Whenever she’d get mad, she’d take her index finger out and poke me in the forehead. You you you you you, she ‘d say, as if accusing me of being me. She was quick to blame me for the slightest infractions, a spilled glass, a way of sitting while eating, my future ambitions (farmer or teacher), the way I dressed, what I ate, even the way I practiced English words in the car (Thank you! I yelled. Scissors! I screamed). Pg 184
-Ling Ma
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