The Cantonese-speaking lady blurted out a line of made-up syllables; imitating the taunts she must have heard as she worked in this Chinese restaurant.

The young African-American boy must have been only in elementary school. There's one right down the street from this restaurant. He wore a dark down jacket and a bright yellow school bag with a patch from the Wu-Tang Clan displayed proudly on the back.

He laughed. "Yea, I can speak Chinese too! Nay ho ma? Nay ho ma?"

The woman wasn't laughing. "Get out!" she screamed and stormed into the kitchen.

The boy turned around. We made eye contact. He looked puzzled and frightened.

"She thinks you're making fun of her," I said. The boy walked over to me.

"What did I say?" he asked me.

"I don't think she realizes that you're trying to be nice. She thinks you're making fun of her."

"But I'm not making fun…" The boy looked like he was about to cry.

"Yea, I can see that. But she doesn't see it that way." I wanted to get up and tell the lady what this boy really meant. But I couldn't.

"All I said was, how are you doing?" he whimpered. Gosh, he must be only ten or eleven years old.

"Yea, I know. I'm sorry man." What the hell was I doing? I was just standing there, trying to console this young boy as a pissed-as-hell lady steamed with the anger of another seemingly racist attack. Why the hell didn't I just get up and tell her that this was just a huge misunderstanding? That this boy didn't mean any harm?

"I can speak Chinese, Korean, Italian, and Spanish," the boy boasted. His eyes still looked watery though.

"Well, look at it from her point of view. She probably came to this country just looking to start a new life. Even though she's somewhat successful with this restaurant and all, in this neighborhood, she probably gets a lot of people making fun of her."

Ah. Then it hit me. I knew why I didn't try to explain this to the lady. It was because I didn't know how to explain this to the lady. I didn't know enough Cantonese to tell her all of this. All I could do was stand there and try to console the boy while the lady's pride lay shattered on the floor. And all because of a miscommunication.

And I'm not even going to go into the prejudices involved. That's a whole other story.

"But I didn't mean to make fun of them. I just wanted to ask them how they were doing." I took another look at the counter. The lady was at the edge of the kitchen, wrapping up my order.

"Look, don't take it personally, okay? You just hit a sensitive spot. She just misunderstood you."

"Sesame chicken!" hollered the lady with a thick accent. There was still anger in her voice.

I approached the counter and picked up my food. The boy just stood where I left him. He was looking up at the menu now, trying to ignore the solid stare of the lady. My throat tightened up. I rolled Cantonese words around in my head, hoping desperately to find the right combination so that I could explain everything away. But I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I paid for my chicken and walked towards the door.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about all this," I said to the boy. He nodded. I walked passed him and out the door without a second glance.

Halfway down the block, I stopped. The food was warm. I held it firmly in one cold hand while I snaked the other into a pocket. A few people strolled by as I stood there. I sniffed. Icy air entered my lungs. My teeth grinded against each other. Then I turned around and headed back to the restaurant.

I opened the door. The boy was at the counter and the lady was in the back with several chefs. The boy turned, saw me, and smiled.

"You've ordered food?" I asked.

"Yup." His smile was as broad as his face. I looked up and saw the lady peek at me. She didn't seem angry anymore.

"Oh, okay. Cool then." I smiled back. "Well, take care of yourself then."

"Thanks again, mister!" he called out. Then I left the restaurant.

. . .

Can you speak Chinese?