- 页码：第291页 2019-04-15 10:49:01
A restaurant kitchen is a place of great, joyous hate. Hate for the owners, who don't understand what the cooks need. Hate for the servers, who always show up at the wrong time. Hate for the diners, who have the temerity to actually order. And hate for one another - for Sasha, who never defended himself when Nikita and Misha flung insults and towels. I had feared, but expected, the abuse. What I ddin't expect was that being the WRiter would render me ineligible for it. I was steered clear of, and even that without hostility.
For all that I'd tried to disown, and had, I was their perfect alchemy: my father's mother's willfulness and perference of singing to socks full of cash, and my father's need for his own way, somewhere far from most perople; my mother's side's obsession with good marks, appearances, lots of noise, and never having enough. By now I had stood in front of many rooms, my first novel in hand. They always asked why you became a writer. An impossible question, but my four-headed answer floated up easily. Immigration gave me a million stories. Learning a new language at nine rather than zero left me astonished by what words could do. Because my people never expressed negative feelings directly (not a bequst of our totalitarian surroundings, but because they wished, above all, to show love, and what kind of love was it, they thought, if you disagreed openly?), I had to learn how to listen for what was meant rather than said, becoming acutely observant. That same love, however, meant I was never discouraged from speaking. A table of adults would fall silent so I could ask, or say. That last was the key: A fellow immigrant writer friend with a nearly identical background had only the first ghree, and had to work much harder to find the courage to put words on a page. I owed to my elders the career that had given them such alarm.
You get what you wanted, just not what you planned. My hunger has been good for my work, and a near calamity for everything else. As least I know not to rely on it.
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However, the ache in my hands eventually subsided to a dull burn, and the strain in my ...
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