Love in a List

“I’m still looking for soy sauce, ginger oil, sesame oil, and minced pork.” 

A few seconds later, my mom’s response travels through the phone held tight against my ear. “Jìxù zhǎo, dàn shì zhǎo bù dào, qù wèn yī xià.” My mother instructs me to keep looking but to ask someone if I really can’t find it. Unfortunately, this is far from the first time I have received such advice.

“Yes, yes don’t worry, doing that now. I’ll head home after this. Bye!” Following my rapid-fire conversation ender, I sit and wait untilI receive my mom’s farewell before tapping my smartphone’s power button to end the call.

As I return to my reality—a prehistoric Chinese grocery store with questionable lighting, walls decorated by ancient advertisements and an immeasurable amount of Lunar New Year lanterns—I realize that during the course of my phone call, I had drifted into the middle of the main hallway. My heart drops when I notice that an elderly Chinese man is struggling to navigate his cart around my pacing, so I muster up an apology in broken Mandarin before diving back into a smaller aisle.

Perhaps my escape from social embarrassment contains a hidden blessing, though, because I look up and read the words “Sauces” and “Oils” from the aisle marker, which means I’m one step closer to my escape from the grocery store. I begin to scan the bottles of Asian flavorings, slowly making my way to the other end of the aisle. Unfortunately, I hit another roadblock: I can’t read Mandarin characters, so a solid majority of the bottles’ lettering is a mystery to me. But just as I begin to mourn the language barrier, I spot what may be one of my targets. A rectangular bottle with rounded edges and a short narrow neck, donning a red and gold gradient label—what a familiar sight!

In a slightly off tone, I “excuse me” and “sorry” my way through the growingly crowded aisle to reach my treasure, quickly snatching it up, but my linguistic inadequacies strike again. While I recognize the brand—I think—I still can’t read the big characters that must be the name of the item. I also can’t use visual translator apps because my phone doesn’t have enough space for anything but pictures at this point. Panic starts to creep its way into my head.

A hand taps my shoulder and points at the bottle I’m holding. As I turn to examine the new noise, I’m met with stunning words and an even more stunning sight.

“香油.” The words gracefully escape the lips of the woman standing in front of me. I’m unsure whether she realizes the multi-faceted nature of the shock I just received, because all she does is offer a small smile and fidget with her right earring. Her sleek black hair falls effortlessly down her back, a curtain of royal beauty that only parts at her face in the form of neatly trimmed bangs. Wow. She’s stunning.

“Sesame oil?” She switches languages and tries again, and it hits me that she was trying to tell me what the bottle said. 

“Yes, yes”— I trip over my own words, my accelerating heartbeat turning all normal functions into a struggle—“just what I’m looking for. Thanks for translating, I can’t read Mandarin.” 

“Of course. Why would you come here if you can’t read though? 90% of the products are only labelled in Mandarin, and 100% of the employees converse in it,” she chuckles. She must think I’m either silly or just curious. I sure hope it’s the latter.

“Well, when it comes to Chinese dishes, this is the only grocery store my mom approves of, so I try to remember what the items look like and use that as my guide.” 

“So you are Chinese….” She looks at me inquisitively. I wonder if zoo animals feel this way when an audience gathers around their enclosure.

The silence and her thinking pose was beginning to grow a tad bit uncomfortable, so I decide to fill in the blanks. “Yes, I’m half Chinese, half Filipino.” She’s about to speak, but I decide to cut her off and correct my white lie. After all, there’s no point in simplifying my ethnic makeup. 

“I lied,” I laugh, because laughter makes most people follow suit with a chuckle instead of being upset that I fibbed. “I’m actually 37.5% Filipino and 62.5% Chinese. Big difference, huh?”

“Close enough,” she shrugs, before pausing and turning red. “Explains the good looks.” Her eyes widen a bit and she smiles, but she cuts off any potential response with a question. “Do you speak Mandarin or Tagalog?”

