I Love a Broad Margin to My Life (6 page)

At the next station, Wittman, nobody else,

got off. The moment his feet touched ground,

the Chinese earth drew him down

to her, made him fall to his knees, kowtow

and kiss her. Gravity is love force. It bends

light and time and us. Mother pulls us to

her by heart roots. I have felt Great Spirit

before: Touching the green wood door

of Canterbury Cathedral. Hearing the air

of Hawai‘i singing ‘Aina. Standing in the fire

zone, where my house and neighborhood were burning.

Lofting great balls of pink mana

at the White House and Bush, and Iraq.

The interested traveller walked along the railroad

tracks, then up on path atop bunds.

In the San Joaquin Delta, we walk and run

and bicycle upon dikes too, call them levees.

Many kinds of plants. Crop diversity.

Rice in all stages of growing and going

to seed. All seasons happening at once.

Plains and terraces, levels and hills, greens

dark and light, blues, and straw, are dotted

with moving red—the farmers are working dressed

in red. They can see where one another are.

They are seen; they are lucky. It’s beautiful

and lucky to dot red on anything—cookies,

buns, baby carriers, envelopes, white

chicken meat, white dogs. On one’s self,

who blesses the earth good and red.

Wittman got to their village before they did,

nightfall ere home from work. The yellow

adobe pueblo was one conjoined structure.

Neighbor and neighbor lived with common walls

this side and that side. Each life impacts

every life. You’d have to live carefully.

You’d watch your moods. And your actions.

Curious Monkey entered through an opening

in a wall and faced another wall,

decided to go right, right being

the right way, usually. The next doorway

took him to an alley; he could look-see

into courtyards, like outdoor kitchens

and laundries and pantries and even bedrooms.

An old squatting grandma was stirring a wok.

Another was washing vegetables. They paid no

mind to the stranger shadowing by. Kitty

cats and a big pig and chickens—swine flu,

bird flu—slinked, lumbered, scratched,

came and went into and out of houses.

That alley jigjagged into another

alley that opened on to the public square.

La plaza at the center of the pueblo. And at the center

of the plaza was the waterworks, not a fountain

but two porcelain troughs with PVC

pipes above and below, and faucets in rows.

Cupping water in worship-like hands

(turn off tap with elbow), quaff

as if welcoming myself with ceremony,

joining myself to this place. Drinking,

aware that I, a citizen from the wealthiest,

squanderingest country, am taking precious water.

Unpurified tap water. Aware that I

risk my life, I throw in my lot

with the health of this common village. Sit

right down on the curbstone on the east

side of the square. Face the last of the sun.

Unpack notebook and pen. Write:

arrive

adobe

China

home

At home in a civilization kind with plazas,

containing me and the sky and a square of earth.

Father Sky

Mother Earth

It’s not only Native Americans who pray

Father Sky Mother Earth. Chinese

say Father Sky Mother Earth too.

In the almanac of stars, moons, luck, and farming:

Doff sneakers, doff socks, feel

the ground with naked soles. The floor of the plaza

is warm and smooth; skin meets skin.

Chinese generations walked

barefoot here, sweated, oiled,

spat upon, tamped the black soil,

which they could’ve planted, so rich. Now,

the farmers, men and women, homeward plod.

A goatherd following his goats and sheep,

a duckherd his ducks, light and long shadows

of many legs oscillating. They came upon

the writing man—poet!? retired philosopher!?—

in the act of public writing. Quietly,

they peered over his shoulders, peered over

his right (writing) hand, peered over

his other hand. By calligraphy, they can tell

character and fate. Readers jostled

one another for the spot directly in front,

looked at his writing upside down,

craned their necks to see it from his point

of view. English! The Brave Language. But

his Chinese! A boy’s Chinese.

The man draws like a boy. “Read, la.

Read, la-a.” Our not-so-ugly American

dared recite loudly, in his best language

and second-best language, the 4-word

poems. Audience clapped hands, and laughed,

and mimicked, and asked, “You’ve come from what

far place, aw?” “I was born in the Beautiful

Country.” “Aiya-a. Beautiful Country.

Is Beautiful Country truly beautiful and rich?”

“Well …” (
Well
, English, American.) “Beautiful

Country People are like me, not too

beautiful, not too ugly, not too

rich, not too poor. But some

too rich, too poor. Most,

my color skin, tan. Our color

skin.” Actually, the color skin of the people

around was darker, darker from working in the sun.

“I live in Big City. Eighty

out of one hundred people live in the cities.

But I am not like everybody.

Everybody has cars. 2 cars.

I don’t have one car.

I don’t want one car.”

Have
and
want
, same sound, not

same tone. They pitied him, poor man,

no car. Audience grew, 50

souls hearing the sojourner who’d seen the Beautiful

Country, who’d learned to write their horizontal alphabet.

