I Love a Broad Margin to My Life (4 page)

The troops will never come home.

“But now my work establishing Asia America

is done. Our nation won. We have a people.

And passport home. My leaving is not exile.

I must, I need act out my deep

down monkey nature. Wife, son,

let your indulgence set me free.”

And so, wife understanding and son

understanding, Wittman Ah Sing

begins his Going Forth. (Buddha left

wife and son. Confucius’ wife left him.)

From his bank, the Bank of San Francisco,

China Man took out his money.

Sittin’ in the sun,

Countin’ my money

Happy as I can be.

How very grand—there’s money, money

to spare. Grandparents and parents had had

leftover money too and passed it on.

There’s money. Enough to live in a rich country

for 6 months, or in a poor country

for the rest of my life. So-so

Security will send a check every

month to wherever I’ll be living.

              China

begins at the Consulate, where you get your visa.

The last couple of times I, Maxine,

went, members of Falun Gong were protesting

against China persecuting them and their way of

kung fu. At first, they merely moved

and breathed, doing slow, quiet exercises

on the curb in front of the door to the Consulate.

They looked like other Chinatown ladies

who exercise in the parks of San Francisco.

Then, they started showing color photos

of torture—purple black eyes, a red rectum.

Wittman, lover of street theater, come,

talk to them. Three old women meditating

beside their yellow banner with the pink flower.

Look again. The poor things aren’t old;

they’re younger than oneself. But they dress old,

home-knit vests, home-sewn

pants, the same style patterns passed

along for generations, old country

to new country. They’re coifed old-

fashioned, Black Ghost hair.

It is raining. Martyrs praying in the rain,

beseeching China, shame on China. Two

sit cross-legged on the cement, eyes

shut, palms together. The woman who stands

also has her eyes closed; she holds

the banner out from its stanchion, one hand

in prayer position. Bags full of food

to last days. At Tiananmen

Square, the man faced off the tanks

with a bag of groceries in either hand, danced

stepping side to side, tank moving

side to side. A Chinese can dare

anything, do battle, armed with bags of food.

Wittman feels guilty, about to break

his vow never to cross a picket line.

Talk to these women, justify himself.

“Excusu me? Excusu me?” he says

to the woman standing. She opens her eyes,

looking straight at him. “Please, teach me

about Falun Gong.” She reaches into a bag,

and gives him a CD, says, “Falun Gong

is good.” He goes for his wallet. She waves

No no no—shoos away

payment. Amazing—a Chinese who

doesn’t care too much for money.

The label has no info, only

the pink flower logo. “You hear

good. Falun Gong good.” “Thank

you. Daw jeah. Jeah jeah. I go

now to apply for visa in-country, your

country, China. I vow, I’ll do

something for your freedom of religion. Don’t you

worry.” “Dui dui dui.” I love it

when Chinese make that kind sound.

Dui dui dui. Agree agree agree
.

We
conjoin. Understand
. We
match
.

(The CD turned out to be blank.

The true scrolls that Tripitaka Tang

and Monkey carried on the Silk Road also blank.

Meaning Noble Silence? Emptiness? Words

no good?) A purer citizen of the world

would boycott China—for tyrannizing Tibet

and Xinjiang, for shooting nuclear missiles

off Taiwan’s beam, for making weapons

and selling them to all sides. Better to

communicate or to shun?

        Inside the Consulate,

the Chinese diaspora are seeking permission

home, yelling its dialects and languages,

the Cantonese hooting, honking like French,

lisping like Spaniards, aiya-ing, the northerners

shur-shur-shurring. We’re nervous.

The borders are sealed, the homelands secure.

Every nation state is mean with visas.

Especially the U.S.A., especially

the P.R.C. We shut

them out, they shut us out.

Even Canada, even Mexico.

(But here’s a deal, brokered by our office

of Homeland Security: 39,000

visas back to China for aliens and/or

refugees. Can you trust that?)

Wait in line at the Applications window,

come back next week to Payment,

then Pick Up. In plain sight is money

heaped on a table, piles of banded bills

and loose bills. We’re the rich; we saved up

for years, for lifetimes, able to afford

travel to the other side of the world.

