The Unveiling

by William Kwong

Mother instructed Bobby to cut out magazine pictures of eyelids he wanted his to resemble. On the kitchen table, there was a mound of glossy paper heads and eyelids, scissored from cologne, tennis shoe, and even cold medicine advertisements, each representing a wide array of different looks. Flipping through these nameless men, each eyelid began to acquire a distinct personality: the genteel seafarer—a low fold, giving him a steely suaveness as he braced the sail; the sneezy everyman—a high fold, leaving his glance in a perpetual state of surprise. This was what it was all about, really, a cosmetic enhancement that would allow Bobby to appear more Western and therefore a supposed step ahead of Father.

I would often find Bobby staring at his face in the glass of the fish tank, plucking the skin below and atop the sclera in opposite directions, until red showed. I sat next to him at the kitchen table, half expecting him to shoo me away, but he didn’t. He studied the two faces—the seafarer’s and the everyman’s—constantly returning to a handheld mirror to concentrate on his own.

I asked, “Do you want me to help?”

He looked at me, eyes like glass. He dropped the two men on the table and shook his head. “Want to go outside and play basketball?” he asked.

I nodded.

I still remember the bounce of the ball, punctuating the silence between us. It was a comfortable afternoon, soft and breezy, the pace of the wind dulled by the modest size of our yard. Warming up, the ball took on a life of its own, rising in temperature with every dribble.

“Why are you doing it?” I asked. “I think I’d be too scared, no matter how much Mom wanted me to.”

Bobby let the ball roll off the court. He stared at me: “Because they like it better.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

He shrugged. “Everyone.”

“You’re little,” he continued, “so you don’t understand, but things are going to change. Pretty soon you’re going to see yourself specifically as a Chinese man. Mostly because you want to, but partly because you’ll realize that’s how other people see you. Get it?”

I nodded because he was trying to explain, although I didn’t necessarily understand. I just wanted him to say it—to say he wanted to look as much as he could like the white men on TV, in the stores, in the magazines, everywhere. “But what’s that have to do with the surgery?” I asked.

“Remember when you begged Mom to get you the same lunchbox as all the other boys? It’s just like that. It will make things easier.”

As soon as he said this, I realized he didn’t know what he was talking about, either....

William Kwong lives in Los Angeles. This is his first time in print. E-mail: williamkwong1@hotmail.com