People vied with one another, please,

dear writer traveller teacher, come

to our home for rice, and stay the night.

A confident village, the people not shy

to bring you home and see their hovel.

He chose a solid-seeming man, mine

good host, and comradely put himself in yoke.

The farmers, washing up in public, showed off

the on-and-off faucets and the pipes. They filled

wood buckets and plastic buckets and jars.

Wittman asked for a carrying pole across

his neck, above his backpack, which steadied

and cushioned the bouncy, springy, sloshing, heavy

double load. Proudly, he sidestepped

through alleyways and around corners, and up and over

the raised threshold into the courtyard,

brought that water home where he would stay.

His host—Lai Lu Gaw,

Brother Lai Lu—praised and thanked

Witt Man Gaw—shouted, “A good person

has come to visit us!” Out of the dark

of an open doorway appeared a woman. How

to describe Beauty? Perfection. Symmetry. Beyond

compare in all aspects—intelligence of gaze,

tallness of stature, star presence, gentilesse.

Not young, not old. Just right.

What a good man am I, able

to love looks so not-American. Bro

Lai Lu introduced her as Moy Moy.

Younger Sister. (Lower tone: Plum Plum.)

They’re not husband and wife. Father and daughter?

Brother bade brother, Come in,

la. Sit, la. Rest, la.

Home, la. The men sat on stools

at a low table. The woman brought tea;

she poured. With both hands, she

held the cup out to the guest, who

quickly accepted it with his 2 hands.

I am paying you my full attention.

The Communists and the Cultural Revolution have not

wiped out manners. Hosts and guest drank

without speaking. From the dark loft hung,

high and low, dried and drying plants,

tree branches, gourds with writing on them, clusters

of seeds, baskets. On the ground, the dirt floor,

all around were open jars and sealed

jars, bales, bundles, sheaves. We

are bowered in a nest. Smell: medicine herbs,

chrysanthemum, mustard, licorice, cilantro,

vinegar. The poor save everything, all

they make and grow, and so feel abundant.

Please don’t want to be like us. Don’t want.

Host as well as hostess carried from stove

and cooler, from pots and jars, dishes of brown

foods. A cauldron of white rice, enough

for meal after meal. The brown foods

tasted like jerked meat, sausage, brined

and sugared citrus and plums. Moy Moy

got up, and cooked afresh peas and choy,

greens of the new harvest. Back-home

Chinese, too, cook throughout

the dinner party, everybody in

the kitchen. The hostess began conversation:

“Are you married?” What answer but Yes?

“Yes. She’s not Chinese.” Too

small vocabulary, blurt it all. “She’s

white ghost woman. Her name, Taña,

means Play.” (
Fawn
. Lower tone:
Food.
)

“I married Play. Heh heh.

I married Food. She married me.

I am with her more years than I am without her.”

Hard to parley verb tenses. And impossible

to admit: Marry white, escape karma.

“How much money did you pay

for your airplane ticket?” She’s rude, bad

manners East and West to ask cost.

Truth-caring Wittman answered, “One

thousand dollars one-way.” Impossible

to explain redeeming coupons, miles, life

savings. “Waaah! One thousand dollars!?!

What do you do to make such money?”

“I write.” Impossible to explain the life

in theater. The moneymaking wife. “So,

how do
you
make
your
money?” “Farmer

peasants don’t make money, don’t

use cash.” They live as most human

beings have lived, directly on ground that gives

work and sustenance. “Mr. American Teacher,

will you marry me, and get me out

of the countryside?” “But I’m already married.

I have a wife and son.” “No matter.

No problem. Marry me, a Chinese

woman. Chinese women are beautiful,

kind, and good.” “I came but today to the country-

side, and do not want to leave it.”

The brother spoke up, “I want to

stay in the countryside too. I learned

the lesson Chairman Mao sent us down

to learn: The people who work the earth know

true good life.” “Where were you

sent down from?” “Shanghai City.”

The Shanghainese took the worst

punishment in the 10 Years of Great Calamity.

“We read. Both of us, readers. So sent

down, Moy Moy to Xinjiang,

I to another part of Xinjiang,

far far west, beyond Xizang,

almost beyond China. There are Uighur

Chinese, Muslim Chinese,

Xizang Chinese. The women—

they’re so free—whirl and twirl,

raise their arms to the sky. The music comes

from bagpipes. Pairs of women lift and

lower the grain pounder—bang bang bang bang—

a music too. Their religion has to do with

buffalos. They collect the skulls and long horns,

and put them on a wall or on the floor,

and that place changes to a holy place.

That area was made good. I felt

the good. I am able to know Good.”

So, what does Good feel like?

