Garden of Empress Cassia by Gabrielle Wang Page A

was her trouble when she was in my class last year.’ Miss Sternhop hardly moved her tight, thin lips. ‘Never concentrated. In my experience you’ve got to come down hard on children like that.’ She banged the counter with a clenched fist, as if she were squashing a helpless bug.
    â€˜See you in a month, Dr Lu.’ Miss Sternhop strode out to join the stream of life on the street.
    When Miss Sternhop was well out of earshot, Mimi yelled from the kitchen, ‘I hate old Stir-em-up. She never liked me.’
    â€˜Hate not good word, Mimi.’
    â€˜But I do. She’s mean. The whole school was glad to see her go.’
    â€˜Why you late today?’ Dr Lu wiped the counter with a feather duster then walked through the red curtains.
    â€˜I told you already, Dad, Miss O’Dell is giving me special art classes after school. She says I have real talent.’ Mimi hadn’t made a big deal of it. She knew her dad would be angry.
    â€˜You need to concentrate on school work . . . not painting,’ he said, suddenly breaking into Chinese. He did this whenever he was serious or angry. ‘Painting is not a respected profession.’
    â€˜But I love drawing and painting, Dad,’ she replied in English. Two years ago, Mimi had decided never to speak Chinese again. ‘I’m Australian
not
Chinese,’ she had said defiantly. She knew it made her parents angry, but it was the one thing in her life she had control over.
    Her dad waved his hand towards the yellowing photograph hanging above the altar table in the hallway and frowned at her. ‘Your
nai nai
and
gong gong
are watching, waiting for you to honour the family name. You have no brother, so it is up to you to please the ancestors.’
    â€˜Oh phooey,’ Mimi said softly, then looked up, hoping the ancestors were hard of hearing. She felt the disapproving stare of her grandmother and grandfather on their ancestral cloud.
Isn’t burning incense every day enough for you? Don’t you know that other kids’ parents say, ‘well done, you did your best’. They’re always being told how great they are. I get 98 for a maths test and Dad says it’s not good enough. All he ever does is criticise . . .
    â€˜Tell your teacher you are busy after school. No more wasting time.’ Mimi’s dad broke into her thoughts.
    â€˜But Dad, that’s not fair,’ she replied angrily.
    Dr Lu sat down at his desk, his back blocking the conversation. It was no use. He had shut her out as usual. Mimi had learnt long ago that Chinese children never argue with their parents.
    She stared at her maths book as tears melted the black digits into blurry grey blobs.
Why did I have to be born into a Chinese family?

Traffic was busy this morning on Rumba Street. Trams were banked up along the track like large green caterpillars playing follow-the-leader. Two men stood on the roof of a yellow tramway’s truck, fixing the power lines overhead, black wires playing noughts and crosses against the sky.
    â€˜Hey ching chong,’ a voice yelled from a passing car.
    â€˜
Unfortunate beings!
’ Mimi muttered, to keep out the hurt.
    â€˜People like that, very unfortunate,’ her mum would say. ‘Their parents no teach them right or wrong.’
    As Mimi arrived at the school gate, the bell started ringing. This week’s number one hit, ‘ME-YOW’ by The Furballs, was blaring from the loudspeakers into the assembly area.
    â€˜I thought we could do some pottery today, Mimi,’ said Miss O’Dell, walking beside her down the asphalt path. ‘I fired up the kiln yesterday’
    Miss O’Dell’s rosy cheeks stood out like little pink balloons as she smiled at Mimi. Her skin was smooth and soft, and when she spoke it was as though she was singing a gentle Irish lullaby.
    â€˜Dad won’t let me come any more,’ Mimi replied sadly.
    â€˜Why ever