Hapless Hapa

Chapter #1: Graduation

I t's not the destination that matters, but the journey, says Shane Osakabe atop the podium to the audience below.

Shane is my friend, a full Japanese. He's going to Stanford in the fall to major in physics. Our classmates and their families look up to him now as the pinnacle of success, the best performing student in our grade.  But they don't know all the tears he's cried; they don't see the deep scars on his arms; they don't know the ever present loneliness he felt; they don't know the pressure his parents heaped onto him to be Number One for years while the kids at school made fun of him for it. But I know.

Next to me, Rianna Voltolini whispers to the chick next to her, Shane has gotta be the ugliest boy I've ever seen.

The chick replies, I know, right? And he's so short too.

If you think that's bad, just imagine what his dick looks like.

They giggle behind manicured hands. I clench my fists in fury, wanting to knock the teeth out of their pretty little faces. But I contain myself. I keep quiet and well-behaved, just like always.  Because I'm a true gentleman—something that's in short supply in America these days, something sluts like these two don't appreciate.

Poor Shane. It's true he's short and has pretty bad acne. But don't his intelligence and hard work count for anything?

I'm glad that I'm not the one up there getting stared at by everyone for an eternity while giving some speech nobody cares about. I could've been valedictorian if I tried. But I stopped trying in school years ago once I caught on to the fact that doing well in academics is negatively correlated with popularity. I just did the bare minimum; I did my homework and paid attention to my teachers, but I didn't take AP or honors classes. Even without studying for tests, my high school GPA was 3.6.  Everyone assumes that I must be a straight-A student because I'm Asian. I hate the stereotypes, so I definitely wasn't going to be caught trying to fulfill them.

When the speeches are finally over, a few girls with no musical talent sing some pop song I've never heard before. Their off-key singing makes me cringe. I didn't even want to come to my graduation ceremony. It wasn't required. I could've received my diploma in the mail and had a relaxing Saturday at home going online. But my parents forced me to come.

The kids walk up to receive their diplomas in alphabetical order. Each gets a short burst of applause, but the applause gets quieter after the first dozen kids. By the time it's my turn to walk up there, everybody's going to be asleep from boredom.

There's Philip Cajucom, my Filipino friend. He's the only one of my friends who has lost his virginity. But not with a girlfriend. It was with some woman who went by the name of Aphrodite. Sex is all he talks about. (Oh, and football, which bores me to death.) He often says I could get laid too if I wanted, but I'm not interested in paying for it. He's going to San Francisco for college to major in graphic design.

There's Aaron Grant, my white best friend. He's smart, but not so much in the academics sense. He's not going to college. He thinks it's wiser to start working right after high school, rather than waste years in college accumulating debt, all for the hope—but not guarantee—of a better paying job.  But maybe he just says all that to hide the fact that he (or his grandpa, his only living relative) can't afford to pay for college.  My parents would never let me get away with skipping college. I don't mind though, since they're the ones footing the bill.

There's Weston McCall.  He's not my friend.  More like my arch nemesis.  He's a chunky white dude who has teased Shane, Philip, and me nearly all the years we've been in school—just because we're Asian.  Naturally, he's popular among both the girls and the boys.  How I've despised him, how I've fantasized about driving a dagger through his heart.  Luckily for me, I won't have to put up with him anymore.  He's too dumb to get into my university. He's just going to Matthewsville Community College.

There's Della Salyers, the female version of Weston—white, chunky, and a jerk. The difference is she's not popular. Well, not as popular as Weston, but popular enough to have a boyfriend (who's white, by the way). She was in the anime club. So was I, but I don't like to be too vocal about it.

On St. Patrick's Day, Della was one of the many girls who wore a green shirt that read, Kiss Me, I’m Irish.  When I told her I was part-Irish too (why did I even bring it up? Was I hoping for a kiss? Ha!), she looked at me with surprise. (People are always surprised when they learn I'm not full Asian.)  But then she gave me a closer look and conceded, I guess your eyes are too big to be full Chinese. Then she added, You don't wanna be Irish; Irish people are stupid. She knew she was calling herself stupid at the same time, but she didn't care. She must have thick skin, and she assumes everyone else's is just as thick.

She once wondered aloud how the Japanese pronounce the word anime. I told her. But she replied, You're not Japanese, so what do you know? As if no one but a pureblood Japanese can learn the language. She then proceeded to ask Shane, who gave her the exact same answer I did.  So you see, simply being Asian isn't even good enough to make a guy popular among anime fans. You must not only be Asian, but Japanese.