The form asks for one’s “Chinese name.”

At last, I’ve got a use for the Chinese name.

Space to write it 2 different ways:

characters and alphabet.

Hong Ting Ting. The poet Liu Shahe,

who sings Walt Whitman, sang my name,

“Tong Ting Ting, the sound of pearls,

big pearl and little pearls falling

into a jade bowl bell.” His fingers formed

pearls and dropped them into his cupped hand.

Now Wittman writes his Chinese name:

Chung Fu. Center Truth. When I first

imagined him, I gave him that name

as a brother name to my son’s,

Chung Mei. Center Beauty. My son,

child of Center Nation and Beautiful Nation.

Hexagram 61 of the I Ching

is Chung Fu, Center Truth. Don’t

believe those who tell you Chinese

have no word for
truth
. (Ha Jin

told me “we” have no word for
truth
,

nor
privacy
, nor
identity.
) Truth’s pictograph

is the claw radical over the child radical.

Americans understand, eagle snatches

Truth in talons. But to the Chinese,

the brooding mothering bird’s feet gently

hold the hatchling’s head. A cap of eggshell

clings to baby Truthie’s fontanel.

The superior person broods the truth. And if

his words are well spoken, he meets with assent—

dui dui dui dui—at a distance

of more than 1,000 miles. We won our visas.

Our names are legal, and we win countries.

Though we Chinese and we Americans

shouldn’t need passports and visas

to cross each other’s borders and territories.

President Grant and Emperor Tongzhi

signed a treaty giving freedom of travel—

“for purposes of curiosity, of trade, or

as permanent residents.” The right to curiosity!

Curious Monkey waves the Burlingame Treaty

under the noses of officials at every checkpoint,

and is let through. I, though, am nervous

at Passport Control. When I was arrested

for demonstrating at the White House, I couldn’t

find my I.D., couldn’t be booked

properly. “Overnight in the big cell

for
you
tonight.” I phoned Earll in California.

He tore the cover off my passport,

and fed it through the fax. I watched

the copy arrive at Federal prison—an illegible

dark zigzag mackle. I’ve glued

the little book back together along

its stitched spine. Crossing any border,

I’m nervous, it’ll fall apart. I’m nervous,

I have relatives in China. My actions and words

can endanger them. And I have relatives who

work at the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory;

you lose your job if you have foreign family.

Wittman is all-American; no

relatives anywhere but the U.S.A.

Goodbye, Husband. Goodbye,

Wife of almost all my life.

Goodbye, my one and only child.

Now, they are in my arms.

Now, I turn, they go. Zaijian.

Joy kin
. Ropes, veins, hairs

of chi that root the leaver to home pull,

stretch, attenuate as we move apart.

The red string—I can feel it. Can’t

you feel it?—has tied us espoused ones

ankle to ankle since before we met,

before we were born, and will connect

us always, and will help us not to miss

each other too much. Westward East.

Facing west from California’s shores,

Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,

I, a child, very old, over waves, toward the house of maternity, the land of migrations, look afar,

Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled …

Wittman is going to China for the first time.

I
have been 12 times, counting

Hong Kong and Taiwan as China.

Long having wander’d since—round the earth having

    wander’d.

Now I face home again—very pleas’d and joyous.

(But where is what I started for so long ago?

And why is it yet unfound?)

But I did not wander, never

wandered, and never alone. I have responsible

work to do, the teaching, the writing. I

am writing right now on an airplane,

above thick clouds. I’ve taken the window seat.

Upon the dragon clouds, Mother’s soul

walks toward Father’s soul. He’s holding open

a shawl; he’s hugging her in it. They’re happy,

they’re home, ancestors all around.

The clouds dispel. Ocean and sky on and

on and on. Land. Mountains. Circles

of irrigated fields, squares of plowed

fields. From on high, human beings

and all the terrible things they do and make

are beautiful. Loft your point of view above

the crowd, the party, any fray. All

is well. All always well. Land,

Chek Lap Kok International. Hong Kong.

