last night, at around 1am, someone called my house looking for my mother. as is usually the case when i am faced with a conversation in which i must use my broken chinese, i quickly passed the phone to someone whose chinese is fully intact; in this case, it was my uncle.
as i’ve mentioned previously, my mother is also a blogger. except instead of telling stories about cool backpacks and bruises and the occasional sketchy man encounter, she tells stories about growing up in phnom penh, her experience during the khmer rouge regime, surviving a genocide. maybe she even talks about being here, now.
as it turns out, this woman, a seventy-something year old from hong kong, has never met my mother, but after reading one of her non-fiction pieces, felt compelled to speak to her.
so she called.