There's Elisa Tsang, the friend I've had the longest. She was the only girl I ever managed to muster the courage to ask out. She's a short twig of a girl—flat-chested, not very pretty, and she wears no makeup to make her look better.  But if I had any hope at all of getting a girlfriend from our school, she'd be the one. And she turned me down. She claimed she wanted to focus on her studies and wouldn't change her mind in the foreseeable future. But was that the real reason she was turning me down? I wouldn't be surprised if the next time I see her back from her university in Seattle, she's got a boyfriend—white, of course. It's just as well that she didn't become my girlfriend though; her rejection made me realize just how cold and heartless she truly was. Even if she accepted me, our relationship would have been as loveless and joyless as my parents'.

There's Leonardo the retardo. He's graduating? Seriously? I've never had any classes with him, but I've seen him around campus. He's always in that same position—slumped over in a wheelchair being pushed by a middle-aged woman as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. It looks like he's incapable of learning or doing any school work at all, so how is he able to graduate? It just goes to show how worthless the high school diploma is if even he can get one. If I had my phone on me, I'd take a picture of him and make a meme with it:

A HIGH SCHOOL DIPLOMA

SO WORTHLESS, EVEN A RETARD CAN GET ONE

There's an extra-long silence as Leonardo is pushed up the ramp to the podium. It must wake everybody up from their stupor, because as soon as the old woman is awarded Leonardo's diploma, the audience explodes with the loudest applause they've given for anybody so far! That is fucking sad.

And now it's my turn to walk up there. Harvey Young is my name. I'm the last in my grade to receive a diploma. The last in roll call in every class of my life. I'm painfully shy and secretly full of resentment. But it's only because of the way I've been treated. I'd give a girl the world if she'd only give me the time of day. I'll probably be the last one of all my classmates to get a girlfriend or wife, to have sex . . . heck, the last to even get a first kiss. If it even happens at all. Nice guys finish last, as the saying goes. I'm the hapa boy. Hardly anyone claps for me.

Chapter #2: The Perks of Being Asian

After the graduation ceremony, my parents take me out to eat at a restaurant we all love—Grand Szechwan. They serve large portions for cheap prices. My parents don't go out to eat much, but we've been here enough that my dad, Stanley, is on a first name basis with Cynthia, who is both the owner and a waitress here.

Inside the restaurant, we're greeted by the smell of soy sauce and the sound of sizzling meat. A life-size Buddha statue stands in the entrance. Dad rubs Buddha's fat, bare belly for good luck. Mom's the Chinese one, but she would be too embarrassed to do the same, even if she were a Buddhist. She doesn't believe in the Christian god Dad believes in either, but she keeps her atheism to herself. Just like I do—except on the Internet.

Cynthia greets us with a big smile and leads us to our table. It's my favorite spot—by the fish tank.

My son graduated high school today! Dad brags. 3.6 GPA! He'll be going to Perry University in the fall.

Cynthia turns her smile to me. Congratulations!

I smile back to be polite. But inside I don't feel proud at all. It's not much of an accomplishment if you can graduate without even trying. I guess Dad thinks my GPA is something worth bragging about since he got mostly D's and F's when he went to high school. He always said that he was a great student in junior high. But he made the mistake of going to Lowell for high school instead of the normal high school Aunt Sophie went to (Lincoln). His excuse for doing poorly at Lowell: All the other students were either Jewish or Asian. I guess white Christians just can't compete.

I take one of the seats closest to the fish tank, and Dad sits next to me. My sister, Naomi, sits across from him, and Mom sits across from me.

Dad is Irish, German, and English. He's 5'11" tall, has glasses, wavy auburn hair, and pale freckled skin that burns easily in the sun. He looks like a combination between Ted Wheeler and Bashar al-Assad, only with a beer belly and hazel eyes that are even smaller and squintier than the stereotypical Asian eyes. Mom only married his ugly ass to upgrade her status.

Naomi and I take entirely after her—tan skin, straight black hair, and big brown eyes (yes, you read that correctly—big). Mom keeps her hair in a short bob style with bangs, while Naomi has no bangs and keeps her hair down to her waist. Naomi says bangs make a girl look like she's fresh off the boat. (What's so bad about that?) Mom is always nagging her to cut her hair, but Naomi never lets anyone do it.

As soon as Cynthia leaves our table to return to the kitchen, Dad nudges me in the ribs.

I saw some good looking girls at the ceremony, he whispers. You should sweep one off her feet.

