When I was growing up, we went to Chicago for a long weekend every summer and ate at a Chinese restaurant. It wasn't the only thing we did, but fortune cookies and the improbable video phones at the Museum of Science and Industry are what I remember most.
It was the early 1960's and Chinese restaurants and buffets had yet to show up on the main streets of small towns in Southern Illinois. Our diversity was pretty much limited to the gulf between catholics and protestants. And our food choices were almost exclusively centered around meat and potatoes. The only Chinese cuisine I knew was the very occasional chop suey that came from a can at home and, later, the chop suey that came from a bigger can at the school cafeteria.
It was an eye opener to walk into an actual Chinese restaurant with red lanterns and tassles, waiters wearing silk pajamas and talking in accents, Chinese families sitting at tables, and a menu with Chinese characters that I couldn't begin to understand. It was a window into a world I didn't yet know. A glimpse into a future bigger than our town. A step towards being worldly.
I ordered chop suey. So did Ellen. And so did Mom. It was all we knew. Dad had grown up in Chicago and was a little more sophisticated--although I use that word loosely. He ordered beef with broccoli, fried rice and egg rolls, and made sure that they brought us hot tea with those little handleless cups that I so wanted to take home.
Almost as much as I wanted to order the fried ice cream for dessert. But dessert wasn't usually in our budget. And, after that first visit, I was okay with that because they brought us something even better at the end of our meal. They brought us our fortunes.
I think my first one said something like, "Happiness is yours if you enter each room with a smile and a wink." I took it to heart and started walking into every room with a wink and a smile when we returned home. I'm pretty sure that people thought I had a tic, but I knew I had a fortune. A road map to happiness. Straightforward and assured. Something that made me feel good about myself and positive about my future. Something that a scrawny nine year old from a small town could hold onto.
Subsequent fortunes just buoyed my growing confidence. "Hard work will bring big rewards." I could do that. "Keep your family close." I've got that covered.
I can think of only one other thing that had an impact comparable to my Chinese fortunes. It happened in seventh grade when our home room teacher was leaving to go to another school and gave everyone an award at the end of the year. Mine was for the "sexiest voice." I carried that certificate with the same confidence that I carried my fortunes. I was 12 and didn't even need a bra, and on some level probably knew that it was a stretch. Yet, somehow I've managed to live for nearly 50 years believing I have a sexy voice. Even though not a single other person has ever noticed it or commented on it.
I stopped at a Chinese take-out last week and brought home some dinner. I ate my beef and broccoli and dug out the fortune cookie from the bottom of the bag with an innocence a little more jaded than the nine year old me. Still, I looked forward to reading it.
"The stock market may be your ticket to success," it said.
"What the hell?" I thought. "My happy future is now tied in with the stock market?"
"And, even then, it's qualified? It's just a 'maybe' ticket to success?"
"What happened to rosy futures that made 9 year old girls enter rooms with a smile and a wink?"
"Where's that big reward I've been working hard for?"
"What's the stock market got to do with anything anyway? Can't you see I'm wearing a smile?"
"Confucious would be ashamed!"
I said this all in a very sexy voice.
It was the early 1960's and Chinese restaurants and buffets had yet to show up on the main streets of small towns in Southern Illinois. Our diversity was pretty much limited to the gulf between catholics and protestants. And our food choices were almost exclusively centered around meat and potatoes. The only Chinese cuisine I knew was the very occasional chop suey that came from a can at home and, later, the chop suey that came from a bigger can at the school cafeteria.
It was an eye opener to walk into an actual Chinese restaurant with red lanterns and tassles, waiters wearing silk pajamas and talking in accents, Chinese families sitting at tables, and a menu with Chinese characters that I couldn't begin to understand. It was a window into a world I didn't yet know. A glimpse into a future bigger than our town. A step towards being worldly.
I ordered chop suey. So did Ellen. And so did Mom. It was all we knew. Dad had grown up in Chicago and was a little more sophisticated--although I use that word loosely. He ordered beef with broccoli, fried rice and egg rolls, and made sure that they brought us hot tea with those little handleless cups that I so wanted to take home.
Almost as much as I wanted to order the fried ice cream for dessert. But dessert wasn't usually in our budget. And, after that first visit, I was okay with that because they brought us something even better at the end of our meal. They brought us our fortunes.
I think my first one said something like, "Happiness is yours if you enter each room with a smile and a wink." I took it to heart and started walking into every room with a wink and a smile when we returned home. I'm pretty sure that people thought I had a tic, but I knew I had a fortune. A road map to happiness. Straightforward and assured. Something that made me feel good about myself and positive about my future. Something that a scrawny nine year old from a small town could hold onto.
Subsequent fortunes just buoyed my growing confidence. "Hard work will bring big rewards." I could do that. "Keep your family close." I've got that covered.
I can think of only one other thing that had an impact comparable to my Chinese fortunes. It happened in seventh grade when our home room teacher was leaving to go to another school and gave everyone an award at the end of the year. Mine was for the "sexiest voice." I carried that certificate with the same confidence that I carried my fortunes. I was 12 and didn't even need a bra, and on some level probably knew that it was a stretch. Yet, somehow I've managed to live for nearly 50 years believing I have a sexy voice. Even though not a single other person has ever noticed it or commented on it.
I stopped at a Chinese take-out last week and brought home some dinner. I ate my beef and broccoli and dug out the fortune cookie from the bottom of the bag with an innocence a little more jaded than the nine year old me. Still, I looked forward to reading it.
"The stock market may be your ticket to success," it said.
"What the hell?" I thought. "My happy future is now tied in with the stock market?"
"And, even then, it's qualified? It's just a 'maybe' ticket to success?"
"What happened to rosy futures that made 9 year old girls enter rooms with a smile and a wink?"
"Where's that big reward I've been working hard for?"
"What's the stock market got to do with anything anyway? Can't you see I'm wearing a smile?"
"Confucious would be ashamed!"
I said this all in a very sexy voice.
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