My name is Blake Bei-qi Parker, but don’t call me anything but Blake Parker, without the second name.
My name has Chinese in it thanks to my pig-headed parents. I did everything I could to change their minds. I begged, argued and threw tantrums. All I wanted was to remove my Chinese name, Bei-qi. “I promise I’ll never, ever ask for anything else,” I pleaded. But my pathetic begging failed. Thus I tried playing dumb and deaf, with my mother especially, refusing to respond when she called me Bei-qi. I made fun of the sound, saying “done mine” or, once “dung-may” because I thought it was a dirty word.
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It was a typical fall day. The sky was a vast sea of blue, embellishing a forest of coloured leaves. I was in the staff room at lunchtime, waiting for my lunch to heat up in the microwave, when I noticed a newspaper clipping pinned to the bulletin board. It was a brief report on China’s family planning law.
I had a husband addicted to his three newspapers a day, so I had picked up some information. By the end of the week, after talking to my husband, I had a good grasp of China’s attempt at population control. And the more I learned, the deeper I was drawn into what I came to call China’s baby policy, which allowed only one child per family. There’s one thing we discovered with excitement : people outside China were allowed to adopt babies.
The next day, I called the Children’s Aid Society in Toronto. An agent advised me to get in touch with the federal government’s International Adoption Desk in China. After months of phone calls and tons of paperwork, a letter arrived with the photo of a little girl named Bei-qi. The colour photo showed me nothing about the child who, if all the bureaucrats could be satisfied, was going to be our daughter. How could a baby’s face be so grave and blank?
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One of the many rules of the Parker family is that dinner must never be interrupted by serious conversation. Arguments are strictly forbidden.
One autumn day when I was in elementary school I made my way home under a cloud of doom, dragging my feet and seizing any opportunity- walking with arms held out for balance along the curb, side-stepping cracks in the sidewalk, kicking bunches of soggy leaves along the gutter- to slow me down. Dad’s car was in the driveway. When I pushed open the front door, I yelled “I’m home!” and ran upstairs to my room.
Dinner was torture; my teacher had told me that she had called Mother at lunchtime. I knew they wouldn’t mention my crime until after dinner.
I fiddled with my pork chop, pushed mashed potatoes around my plate, rolled peas back and forth. The whole family was calm, which infuriated me.
After everyone finished their meal, I had never heard silence quite this loud. Mum was the first one to speak, “We have something to discuss.” I sat quietly, heat beating. “ Bei-qi dear, “ Mum said calmly in her Teacher Voice. “ Mrs. Crossly called me today. Would you like to tell us why?”
“I haven’t handed in my project,” I confessed.
Mum and Dad exchanged a look. Then, Mum continued, “Because?”
A strong emotion accidentally stuck my head. Two weeks before, Crossly asked us to write a history project. She crowed, as if announcing the winner of a lottery, “ It’s your personal history! Everything must be true.”
However, I didn’t know my birthday. Although December 8, 1980 is printed on my identity card, my real birthday is actually a mystery.
Below the empty blanks on the pink sheet was a paragraph of instructions that emphasized the need to interview family members, especially grandparents and other relatives, as well as our parents. But who could I interview? I felt as if the whole project had been designed to snare me.
“ I couldn’t do it,” I said helplessly, tears were welling up my eyes.
“Because all of the stuff you told me isn’t real! And Mrs. Crossly would find it out!”
This time, Dad put in, “ Neither is your approach to the whole thing.” It was unusual for him to say anything against Mum.
“ I’ve told you not to make up Bei-qi’s birthday. Now look what’s happened.”
“Well.” Mum let out a sigh.” I will work out with Crossly tomorrow.”
“ I think I should also remind her how insensitive she was to ask Blake to do that project,” Dad said.
They left the table, thinking they had solved something.
I wish some had told me this- my mysterious birthday and even my true identity.