Michael picked up his chopsticks and placed the first in the fleshy part and the second gripped like a pencil, just like YouTube taught him. No way was he going to embarrass himself in front of his mother-in-law again.
Weihong was saying something about how people back in China constantly change their lingo in WeChat to avoid the censors, but it keeps evolving so, so quickly.
He was so hungry. The bokchoi, the green beans, and the mushrooms were all in front of him, smelling so delicious. He tries to pick up a mushroom and it slips out between the chopsticks. He quickly looked up, and nodded at Weihong in agreement, thankful that she didn’t seem to notice his clutz-i-ness with the chopsticks.
Apparently, Weihong continues, it’s gotten to the point that she can’t even understand what her friends text her without some help looking it up now.
Michael reset the chopsticks with his left hand and went for it again. But this time, he couldn’t even get a grip on it, and just kind of pushed it around his plate for like five seconds. He scooped up his rice to save face.
And it turns out, all the rich people and the not-so-rich people and even the people who aren’t dirt, dirt poor are trying to get out because of how totalitarian and Big Brother-y it’s getting. The word for it is whatever ‘run’ is in pinyin. As in ‘run’ out of China. And you have to do it before you get blacklisted by the government and you’re just like stuck.
His stomach curled from hunger. He sipped the tea on the table. Fuck it. Michael forked the dumpling with the chopsticks and shoveled it into his mouth. Weihong was speechless.