Yeah, right. As if any of them would want that from me. If I tried, I'd likely get accused of sexual harassment. Not to mention, all the good looking girls are either sluts or taken, or both. I bury my face in my menu, pretending to read it. I already know what I want to order: kung pao beef.

When Cynthia comes back to take our order, we each say what we want. Naomi picks house lo mein, and Mom picks a broccoli dish. Dad picks the pu pu platter and laughs about the name for a good long minute as if he's never seen it on the menu before. The rest of us don't find it funny. Dad is so embarrassing. Poor Cynthia has to pretend to laugh with him in order to be polite.

For our drinks, we all get water except Dad who orders a Dos Equis beer.

I thought you quit, Mom says to him sharply.

Come on, Diane, he replies. It's a special occasion.

The last time we were here, I announced to my family that I was depressed. Their response? Dad laughed, Mom rolled her eyes, and my sister just stared at her phone. Naomi is doing the same thing now. If I were on my phone right now, Mom would be complaining about how we're supposed to be spending family time together, and can't I get my head out of the Internet for one minute? But she never says one word against Naomi. Mom has always treated her better than me. She's never said why, but I can guess. It's because I'm a boy.

You may have heard that in China, girls are worthless. Every family wants sons. Sons carry on the family name. Sons help on the farm. Sons stay with their parents even after marrying. Sons take care of their parents in old age. In Chinese culture, daughters do none of that, so they are worthless. That is why in a Chinese orphanage 99% of the children there will be girls. (The 1% of orphans who are boys are only there because they're deformed or disabled in some way.) Some baby girls aren't so lucky; some are left to die in a dumpster or by the side of the road.

Well, in America, it's the opposite. In America, it's the Asian boy who is worthless. I'm only hapa, and I can attest to that, because I look full Chinese. The word hapa is short for hapalua, which means half. It originated in Hawaii where there are a large percentage of half-Asian people. There are a lot of full Asians there too, from what I've heard. I wonder if life is better for Asians and hapas in Hawaii?

(Some people might have a problem with me calling myself hapa when I'm not a native from Hawaii. But you know what? In a world where a man can identify as a woman and vice versa, I say I identify as hapa, and to anyone who has a problem with it: fuck you!)

I was born in San Francisco, where my parents would buy pork buns and the streets stank of piss. I've spent the larger part of my life where I live now—a suburban town hundreds of miles north called Matthewsville, named after the explorer, Matthew Foster. Our largest racial group is white, followed by Hispanic (much to my parents' chagrin). There aren't too many Asians here compared to those two groups, and even fewer blacks.

Mom's parents immigrated to America from Canton, China. Despite Grandma Ming being female, she didn't value her sex. She wanted six sons and no daughters. She got her six sons, but also seven daughters. I've grown up hearing Mom's bitter remarks about how her parents gave her brothers everything—bikes, new clothes, the money for Chinese school, etc. Meanwhile, Mom got scolded for playing with her only doll. Her older sister gave it to her, and their mother threw it in the trash the day after discovering it. The brothers got to live with their parents as long as they wanted. Mom and her sisters were kicked out as soon as they turned 18. Now Grandma Ming and Grandpa Tao are dead—they each died at the ripe age of 98—but not without giving their daughters a final slap in the face. The boys inherited their three houses, each of which sold for over a million dollars. What did the will say Mom got? A single jade necklace.

So Mom hates her brothers. And I think she hates me too, because I remind her of them. Maybe she wants to make up for her parents' poor treatment of her by giving Naomi everything she wants. I sympathize with the way Mom was treated as a kid, but I don't understand why I should have to suffer because of it. Why can't she treat her kids equally good?

"I just loved Shane's speech, Dad says. 'It's not the destination that matters, but the journey.' That is so profound."

Cynthia returns and places our plates of food on the table. We pass them around, putting a little of each onto our individual plates. I pick up my fork and start eating (no one but Mom is able to use chopsticks), but I can't even taste the food. Dad mentioning Shane's speech reminds me of those stupid sluts talking crap about my friend.

Sexism and racism are terrible things, but they are even more terrible when they aren't recognized and no one is fighting to stop them. In America, it's been a well-known fact that women and blacks have been discriminated against. Women used to not be able to vote, work, go to school, or wear pants, but now they can. Blacks used to be slaves and segregated, but now they're free. Many of them are doctors, politicians, lawyers, police officers, rappers, or stars on TV or in sports. Despite how far they've both come, you can still often hear them crying, Sexist! or Racist! There are groups of people that fight for their rights.