I blush a bit at her compliment, but thankfully, her question gives me something else to focus on. “Mandarin— yes, Tagalog— no.” It then occurs to me that I should clarify my linguistic capabilities before she gets any ideas. “I’m only barely conversational in Mandarin, though. And I can’t read or write.”

“That’s okay. Most Asian-Americans can’t even speak their native language,” she says, trying to make me feel better about myself assuming that she picked up on my wish to be fluent.

“It’s a little different for me though, since I had every opportunity to learn. Growing up”— I pause and sigh loudly, steeling myself to finish my sentence before overthinking gets in the way. “Growing up, my parents didn’t really treat me the best. It was nothing crazy, just a lot of the usual generational trauma that gets passed on. But I viewed running away from my culture as an escape from my family, hence my subpar linguistic skills.” As I continue my explanation, a small frown forms on my face. “So my reason for un-fluency feels particularly disrespectful.”

She sighs and looks at me in a comforting way. “I normally hate it when people claim to understand you, but I’m gonna be a bit of a hypocrite and say that I really do understand you. Since childhood, I was always compared to family members and family friends. I was expected to uphold family traditions, and any semblance of doubt or rebellion against our heritage earned me a brutal scolding.”

All I can do in response is nod. It’s unfortunate to think this, but it felt kind of nice to have someone who could relate. In this era of trendy influencers who have heartwarming stories about their Asian-ness, my painful experience growing up a minority felt invalidated or even wrong at times.

I make eye contact with her and speak softly. “I’m sorry you went through that.” I would usually consider this level of emotional vulnerability with a stranger odd, but with her, it feels natural.

“It’s okay, things are better now. I have a question though.” She slightly pursed her lips, as if she were evaluating the appropriate-ness of her upcoming words. “I don’t want to be a pseudo-therapist or act like I have all the answers, but have you tried communicating with them?” 

I shake my head. “Because of how inflexible they are, it never seemed worth trying.”

“Is this you ‘not trying’?” She gestures to the shopping basket before snatching the sesame oil bottle out of my hand. “I assume a college student like yourself isn’t cooking up a cultural feast for Lunar New Year all on your own. These ingredients are for your family right?”

“It’s the least I can do, since I won’t be present anyway. I have plans tomorrow.” A sad little crinkle forms between my eyebrows. After retelling my plan, I feel a wave of guilt for my holiday absence, a raw emotion I hadn’t felt since informing my family a few days ago.

“I don’t want to intrude too much, but are those plans really more important than spending the holidays with your family?” She waits a second, before following up to her own question. “You don’t have to actually answer. Just take it from my experiences—since healing my relationship with family, my life has improved exponentially. A healthy family is a whole new level of support.”

Oddly, I don’t find it too strange that a stranger is giving me so much advice. Her words ring the bell of truth inside me, and I want to give her suggestions a try. “No promises, but I’ll try. Maybe things would be better if I had more initiative.” Decisions and potential scenarios float around my headspace as I prepare my next words. “You know what? I’ll begin with Lunar New Year dinner tomorrow.”

I extend the shopping basket towards her so she can put the bottle down before looking at her and nodding, confirming that I’m taking in her words.

“I hope it goes well.” She smiles warmly, before continuing. “Also—I’m sorry about that unsolicited advice. But anyway, my current concern about you is, how are you gonna find the rest of your items?” She straight up laughs now. “I’ll come with you on your shopping trip then, ‘cause it looks like you need the help.” 

Her confident air keeps me confused, as I’m unsure if she is flirting with me or just really likes to help strangers shop. 

“Only if it’s okay with you though,” she adds, smiling as she tilts her head left, which I interpret as an indicator of a question.

“I could use the company.” I grin. “Next up is soy sauce.”

She nods and we make our way down the aisle. This is a novel experience for me, because usually most of my time at Chángshòu Chāoshì is spent on the phone with my mom asking vague questions about what products look like, aimlessly wandering and hoping for the occasional product labeled in English.