He could not say. Or he did say,

but in Chinese, and one’s Chinese

is not good enough to hear. “After

Great Calamity, after Xinjiang,

I went on the road. People are still

on the road, millions traveling like

desert people. But the desert people

go on roads they know for ten

thousand years. We seek work.

We seek justice.” Or
restitution
.

Or
revenge. Come out even
.

You know what he means, millions of homeless

wandering the country, displaced by dams, industrial

zones, the Olympics. “I wandered lost to many

villages until I came here and made up my mind

Stop. Here. My stay-put home.

I took for my own this empty house,

whose family left to work in Industrial Zone.

Many empty houses—you can have

any one you like.” “I want you

to take me to U.S.A.,”

said Moy Moy. “A Chinese farmer

is nothing. A maker of the mouse in an electric brain

factory—nothing.” The nightingale in the cage above

their heads sang along with the talking, and scattered

seeds and spattered water down upon the talkers

(and their food). A bare lightbulb hung next

to a wall, to be lit for emergencies and holidays.

In the dark, Moy Moy told

her failure: She’s never married.

“During the Great Calamity, women acted

married to one husband, and another husband,

and another. I had no one. No one

but this brother waiting for me at the agreed-upon

place.” Lai Lu told

his failure: “I have no children.”

Wittman told his failures: Not

staying with his wife till death us do part.

His son not married. Never getting

a play on Broadway, New York. Not

learning enough Chinese language.

(Marilyn Chin says, “The poet must read

classical Chinese. And hear Say Yup.”)

Midnight, Lai Lu stood, said,

“Ho, la. Good sleep, la.”

He left for some back room. Moy Moy

said, “Follow me.” Wittman followed her

out the front door. White stones

studded the courtyard walls;

a jewel-box up-poured stars into sky.

Followed the queue of black hair gleaming

in the black night, hied through alleys that turned,

and again turned, and again, 3 corners

in, and entered a home through an unlocked

door. “No one lives here.

You may live here.” She parted curtains.

The bed was a shelf, like a sleeper on Amtrak.

She backed into the cupboard, scooted, and sat.

Her pretty bare feet swung. He

sat beside her. “Heart Man, marry me.”

He ought to kiss her. But they don’t have

that custom, do they? He was a virgin for Mongolian

women. Aged, married too long,

the body refused to spring and pounce and feast,

to make the decision for sex. He reached for and held

her hands. “Moy Moy.” Oh, no,

shouldn’t’ve said her name. Can’t fuck

Younger Sister. “Thank you for wanting me

to marry you.” Her hands felt trusty. “Marry”

said, and “marry” heard many times tonight.

Taña appears. She’s sitting on the other side of him;

that’s her, warm pressing against him. He

could see her in the dark, her whitegold

hair, her expression; she’s interested, curious,

pissed off. He tapped her bare foot

with his bare foot. She’s solid.

A red string ties her ankle to

his ankle. No string connecting him and

the other woman. He spoke to the not-hallucinated

one. “You’re the most beautiful Chinese

woman I’ve ever met. I dearly want

to kissu, suck lips with you.”

Say anything; Taña doesn’t know

Chinese. “Thank you, you want to marry me.”

A rule of the open road: Keep thanking.

“However, I don’t want more marriage.

Our son, my one son doesn’t have any marriage.

No one. Will you marry him?” Wittman

dismayed and amazed himself. Forever, then.

Forever husband. Forever father. Never

lust after a woman again but wish her

for his lonely son. I wish for Mario

a life’s companion. “My son, Mario,

makes good money. He knows power

tools and car mechanics. He can cook.

He has some college. He is kind

and intelligent, and I want for him a kind

and intelligent person.” The old Chinese

customs aren’t so bad; fix him up

with a wife, a daughter-in-law of my own choosing.

Moy Moy’s holding of his hand became

a handshake. “Dui dui dui,”

she cooed. “We will agree on a place to meet.

He will be waiting for me there. Ho, la.

Good night, la. Good sleep, la-a-a.”

(You do not need vocabulary to understand

the Chinese. Just feel the emotion

in
la-a-a
and
ahh
and
mo
and
aiya.
)

Moy Moy left. Taña, also, left.

I am alone in the dark, so dark that

nothing exists but my thoughts, and thoughts

are nothing. Came all the way to China,

and failed to fuck another besides my long-

wedded spouse before I die.

            The next thing,

dust was falling like ash, like glitter. Far

away, so faint, maybe imaginary, crowed

a rooster. Another, closer, rooster answered,

took up the opera, and another, and another,

each rooster louder, the loudest blaring

right outside the window. Wake up

in a village in China. Go use the community

toilet. Wash up in the town square,

brush teeth, swab down with the guys.

The women clean themselves indoors.

“Ho sun.” “Ho sun.” “Ho sun.”

“Ho sun.” Good morning. Good