But the racism against the Asian male or the half-Asian male is hardly known or spoken of. When someone says the phrase person of color, the person you can bet they're talking about is a black or Hispanic. Are Asians people of color? Some of us are as pale as whites. And many of us are high-achieving in school and high-earning in work. So maybe we don't qualify to be in this privileged group of people who need to be defended and protected. Although the first generation Asians who immigrated to America suffered through poverty and prejudice, maybe the Asian race's current affluence and success makes everyone else think our lives are smooth sailing and that we have as much privilege as the whites.

Well, that's not my experience. We Asians may have brains and work hard, but that doesn't help us out in the social department. Most people lose their virginity in their high school years, but not me. Phil always says I should just hire a hooker. But why should I have to pay for sex when my non-Asian peers don't? Besides, I'm not a pervert who is only after sex. What I want is a true loving relationship. I want someone to love me, because right now no one does. Not my parents, not my sister, not even myself.

Naomi has it good. She's our parents' favorite, and she's popular at school. Being Asian-American isn't a bad thing if you're female. She's had at least three boyfriends already at the tender age of 13. I know she isn't a virgin anymore either, as I've heard her having sex in her bedroom on more than one occasion while Dad was at work. Naomi's current boyfriend is a black boy named Chad. She keeps him a secret from Dad, because he's racist against blacks. I'm not racist, but I don't see how anyone can find beauty in Chad's fat lips and huge nostrils. To me, that looks ugly on anybody, no matter what their skin tone is, or their sex. (I personally think Kim Kardashian's lips are ugly too.) But I guess all that counts is what's in his pants.

That's the difference between Asian males and Asian females. Everyone knows that the Asian pussy is small and tight, which makes it desirable to men. And likewise, the Asian penis is also small, which makes it undesirable to women. I can't understand why women like giant dicks. Wouldn't that make sex more painful for them? Maybe women like pain. What do I know?

Even though I'm only hapa, it doesn't matter. What everyone sees is that I look full Asian, so everyone assumes I have a full Asian dick. And that makes all the girls not even consider me as an option. Instead they go for those poor blacks with the 12 inch cocks and those poor Latinos with the manly hairy faces and chests. But they're people of color, so let's feel sorry for them, right?

You ever notice that male Greek statues have small dicks? That's because the Greeks considered smaller to be better, a symbol of intelligence and civilization. Large dicks were associated with fools and beasts. And it seems that they might've been on the right track with that idea; high intelligence does seem to correlate with small penis size. Check it out online: compare the world maps of IQ with the world maps of penis size.

Yet in modern times, what women want and what men aspire to have is the bigger penis. But what is it that separates humans from the other animals? Intelligence. It's our intelligence that allows us to build skyscrapers, do advanced math, compose complex music, read and write books. It's intelligence that we should be proud of and aspire to have.

You might say that racial IQ differences are a myth, that the test is culturally biased, or that some people may be smart but just not good at taking tests. Forget the test then. Look at real life. Look at what each civilization accomplished before it was visited and influenced by foreigners. Some were farming and fishing while others were still hunting and gathering. Some sailed on large ships while others only floated on rafts. Some fought with guns and bombs while others still fought with spears. Some had books and written language while others were only making crude cave paintings. Some were building castles and skyscrapers while others were still building huts and tents. If every race’s average IQ were equal, we would see technological and societal progression at the same relative rate in each country. But we don't, do we?

If women were logical, they'd pick Asians to be their lifelong partners. Of all the races in America, Asians have the highest IQs, the highest salaries, the longest lifespans, and the lowest rates of obesity and numerous other health problems. Don't believe me? Google it. Better do it quick before the PC police censor the evidence. You can't call me racist, because these are facts. Facts can't be racist. But you can be in denial. Even if these Asian traits are argued to be due to culture rather than biology, it's still a superior culture, isn't it?

I'm not vocal about this stuff. At least not in real life. I post about it on my blog, where I go by the alias Sam. (The letters stand for Secret Asian Man. Secretly.) I know from comments I get online how offended people get by what I write. I have tons of haters. But so what? What difference does it make to have a hundred more online people who hate my guts? My classmates hate me just because I look Asian. Heck, my parents might hate me for the same reason, though they'd never admit it. And to top it all off, I hate myself. So what do I have to lose? At least I can be honest somewhere.

