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| APPENDIX A |
THE DOUGHNUT BOY
The smell of freshly baked doughnuts and cakes wafted through the cracks of my
floorboards; my hungry stomach churned me awake and another typical morning of
my ten-year-old life began, or so I thought. I rushed about, cleaning myself,
eager for breakfast. Zooming down the stairs of my family’s shop lot, I collided with Grandma. “You silly boy!!” she
screeched after me, her voiced accented with
a soft, humor-filled chuckle, but I couldn’t care less, breakfast, oh sweet
breakfast was calling my name. I reached
the
foot of the staircase, panting like a dog as the waiters threw me glances that
spelled utter disgust, smirking at one another.
Because I was the only grandchild of my grandmother’s, the coffee shop she
owned downstairs, was my personal ‘playground’, a ‘land’ where milk and honey overflowed;
where an awesome cook resided and noodles
had various names. I grabbed a clean, white plate from the huge stack by the window and
I rushed towards the freshly baked pastries; my stubby fingers running over the
round tarts and scones as I grabbed at them.
The sharp rap by the wooden spoon on my
knuckles stunned me, sending a wave of shock through my spine, causing me to
drop the plate that I firmly gripped as my eyes filled with tears. “You stupid
boy! Look at what you’ve done! That’s the third plate this week!” the waiter
cried, his gaze cold and revolted as he continuously
scanned my rather ‘prosperous’ figure up and down, stopping a while to stare
into my eyes, daring me to retaliate; to call for Grandma.
These were some
of the times I wished Mama was still alive. Mama was
ever so kind to me. She would always tell me
how much she loved me and my round tummy. I wished she didn’t have to go away....
Suddenly, I was the five-year-old boy again,
crying for Mama to come down, as her cold body hung in mid air, attached to the
ceiling by a mere rope, on her birthday. The memory was like a vivid
picture, painted against the canvas of my mind, now blurry.”Mama!” I screamed,
startling the cook, causing him to drop the ladle into the boiling hot soup. “Oh,
shut him up already! Before the old hag comes down!” the hushed sharp tone of
the cook reached my ears, meaning to sting.
The waiter grabbed me by my
wrist and whispered; his paralanguage menacing, “So, u want your dead Mama, eh
fat boy? Well, I hope she’ll come visit you!” He dragged me and pushed me into the
huge freezer at the rear end of the kitchen,
where he left me gagged and tied up. I was crying; petrified. Both
cold and
hungry. The memories of growing up in this small predominantly
Chinese shop lots played like a movie against my eyelids, as I closed my eyes,
allowing carbon monoxide induced sleep to flood my consciousness. Mama was right there,
holding my hand, beckoning at me. I felt like a doughnut myself, with a hole of
love deficit in the middle, needing to be filled. Maybe that is why I ate so
much.
P/s: I wrote this for an assignment back in college. The lecturer provided us with a picture; based on which we had to write a text (appendix A). We were then supposed to highlight the different types of word classses found in our text. I had so much fun writing this and my lecturer was pleased to have literature for a grammar assignment as everyone else was writing on healthy eating and obesity and what not :)
