What’s in a name?
The last time I felt betrayed, I was at Chinwag, a Thai restaurant in central Christchurch having dinner with my childhood friends. We sat in a booth passing drinks around while the lanterns above cast dancing red shadows on our faces. Kathy and Rebecca were back from Otago for the summer, and Amanda had just finished work at a computing company down the road. We had a tradition of meeting up at least once every break, but after two years away the homecomings felt more like a calculated routine than sentimental reunions.
I was mid-sip in a coconut iced coffee when Amanda got a call. It was just after 10pm and like all overbearing Chinese mothers, hers was calling to ask when she’d be home. We stared at Amanda knowingly, miming her mother’s anxieties in our heads, relaying the questions we were all familiar with. Where are you? Have you eaten yet? Who are you with?
“I’ll be back soon,” Amanda groaned. “I’m with Tofu-Ken’s daughter, don’t worry.” She clicked the phone off and sighed.
Kathy shot me an apologetic glance, visibly embarrassed her sister had just referred to my father by the derogatory title our community gave him. Her face blushed even deeper than the lights. She was a year younger than the rest of us, and the only one who attended church every week.
Rebecca reached across the table and gave Amanda a high-five. “LOL, that’s what we call him too! Always tell them you’re with someone they know, it’s the best reassurance.” Rebecca and I lived two minutes away from each other, and as
