Voices on the New Diasporas - an MIT student journal
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[E]Merging by Bob Yin, Class of 2004
I walked cautiously among the bright lights and mass of arriving passengers at JFK International Airport in New York City, searching the crowd for my parents. I was more timid than joyous when I first made eye contact with them. After three years apart, we were finally reunited the week I turned seven. They had gone to America to make a new life for us, leaving me with my grandparents in China. I wanted to live this new life in America, where the flowers bloomed year-round and money littered the streets, but parting with my grandparents and forgetting my childhood home was not going to be easy.
In China, I spent the afternoons with my friends in the courtyard taking turns sinking each other's marbles into a small pit dug from the packed dirt. My sack of marbles, faded and worn from constant use, held colorful glass spheres of all sizes, some with swirls of paint in the center and others that shined with a glittery surface. During the evenings after the steamy sun had set, we would come out into the moonlit night hunting for crickets whistling in the bushes or geckos climbing on brick walls while my grandparents sat on wooden footstools, cooling themselves with broad bamboo fans.
A bump in the road jolted me back to reality. I wasn't in China anymore, and I would not be for a long time. I was in my parents' car now, returning to their apartment from the airport. Dad was driving, and mom was holding me tight in the backseat, her silent embrace warm and familiar. There were still tears sitting in her eyes. It was very dark by the time the car pulled to a stop outside a very plain two story house. There was barely any space between the houses in this place called Brooklyn, and the front yard was more a tired patch of weeds than the sprawling green lawn I had imagined. We walked into the second floor apartment together. It was dim, even with all the lights on. I had been too excited to sleep on the plane, so by now my eyelids were drooping. But as soon as the lights were shut and darkness set in, I found myself wide-eyed and awake. I listened to the regular beat of mom and dad's sleeping breaths as my eyes scanned our communal bedroom, trying to adjust to the darkness. The large mirror resting on the dresser reflected the streetlight from outside, making it just bright enough for me to survey the room. It was minimally furnished but clean, not extravagant or gaudy as my grandparents had predicted. That night, and for many others in the ensuing months, I drifted off to sleep thinking about everything I had left behind in China.
The following morning, for my first day in America, we went to McDonald's and I had a "Big Breakfast." It wasn't the hamburger and French fries I was expecting, but then again, nothing in America had been what I expected. Afterwards, we went to Coney Island Beach. That was the first time I saw the ocean in daylight; I had seen it the night before gazing from the plane. Some of my parents' favorite family photos were taken that morning. There's the one with me peering out from a giant plastic hamburger with droopy, jet-lagged eyes and a red hat, taken in the McDonald's playground. There's also the one with me running into a flock of seagulls resting on the beach, sending them flapping into the air.
In their favorite photograph, I am squatting over the wet sand just beyond the reach of the waves, using a wooden twig to draw my grandparents' names in neat Chinese characters. During my teen years not long ago, my parents often brought up this photograph. It was framed and hung in our living room. My mom would motion towards it saying "Do you remember when you still could write Chinese? You also used to recite the classical Tang poems." Then my father would point out that I was talented in Chinese language from an early age, and that I inherited my linguistic talents from my grandfather, who was a poet and historian. They told me how I would read to them excerpts from The Romance of the Three Kingdoms and sing verses from Peking operas over the phone each time they called from America during the three years we were apart.
Throughout my middle school years, at the all-Chinese dinner parties and social gatherings hosted by my parents or their friends, I learned not to reveal my appreciation for anything American-the food, the TV programs; basically anything you could see on MTV. I was fearful that someone would say, "You see? Bob is really an American boy now." The comment was always made by my parents' more "traditional" friends, by someone who sent their children to Chinese language schools on the weekends or who came to America when they were middle-aged or older.
Their comment was not meant to be criticalthey were not implying that I should be un-American. But rather it was more the acknowledgement of an inevitable reality. It seemed that my parents and others in their generation expected their children, who were born in America or who barely lived in China, to adopt America's culture and customs. Our complete Americanization was not their desire, but neither was it something they tried actively to prevent, because they knew that a firm grasp of the English language and American culture would help us be successful in school and in the workplace. What I feared about that comment was not its underlying tone of disapproval, but rather the truth it revealed. Whenever someone pointed out that I was an "American" boy, I took it to mean that I was no longer a Chinese one. I thought that growing new roots in America meant starving those that anchored me to China.
* * * * *
I started the second grade two weeks after arriving in New York. During my first few days here, my parents had managed to teach me half the alphabet and a few choice words, including water, bathroom, and apple (my personal favorite at the time). So for much of the second grade, I understood very little English. It didn't help that my teacherI want to call her Ms. Plotkinturned out to be the most feared woman in school. Whether or not you were in her class, you knew to avoid her. The sound of her voice could send seven-year-olds running off frantically in all directions. I am convinced that deep down inside, she hated children.
That year, my best friend in the class was Hispanic, and our common inability to comprehend the strange jumble called English bonded us together. Our favorite item in the classroom was the thick Garfield & Friends coloring book. We spent snack time taking turns with the orange crayon, carefully staying within the lines and making the color even and smooth on the fat cartoon cat.
