Non fiction

Sunshine Gal

If a child doesn't hear a certain phonetical sound by four months, it is extremely difficult for that child to make, let alone use the sound in later life.

East Asian languages do not have the letter 'R'. Even when written as an 'R' in a script comprehensible to someone who works with the Latin alphabet, most people born in an East Asian country would pronounce that sound as an 'L' maybe even 'W'.

'Sunshine gal, Sunshine gal!' The strong Chinese accent rang above the clangs of metal spoons and forks being dried in groups of five or six. "Sunshine gal, SUNSHINE GAL!"  Above the crash of plates systematically placed every 10 seconds in a kitchen filled to capacity with Cantonese, Mandarin and Vietnamese speakers. In this, my very own tower in which I understood nothing and yet ventured back to each weekend, not one person could pronounce my name. It begins with an 'R'. "SUNSHINE GAL!" After a sufficient amount of resistance, I resigned myself to a name which in no way reflected my dark humour or sarcastic nature. However, the sincerity with which they called me by this name bordered on the affectionate and wouldn't allow me to elicit my usual backlash of words. That and the simple fact that nobody would have understood. I cautiously ventured back into the fiery inferno, tentatively stepping over the waste from the lobster corpses that had been skilfully beheaded, at a speed which meant that some still twitched through their final moments before the frying oil. Moving towards the suckling pig rotated by the maniacal master of the spit, the heat intensified. I turned the corner to my station where I could serve. The heat engulfed me, leaving the orders being shouted in my direction lingering in the steam filled air. 'GO! And get some folks on the way back!' I took my tray which weighed me down and ran back to the outside world where I could once again breathe fresh air. Not too deeply, for fear that exhaling with anything but the grace of a geisha would topple my chin high stacks of dim sum. I delivered each of my loads and returned still pondering why he would ask me to return with some folks. Customers weren't allowed into the kitchen. The clang of metal once again overpowered all thoughts, except one. Forks!! Not folks. I stormed in triumphantly with a cluster in each hand.

Rebecca Solomon

© 2014