By Jay Scott Kanes

"THIS problem’s nasty. Can you help?”

The familiar plea from five-year-old Lisa, my only child, prompted me to toss aside The Standard newspaper. Late-night triad battles, the local government’s kowtows to Beijing and other news faded against the challenge of rudimentary schoolwork.

From experience, I knew that sometimes I could help. Sometimes not! Most of Lisa’s homework called for an understanding of Cantonese, my weakness as a Canadian gweilo (foreigner) living in Hong Kong. Fortunately, some problems involved math, and numbers transcend language.

“Let’s see.” I scanned her exercise book. “Addition works like this.” I reached to a fruit basket on a nearby shelf and placed an apple on the table, followed by another. “See. One plus one equals two.”

Understanding brightened Lisa’s eyes. “Here’s another.” She added a third apple.

“Right. Two plus one totals three.”

We swapped smiles. “Subtraction goes the other way.” I returned an apple to the basket. “Three minus one....”

In those days, I worked as a freelance writer. Hilda, my Chinese wife, prospered as a senior manager at the High Rise Advertising Agency. So I spent plenty of time with little Lisa.

My home-making duties included shopping and basic cooking. Each evening, with Lisa in tow, I prowled the street markets for fresh ingredients. In our hard-core Chinese district, I badly needed my daughter. The little tyke, who could rattle off English or Cantonese, told the merchants what I wanted and then switched lingos to convey the prices, becoming my perfect, pint-sized interpreter.

Most vendors seemed like good people who treated us fairly, selling adequate food at reasonable prices, usually enjoying the daily dealings with Lisa. A white-haired fruit-seller with a wart at the tip of her nose often donated an extra apple or orange “for the child”. When she asked if Lisa planned to teach me Chinese, my daughter replied: “I would, but his Cantonese is so dumb!”

Sometimes we encountered swindlers certain that a gweilo, especially one defiling the Chinese race with a mixed child, should pay extra. So we always double-checked the prices and counted our change.

One dubious dealer, a bald-headed vegetable-seller partial to grubby T-shirts and baggy trousers, smiled widely at customers while shortchanging them. Yet “Old Fat Fung” sold top-rate peppers. Knowing that Hilda liked heat in her food, we sometimes approached the villain.

On a critical evening, I battled a foul mood from writer’s block. When Lisa said that Fung wanted HK$20 for a bag of peppers worth $10, I exploded in wrath.

Feeling my face burn red, I jammed my wallet back into a thigh pocket. “No deal,” I hissed. “No bleeping deal.”

I jabbed a finger at Fung. “Tell him he’s a cheat who belongs in jail. We’ll never buy another of his peppers.” My hand shook in fury.

My tiny daughter sternly addressed the hawker. Fung turned red too, swallowed and then yelled, gesturing dismissively. Probably telling me to go to hell!

“Dad, he says mean things about your mother.”

“Bastard, *#&! &*#! #&*!” I fumed. Another retort from the old man and I might have punched him. “*#&! &*#!”

But Lisa refused to translate. “I don’t know so many bad words in Chinese,” she pleaded.

Fury froze on my tongue, and anger faded, leaving me ashamed. “Of course, you don’t, darling, and that’s good.” I picked her up, kissed her flat nose and headed home. “You’re a smart girl,” I whispered. Buying veggies could wait. We had leftovers at home.

I’d learned a valuable lesson – that no one should sweat life’s tiny issues, and except for family and friends, everything’s small stuff. What did vegetables or money matter versus peace of mind and setting a proper example for my daughter?

The best teachers, like little Lisa, make their lessons stick. Seventeen years later, her pleading voice replayed in my head.

Before Lisa’s 22nd birthday, she flunked a political science class, delaying her graduation from the University of Toronto. I learned the news while visiting at her Chinatown apartment.

“Sorry I let you down,” Lisa said, tears flowing. “I’m so dumb.”

Rising from the couch, I dabbed a tissue at the sad drops on Lisa’s cheeks. I’d done the same hundreds of times before she matured.

“Relax, Sweetie!” I tried to sound reassuring.

“Why did I mess up?”
“Who knows? What difference?”

“Well, *#&! &*#! #&*! I wanted to graduate and begin my real life. Damn! *#&#*!” When angry, Lisa showed a colorful way with words. I don’t know why.

“Careful,” I said. “I can’t translate all that swearing into Chinese.”

“Huh?” Lisa shot me a puzzled look. My words sounded nonsensical, yet familiar. “Dad, what’re you talking about?” She furrowed her brow, like in the old days when doing homework in Hong Kong.

So I reminded her of the episode with Old Fat Fung. “Postponing graduation doesn’t affect the big picture,” I said. “Soon you’ll achieve that goal and much more.”

Lisa flashed a smile capable of melting a parent’s heart. “Thanks for the lesson, Dad.”

A lump filled my throat. “No, Lisa, thank you. Thanks from away back.”

My daughter embraced her old dad. Fearful that Lisa might notice tears in my own eyes, I buried my face deep into her long hair and held tight.

“You’re a wise man, Dad. How’d you become so smart?”

Not bad for a guy who’d struggled to help with basic schoolwork. What could I say? Little Lisa had taught me!

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