The soldiers at Passport Control do not

say Aloha, welcome, dear traveller, welcome.

But then, no such hospitableness anymore

at any border-crossing on earth. (Once,

at the supermarket in Ann Arbor, in America’s

Heartland, the butcher called out

to an Asian-looking man and woman, “Where

you from?” The man of the couple answered, “Seoul,

Korea.” The butcher said, “Welcome, sir. Ma’am.

Welcome to Michigan.”) Wittman took the train,

got off in Central, and alighted tomorrow in the Land

of Women. Women everywhere—the streets, the parks,

the alleys, the middle of streets. All the city

was closed today, Sunday. Women on sidewalks,

curbs, stairs up and down hills—

everywhere women. Women of his very

type, beauties with long black hair

gathered up or cascading down,

naturally tan skin, dark eyes

the warmest brown, lashes like black fans.

The women were of one generation—no matrons,

no little girls, no crones.

Thala-a thala-a-a
. The one

man, knapsack on his back,

stepped—delighted, curious, englamoured, happy—

among, around women. Women picnicking,

drinking sodas and juices. Women

playing cards. Women combing and trimming

their sisters’ hair. Painting emblems and charms

on fingernails and toenails. A solitary

is reading a book. Another writing a letter.

Mostly the women converse. The sound of their language

is like hens cluck-clucking. They talk, talk,

listen, listen, listen. For them, the city

stilled. Women walked and lingered on streets

meant for cars. What are they saying about life,

about love, these Peripatetics from the Pilippines?

Wittman circled este grupo, ese

grupo. No woman paid him look

or heed. Standing on a box in an intersection,

a sister raised Bible and voice to the crowd

and/or to God. Sisters (and brother

Wittman) tarried and stared, then floated away

on the wavery heat of the tropical sun. They passed

expensive stores, passed luxury hotels—

five stars all. (My mother

on her way to catch the S.S.
Taft
,

fled the police soldiers by running inside

one of these hotels.) A bronze sign on

a movable stand placed mid-sidewalk

says:

IN CONSIDERATION FOR HOTEL GUESTS
,
PLEASE DO NOT BLOCK
ENTRANCEWAY
.

The women sat at the curb, like hippies.

Free of husband, free of kids. Like

on vacation abroad with girlfriends.

Oh, let me be hippie with you.

Just like we were last summer!

The women and the hotel people act as if

the other did not exist. A vendor of sweets,

a man, set his wagon down; the women

crowded, haggling, selecting, buying just

the right treat—that candy for me,

that cookie for best girlfriend.

All people smile and laugh when anticipating

dessert. Along another curb, a row of

women stood in political demonstration.

They’d appliquéd a paragraph on a long

piece of cloth. Something about la inmigración.

Something something derechos. Rights.

Los derechos de criadas.

“What is criadas?” asked Wittman.

“Maids. Servants. Maids.” So, these masses

of women are maidservants, and today their day

off, Sunday. And they want their rights.

Tell them, Wittman: “In San Francisco,

we have inmigrante workers too.

We want los derechos too.”

“O-o-oh, San Francisco,” breathe

the women, “O-o-oh, California.”

They like you from San Francisco, and California,

my places, and Hawai‘i, and the Grand Canyon,

also my places. I have places the world

dreams for, hardly knowing they’re U.S.

“Are you organizing

las criadas labor union? Los

Commies allow unions? Commies have servants?”

A sassy girl waved a handful of papers.

“We want long long stay bisas

for Pilipina maids.” I get it: visas.

“To stay, to work. For Hong Kong to be

safe harbor. We want health

insurance.” “We too. We want

health insurance too. Universal

human derecho.” Simpático. The women told

the man their grievances: “The bishop’s Pilipina

maid cooked and cleaned house for eighteen

years. She grew old, and is sick in hospital.

The Chinese will deport her.”

Yes, Hispanics like you get deported

in my country too. Operation Return

to Sender. “The bishop went to the bisa office,

petition for her, his housekeeper. Chinese

ask, ‘She fit or not fit for work?’