Despite the superiority of the Asian race, I'd trade it in for being on the other end of the spectrum. Yes, I'd rather be black. Maybe I'd face more discrimination getting a job or something. But if that happens, there's always welfare to fall back on. There's no government aid for giving a lonely guy a loving partner. I think I'd rather be homeless in the arms of a loving woman than rich and alone.

Cynthia comes by to clear away our empty plates. My belly is now full of food I didn't even notice pass my lips, so absorbed I was in my thoughts. Stuffing myself is one of the few pleasures I can enjoy in life, along with the Internet and masturbation. Mom and Naomi limit their intake of food to watch their weight, but there's no need for that. We can eat as much as we want and never get fat. It's one of the perks of being Asian.

Did you enjoy your meal, Harvey? Dad asks.

I nod, forcing a smile at him.

Good, good. Your mom and I decided to give you something else as a graduation gift.

He pulls out a wad of bills from his pocket and places it on the table next to me. I count them. Ten $10 bills. Wow! My parents have never given me more than $20 at a time before. I've been saving up my birthday, Christmas, and allowance money for years to be able to buy a laptop. This $100 means that I'll be able to afford one sooner than I expected!

I smile again, genuinely this time. Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom.

You're welcome, they both say.

Cynthia returns with the check and the usual complimentary plate of orange slices. Everyone in my family hates oranges, so whenever we come here I'm the one who eats them all. Actually, I don't like oranges either. That white stuff makes me want to gag. But I eat the oranges anyway, because it would be rude to Cynthia to not eat what she so nicely gives us for free. Wasteful too.

When we get outside, there's a dark skinned woman sitting on the sidewalk holding up a cardboard sign that reads HUNGRY. I suddenly feel guilty about not having any leftovers to give her. We have to walk by her to get to our Prius. Mom and Dad lead the way. Naomi is still scrolling on her phone.

Excuse me, the woman says solemnly to our parents. Do you have a spare dollar?

No, Mom answers flatly, and she quickens her pace.

The beggar's thin face looks so sad. I don't have much time to think about it before we'll be gone. I dig one of the tens out of my pocket and hand it to her. Her brown eyes light up.

Oh, thank you, young man, she says.

I nod at her, and then hurry to catch up with my family.

That was generous of you, Dad says.

Not really. I'm just a sucker for a damsel in distress.

Why did you do that, Harvey? Mom demands as we get in our car.

Her sign said she was hungry, I answer.

"That was your money, Mom says. You shouldn't have given it away. If she was really so hungry, she'd get a job. But those bums aren't really hungry, and they don't want to work either. They just want easy money so they can spend it on booze or drugs. Whenever your uncle Henry sees a bum begging, he offers them a job. And they always refuse."

I buckle my seatbelt and say nothing. Maybe Mom's right. Who knows? Either way, losing $10 won't set me back much. I can earn it back by washing the dishes for a week. I'll still be able to afford that laptop by the end of the year.

Now that we're in the car, and Mom can't see me in the backseat, I take out my phone. It's a smartphone, but it's several years old. It has so little memory on it that the operating system takes up most of it, and it won't even let me download the Facebook app.

Aaron texted me a bunch:

Hey man

I'm downloading this new free MMO I found called Bone Tree

It has this cute look to it so it could be a good game to meet chicks in

I told phil and shane about it too

Shane said his parents won't let him play

But phil's getting it

Wanna play with us?

I send him my reply:

Count me in

I'll download it as soon as I get home

I could use a new game in my life. The one I've been playing has gotten tiresome. It's an online collectible card game where players make their own decks and play against each other. But it seems nobody but me actually uses their own ideas. Almost everybody copies someone else's deck that they found on the Internet. Worst of all, almost all of the players are male.

I stare out the window as we drive home. I imagine Kim standing on the sidewalk, beaming at me for my good deed of giving to the poor.

Chapter #3: Here and There

Several days later , I've fallen into my normal summer vacation routine.

First, I rise from my captain's bed at 11:00 a.m. I don't bother to change out of my pajamas since I'm not planning on leaving the house. I come downstairs, pass our upright piano, and join Naomi in the kitchen where we make our separate lunches. She has a salad, and I have two cups of instant spicy ramen. Mom is at her receptionist job on the weekdays. Dad works as a cashier at the Fred Meyer store, but his two days off are Tuesday and Wednesday. Today is Wednesday, so he's home and being annoying.

