Ama

I hate the number four. In Genesis, God created the sun and stars on the fourth day. Of course, no one remembers this because he created magnificent flying beasts on the fifth and left the world wonderstruck as they soared through the clouds. The backbone of human existence was immediately forgotten when our eyes feasted upon something more desirable. Unnoticed were the golden rays of sunshine that peaked through darkness every morning and provided light for the world. Wishing to instead be defined by the beautiful creatures, we scrambled to hide these beams of sunlight. But their radiance was too bright to conceal and so eventually we hated the sun for simply existing. Like the distinct curve of my eyes and the golden glow of my skin, the number four is forever embedded within me. Its presence shines deep into the number of my age, the character strokes in my last name 楊, and the outline of burns on my grandmother’s callused fingers. Every time that I look in the mirror, I realize that the scars of my ancestors will never align with my desire to fit in the mold of society’s highest standards. Layers of concealer can not cover the jagged edges of the number four, consisting of generations of tradition that are too significant to hide. I am forever fearful of four because of the immense power it possesses over me.

In an American society where differences are often perceived as foreign, I progressively became apprehensive to exhibit qualities that drew unwanted attention. Hard-boiled soy sauce eggs were replaced with Lunchables, my show-and-tell qipao was exchanged for a glow-in-the-dark fidget spinner and at some point, I told my grandfather to pick me up at the back entrance. My identity morphed into disassociating from number four and everything else that contributed to my collective uniqueness. My ability to finally embrace all aspects of my cultural identity ironically came through the prime embodiment of Taiwanese tradition: the game of Mahjong.

There are four seats at the Mahjong table. This balance is the quintessential harmony of direction- north, east, south, and west. Hot tea steams from the western seat over the checkered green marble tiles and my fingers trace the familiar ink-filled grooves of traditional characters, intricate birds, and bundles of sticks. I look 南, to the south, where my Ama sits. She whispers that success in the game of Mahjong is a balance of luck and strategy, therefore representing the four rounds of life. The players push tiles around in the center of the table and give them a good shuffle. Over the intense mixing our fingers touch, but we are too invested in drawing thirteen tiles to pull away. The round is won with three sets of three consecutive tiles and one pair of two identical “snake eyes.” I sit in the east seat, 東, where the sun rises, so I hit out the first card. Clicks and clacks of celebration, curses, and tension continue until a winner is finally declared. The cards are reshuffled and four chaotic turns around the table brought us to the last round. When the last tile was cleaned up, I found myself smiling in an absolute state of joy. This was not only due to the spirited comradery centered around shared traditions, but because Mahjong introduced a euphoric sense of belonging like nothing before- fulfillment. 

At dawn each morning, the sun peeks from the 東 horizon and wakes the four directions. Rays of light penetrate through darkness and transform my microcosm golden. As I look at my reflection, I recognize the harmony of the number four; an incandescent balance of the sun and flying beasts, boiled soy sauce eggs and Lunchables, my identity, and my heritage. There is no sacrifice with balance- it is perfectly possible to embed aspects of my Taiwanese culture into my expression while striving to ascertain individuality in American society. I no longer see the jagged edges of the number four as a scar, rather a luminous carving that I embrace with pride.

Emelia Yang

(she / her)