Can’t work, must deport.

That’s all Hong Kongers care.”

“The other day, a maid fell four

stories. From up there—that high

up. Madam made her wash the windows.

She’s alive. She’s in hospital, but who

will pay? Who will send money

to her husband and babies?” Wittman could pay.

Pay for the hospital, pay for the babies, pay

for the whole village. Rich American karma:

Pay. Pay. Pay. (
Karma
is Sanskrit

for
work. Karma
does not mean
doomed
.

All it means:
work.
) From a pocket of his Levi’s,

he pulled out the U.S.D.s and the R.M.B.s.

“Here. Yes, yes. Take it. Please.

For you. All yours.” He’s got more;

he’s got enough. “Give it to the bishop’s housekeeper.

Give it to the window-washer maid.”

Giving away money, don’t make

the donee feel poor, and don’t you

be her fish. Our donator finessed

the bills under a brick that held flyers

down. “Use it to lobby for health and visas.

Thank you for taking care of citizen business

though not citizens. No, no problem.

Thank
you
. Goodbye.

  Behind the great

windows of the Bank of China (Hong Kong)—

open but not for business—a priest

in white and gold regalia was lifting a chalice—

not toward any altar, his back to the congregants

(as in Earll’s day), but toward Pilipina maids.

Pilipina maids knelt and sat on

the marble floor, scarved heads bowed

and palms together, attitudes so humble,

you could cry. They give in, they
thank
.

Old Monkey would’ve jumped into the crowd,

snatched wine and mitre, slurped up the wine,

donned the hat, pissed in the cup. Today

Monkey went quiet. Quiet prevailed.

He backed out of the bank that’s church this Sunday,

and continued his walkabout basking in the alma

and the mana of Yin. In a bright alley, jam-

packed with boxes, mothers and godmothers

filled cartons with toys and dried milk

and canned milk, and children’s clothes and shoes,

and men’s clothes and shoes. Las madres y

las comadres shared tape, string, scissors,

and wrote out postal and customs forms.

They are saviors of families, villages, populations.

Woman’s adventure, woman’s mission.

The lone male looking at them was no bother.

But they hated
me
, a woman, seeing them.

They looked back at me, shot me with hate.

Turned to follow me with their eyes, hate

firing from their eyes. They hated me.

Hate-stares followed me though I walked

with the attitude that I was at home among my own

Asian sisters. In words, they’d be calling me

names. “You fucking bitch empress. You

make me clean your toilet. You make me sleep

in the toilet.” Though catching stinkeye,

a curling lip, a dissing shrug of shoulders,

I willed a kind and pleasant mien.

May you be happy, you be safe.

May you make much, much money.

May your children and family be happy and safe,

and you return home to them soon.

I must remind them of Madam, their Chinese employer.

But I don’t look like a Chinese matron.

I don’t dye my hair black. I’m not

wearing my gold and jade. They don’t know

I bought these clothes at the Goodwill.

I’m wearing shoes donated after the Big Fire.

They don’t know, most of my nieces and nephews

are Filipino, and 9 great-nieces

and great-nephews, Filipino Chinese

Americans. They don’t know me, I am like them,

my marriage like theirs. Wife works for money;

husband, employed or unemployed, has fun.

Son, too, has fun. Men know how

to play. Music. Sports. Theater. These women

don’t know, I work 2 jobs.

I moonlight, do the work-for-money

and
the writing. I wish I

had thought to be a stay-at-home mom.

(How interesting: The girl makes wishes for

the future. The eldress, for the past.)

I, too, send money to villages, the promise

made to family when leaving them. My BaBa,

who arrived in New York City when Lindberg

landed in Paris, vowed: I will not

forget you. I will always send money

home. The Pilipina maids see

me a lazy dowager, and hate me.

Crone. Witch. Aswang. Old woman

going about with long hair down

like a young woman’s, but white. Normal

in Berkeley, beautiful in Berkeley. And in the Philippines

I’m already in costume for Aswang Festival,

day before Hallowe’en, days after

my birthday. Come on, fête me and my season.