Dad always gets drunk on his days off when Mom's not home to witness it. He thinks she's too dumb to notice his manic depressive mood swings that he never gets in on the days he works. And he thinks he's so clever, hiding his Kentucky bourbon in the garage cabinets with the fertilizer and weed killers. When Mom's not here, he leaves his tall cup of booze on the kitchen counter. He and his cup smell awful; I try to stay as far away from them as I can so I don't lose my appetite.

Our dinette and kitchen are open to the living room, so we watch the living room TV while we eat in the dinette. The show we always watch at lunch time is a soap opera called The Family's Business. Dad has been watching it for decades. Naomi is into it too. I watch it hoping to get relationship tips. (And the storylines, while often predictable, can be exciting at times.) As I've written on my blog, the biggest things I've learned from the show are the following:

1. The perfect woman is smart, funny, and beautiful.

2. The perfect boyfriend will tell her she is all of the above.

3. Don't talk to the police without your attorney present.

4. Don't tell lies, because the truth always comes out.

This show always pushes whites and blacks together, Dad complains from the kitchen. He starts counting off on his fingers. Philip and Dana, Valerie and Nelson, Danielle and Liam, Nelson and Karina. . . .

Those are the only black and white couples that have existed in the entire show, and the show only has six blacks in it. Two of them aren't in the show anymore, and the other four are family. How would the show progress if blacks could only be involved with other blacks? Either the show would have to feature incest and homosexuality, or the producers would have to bring on new black characters, which would make the story too predictable. I've told Dad all this before, but he forgets almost everything I say.

Today I say, Karina is Mexican, not white.

Same thing, he snaps.

And Dad claims he isn't racist. Yeah, right.

Naomi has finished eating her salad, and now she's looking in the kitchen cabinets. Dad, didn't you get any chocolate last time you and Mom went shopping?

No. I've banned chocolate. It's bad for your complexion.

Ugh. It's hormones that cause acne, not food!

Chocolate's not good for you anyway. It'll make you fat. Don't you want to look like the models?

Naomi says nothing but keeps looking for something else to eat in the cabinets. She settles for some graham crackers.

Recently Dad signed up for some club subscription which sends us expensive face wash every 60 days. He did it for Naomi because she just started getting pimples on her forehead. I've had bad acne for four years (though not as bad as Shane's) and Dad never did any of this stuff for me. Mom used to say my pimples were a sign that I was diseased. Now that Naomi has them too, Mom doesn't say a word about it.

It's wrong the way this show pushes whites and blacks together, Dad complains, shaking his head at the TV. It must be a conspiracy in Hollywood.

You're married to an Asian, I point out.

Bestiality will be next, Dad says.

So a white and black sleeping together is on the same level as a person having sex with an animal?! Naomi exclaims.

Just about, Dad says.

She shoves her box of graham crackers back in the cabinet, slams the door, and stomps toward the stairs.

Don't forget to use that face wash I bought you! he calls after her.

I think I'll use some of that face wash myself. Having better looking skin might help me get a girlfriend. But I'll use it later. Right now it's my glorious gaming time. I take my phone out of my shorts pocket and text Aaron and Phil to let them know I'm coming online.

I put my fork in the dishwasher and throw my Styrofoam soup cups in the garbage can under the sink. Then I head past the cage of our white rabbit, Mokona, and into the den where our family desktop computer is. Another pet we have is the orange tabby, Asuna, but she stays outside or in the garage because Mom and Dad are allergic to cats.

Our computer is a top of the line Dell desktop with fancy speakers and a four-in-one printer sitting next to it on the corner desk—or at least it was top of the line several years ago. It's the only computer our family has ever had, and Dad doesn't want to buy a new one until this one is inoperable.

The den is unfortunately right next to the living room, so I have no choice but to hear the booming Bose stereo system Dad blasts on a regular basis. Today he plays the Billy Joel CD I burned for him using songs I downloaded off the Internet. Dad and I share some of the same taste in music—like Celtic and '80s. The problem is that he plays it too loud. The framed Chinese artwork on the den wall vibrates as Dad sings, "Only the good DIE young! He likes this song because Mom's name is Diane Young, and he calls her Di" for short. She loathes both the song and the nickname, because it sounds as if she's going to die young. But that doesn't stop Dad from using the nickname or playing the song. One of the main reasons I want a laptop is so that I can go online in my bedroom and not have to be so close to Dad and his loud music.

Once the computer is booted up, I double-click the Bone Tree icon on my screen. The game is a 2D side-scrolling MMORPG. When you first start the game, you get to design your character—its sex, appearance, class, and name. This game has a colorful anime look to it,