I know the sweet shape of sugar, tang, and the soft sweep of cat, mao. I know wo e le, I’m hungry; I know wo bu zhi dao, I don’t know. I know wo yao, I want; wei shen me, why; dui bu qi, I’m sorry. Last March, I learned the word ai zheng, cancer. My parents, of course, knew the word already, as native speakers who immigrated to America when they were in their late twenties. My father’s English was decent—he’d come here for grad school on scholarship—but in Chinese he was king. H...