Meanwhile, the woman has already brought me to the exact area with different varieties of soy sauce, and is in the midst of translating each bottle and explaining the label. It’s incredible how she can switch between Mandarin and English so effortlessly, as smooth as if she’s just switching between informal and formal speech of the same language.

“Yes, that’s the one we always get.” I reach out to grab the bottle just as she extends her arm, and our hands meet and glide over each other. I feel sparks and listen to my heart’s intense drumming, but my desperation to check a box off my list keeps me going—along with the chance to make quick physical contact and gauge her reaction.

We both grab and pull the bottle out in unison, and stand there holding it between us midair. “Sorry about that—I didn’t notice, I was focused on the bottle,” I apologize for my slightly bold move.

“Don’t apologize, it was intentional on my part,” she smirks, batting her eyelids a little. “I’m flirting with you, dummy. If only you were as smart as you were cute.”

Before I react, she incorrectly assumes that I have a grasp on the bottle and lets go. In my state of shock from the sudden confession she had just blurted out, I also lose control of my hand and let go. Thankfully, my instincts kick in and I swiftly position the basket under the falling bottle. It lands neatly in place next to the sesame oil.

“So dramatic for what?” She rolls her eyes teasingly.

I feel locked out of my library of witty remarks, so I simply elect to chuckle as well, before I pull up the list. “Up next, ginger oil and minced pork.”

“Great, I know exactly where.” She grabs my wrist and pulls as she begins speeding to her destination, and I’m stunned yet again. I do admit, I appreciate how forward she is though. Her confidence is rather attractive.

The journey for the ginger oil and minced pork is largely the same, with a few minor developments. She takes me to the exact spot, translates, and we find more and more creative ways to briefly make contact with each other while we are shopping.

Soon, we find my last item, and for once in my life, I wish my grocery list was just one item longer. As we are standing side by side in the checkout lane, it dawns on me that I don’t even know her name right now. 

I turn to her and ask, “Nǐ jiào shénme?” 

“Wǒ jiào Tiānshǐ. Nǐ ne?” Her sweet voice once again escapes her rose colored lips, as she shares her name—in English, Angel—and asks what mine is. 

“I’m Yang Shan. Thanks for helping me shop by the way—this definitely sped up my mom’s dumpling-making journey.”

“Aw, I’m glad to help.” She smiles and looks down for a second before meeting my eyes again, “You’re pretty lucky to have the option to go home and celebrate Lunar New Year. Trust me.”

I assume that Angel is unable to go home and my heart sinks. But then an idea floats into my brain. What if I invited her for a Lunar New Year meal?

I clear my throat and work up my nerve. “I know we just met, but if my parents say yes, would you want to come over for our Lunar New Year dinner tomorrow night? I live right by the university, and in general, I would love to get to know you. You’re pretty cool.” I offer her a sincere smile.

“You know what? I would love to—about both things. You’re pretty cool too.” She grins, and a hint of laughter escapes.

We exchange phone numbers, and I call my mom to update her on not only my attendance and the groceries, but to also invite a guest for the holiday dinner.

A few dials, then explanations later, my mom asks her usual question. “Is she a friend?”

I notice the slight tonal raise in my mom’s words, suggesting that she suspects otherwise. “Sure.” I leave it ambiguous, preventing an outright lie while still leaving room for future developments.

“Nǐ kěyǐ. Qù mǎi gèng duō de shícái.” She approves my wish and tells me to buy more ingredients in that case.

I turn to Angel and share the good news, and we put our groceries back in the basket while the previous customer finishes paying.

“Happy Early Lunar New Year,” I smile at her. I have never felt so thankful for this holiday before.

“Happy Early Lunar New Year to you too.” She looks at me and smiles, then grazes her hand along mine. It’s not long before she gives in and fully grasps it. “Let’s finish shopping.”

Rysun Chu, 2025 | Published on USF Sparks Magazine