banners (כרזות) . Farther down the street was Ping Yuen Fish Market. The front window displayed a tank crowded with doomed (שנחרץ דינם למות) fish and turtles struggling to gain footing on the slimy  (מְרֻפָּשׁ, חלקלק) green-tiled sides. A hand-written sign informed tourists, “Within this store, is all for food, not for pet.” Inside, the butchers with their bloodstained white smocks (חלוקים) deftly (במיומנות) gutted (הוציאו את הקרביים) the fish while customers cried out their orders and shouted, “Give me your freshest,” to which the butchers always protested, “All are freshest.” On less crowded market days, we would inspect the crates (ארגז)  of live frogs and crabs  (סרטן) which we were warned not to poke (לנעוץ אצבע), boxes of dried cuttlefish(דְּיוֹנוּן) , and row upon row of iced prawns (פראונים, סוג של סרטנים קטנים), squid (קלמרי), and slippery fish. The sanddabs (סוג של דגים שטוחים) made me shiver each time; their eyes lay on one flattened side and reminded me of my mother’s story of a careless girl who ran into a crowded street and was crushed by a cab. “Was smash flat,” reported my mother. At the corner of the alley was Hong Sing’s, a four-table cafe with a recessed stairwell in front that led to a door marked “Tradesmen.” (סוחרים, בעלי מלאכה) My brothers and I believed the bad people emerged from this door at night.

Tourists never went to Hong Sing’s, since the menu was printed only in Chinese. A Caucasian (אדם לבן) man with a big camera once posed me and my playmates in front of the restaurant. He had us move to the side of the picture window so the photo would capture the roasted duck with its head dangling ( הִתְנוֹדֵד) from a juice-covered rope. After he took the picture, I told him he should go into Hong Sing’s and eat dinner. When he smiled and asked me what they served, I shouted, “Guts and duck’s feet and octopus gizzards!” (קֻרְקְבָן) Then I ran off with my friends, shrieking (צוח) with laughter as we scampered (התרוצץ) across the alley and hid in the entryway grotto (מְעָרָה) of the China Gem Company, my heart pounding with hope that he would chase us.

Why did the “white man” posed the girls for a picture?

What does it tell us about the way Chinese are seen by visitors to Chinatown?

Why was the prank the children pulled on the “white man” funny for them?

My mother named me after the street that we lived on: Waverly Place Jong, my official name for important American documents. But my family called me Meimei, “Little Sister.” I was the youngest, the only daughter. Each morning before school, my mother would twist and yank on my thick black hair until she had formed two tightly wound pigtails (קוקיות). One day, as she struggled to weave a hard-toothed comb through my disobedient (מרדני) hair, I had a sly thought. I asked her, “Ma, what is Chinese torture?” (עינוי) My mother shook her head. A bobby pin (סיכה לשיער) was wedged  (נדחקה) between her lips. She wetted her palm and smoothed the hair above my ear, then pushed the pin in so that it nicked sharply against my scalp (קרקפת) . ‘Who say this word?” she asked without a trace of knowing how wicked (מרשעת) I was being. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Some boy in my class said Chinese people do Chinese torture.” “Chinese people do many things,” she said simply. “Chinese people do business, do medicine, do painting. Not lazy like American people. We do torture. Best torture.”

How did the narrator get her name? What does this tell us about her parents’ desire to adapt to their new culture?

What can the scene of a mother doing her child’s her show us about Chinese culture?

What is Waverly trying to do by asking her mother about torture at this time?

What does her mother’s answer show about her attitudes towards American?

My older brother Vincent was the one who actually got the chess set. We had gone to the annual (שנתי) Christmas party held at the First Chinese Baptist Church at the end of the alley. The missionary ladies had put together a Santa bag of gifts donated (נתרמו) by members of another church. None of the gifts had names on them. There were separate sacks for boys and girls of different ages. One of the Chinese parishioners (בני הקהילה) had donned (לבש) a Santa Claus costume and a stiff paper beard with cotton balls glued to it. I think the only children who thought he was the real thing were too young to know that Santa Claus was not Chinese. When my turn came up, the Santa man asked me how old I was. I thought it was a trick question; I was seven according to the American formula and eight by the Chinese calendar. I said I was born on March 17, 1951. That seemed to satisfy him. He then solemnly(ברצינות, בכובד ראש)  asked if I had been a very, very good girl this year and did I believe in Jesus Christ and obey my parents. I knew the only answer to that. I nodded back with equal solemnity. Having watched the older children opening their gifts, I already knew that the big gifts were not necessarily the nicest ones. One girl my age got a large coloring book of biblical characters, while a less greedy (חמדן) girl who selected a smaller box received a glass vial (בקבוקון) of lavender toilet water (בושם). The sound of the box was also important. A ten-year old boy had chosen a box that jangled (השמיעה צליל מתכתי) when he shook it. It was a tin (עשוי פח או בדיל) globe of the world with a slit for inserting money. He must have thought it was full of dimes and nickels, because when he saw that it had just ten pennies, his face fell with such undisguised (גלוי) disappointment that his mother slapped the side of his head and led him out of the church hall, apologizing to the crowd for her son who had such bad manners (נימוסים) he couldn’t appreciate such a fine gift. As I peered into the sack, I quickly fingered the remaining presents, testing their weight, imagining what they contained. I chose a heavy, compact one that was wrapped in shiny silver foil and a red satin ribbon. It was a twelve-pack of Life Savers and I spent the rest of the party arranging and rearranging the candy tubes in the order of my favorites. My bother Winston chose wisely as well. His present turned out to be a box of intricate plastic parts; the instructions on the box proclaimed that when they were properly assembled he would have an authentic miniature replica of a World War 11 submarine. Vincent got the chess set, which would have been a very decent present to get at a church Christmas party, except it was obviously used and, as we discovered later, it was missing a black pawn and a white knight. My mother graciously thanked the unknown benefactor, saying, “Too good. Cost too much.” At which point, an old lady with fine white, wispy hair nodded toward our family and said with a whistling whisper, “Merry, merry Christmas.” When we got home, my mother told Vincent to throw the chess set away. “She not want it. We not want it.” she said, tossing her head stiffly to the side with a tight, proud smile. My brothers had deaf ears. They were already lining up the chess pieces and reading from the dog-eared instruction book.

Why did the family go to a Christmas party?

Why can’t Santa be Chinese?

Why did Waverly thought the question about her age was trick question?

*The Joy Luck Club  is based on the book by the same name. There are  scenes which feature Waverly as she is portrayed in the story  Rules of the Game .

click here

and here until minute 34