Ms. Plotkin gave me a very vivid memory three or four months into the school year. That day still visits me often in my dreams. My friend and I are sharing the apple slices my mom prepared when suddenly, without any warning, Ms. Plotkin, grabs both of us by the ear, one in each hand, and pulls us from our seats to the garbage can. She yells something I do not understand and pats the back of our heads, forcing us to spit out the half-chewed apple slices from our mouths. Shocked and too scared to move, we remain standing next to the black metal garbage can, as the other kids stare and Ms. Plotkin lectures the class, occasionally pointing to us.
The next day, my mom came with me to school. She was dressed in her most professional outfit, with shoes that clicked loudly when they hit pavement. She met with Ms. Plotkin before class started, while I sat waiting in the empty hallway. I did not understand much of what they saidit was all too fast for me. But I did notice how much nicer my teacher sounded when talking with my mom than when putting down her students. She was able to hide the bitterness that normally defined her tone. My mom learned that Ms. Plotkin was unaware of my recent arrival in America months. She didn't know that I spoke no English. How could she possibly not know? I never uttered a single word to anyone in all the months I had been in her class. Her excuse was that I paid attention in class, which was true because I clung to her every word in an effort to understand her. So she interpreted this attentiveness as comprehension. She also provided an explanation for the apple fiasco from the day before. Apparently, my best friend in the second grade was also the class clown who gave Ms. Plotkin a lot of trouble. As punishment for his misbehavior, she had announced to everyone that we were forbidden to play with him. Unable to understand this edict, I continued to share my snack with him as I normally did. Ms. Plotkin saw this as an intolerable act of rebellion, and punished both of us accordingly.
After this parent-teacher conference, second grade became a lot less dreadful. And with the help of the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" and other cartoon programs, my English improved quickly. It was great to be able to talk to more than just my mom and dad. When I got to middle school and especially in high school, I grew fonder and fonder of this acquired language. Though I was never an exhaustive reader, I did read all the books from my favorite genres. In middle school it was Laura Ingles Wilder's Little House on the Prairie series. In high school I couldn't get enough of Michael Crichton's and Robin Cook's medical thrillers and the many adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
Meanwhile my aptitude in Chinese was rapidly decaying. My only salvation was my parents' insistence on speaking exclusively Chinese at home. Now, when I talk to one of my older cousins living in China, she always encourages me to learn more Chinese. She often brings up anecdotes from my first trip back to China at age ten. These stories all involve my linguistic shortcomings, like the time I couldn't think of the word for "tongue" or how I stuttered and paused chronically as I struggled to use unfamiliar vocabulary. But she also told me that my spoken Chinese dramatically improved each time she saw me on my subsequent visits, which were all several years apart. Many of my other relatives also confirmed that my Chinese got better each time I came back. This was surprising, because when I thought back on those visits to China, I was certain that my Chinese had been progressively worsening. Now I realize that my ability in Chinese was not deteriorating, but rather my standard for myself was rising. As I got older, I felt more compelled to hold on to what little Chinese I had left, so I tried to watch more Chinese movies and asked my parents to teach me new vocabulary. But I never got back to age seven, when I could still recite poetry and read written characters. This made it seem like I was losing the struggle when I was actually improving.
Although I was able to barely maintain my ability in Chinese language here in America, it took my summertime trips back to China to remind me how Chinese I truly am. The summer when I turned fourteen, I returned to China with my parents for the second time since leaving at age seven. That summer was filled with a blur of relatives, family friends, and scenic tours, but one family dinner remains clear in my mind.
I am in the south of China attending a reunion of relatives on my father's side of the family. Most of my father's siblings have immigrated overseas, either to America or to New Zealand. Only my grandparents and one aunt remain in China. So my grandparents are beaming with joy as they look on at their legacy, at children and grandchildren whom they have not seen for several years.Sitting around the wooden table in the crowded restaurant, all I can feel is heat. The mid-July sun is setting, but the cooked earth has yet to cool. At the center of the table, the rich broth is at a rolling boil, sending clouds of steam and aroma into the air. My mouth burns with preserved chili sauce, a local specialty I cannot resist. Around the table, three generations of my extended family have gathered for this meal. We are sitting at one of the large tables outside, under a green canvas canopy that blocks the last of the day's sun. I look around; the other diners are taking big bites and chewing passionately on the local fare without any indication of being hot, while I sweat through my third shirt of the day. We each grab at the tender chunks of chicken from the communal wok with our chopsticks, dousing our rice with the dark broth. My grandfather tosses a piece of liver into my bowl. It's good for you, he says, so I am obliged to accept. To chew and swallow while avoiding taste is better than a lecture from my father about filial piety.
Ten minutes ago, I had witnessed, first-hand, the preparation of our meal. I had seen the chicken that was to become the base for our soup pulled from its coop. Immediately, its blood was drained and its feathers were plucked by hand with great speed and agility. It was then hastily butchered and everything, including its head and feet, was tossed into the big wok at the center of our table. Seizing them from the young waitress, my grandmother added a sampling of traditional Chinese herbs, roots, and spices into the mix of chicken parts, all of it floating in murky water tainted by blood. The meal was constructed purely for taste and aromapresentation was not an issue.
As I ate the hot soup and its contents while sitting in the mid-July dusk, the heat that seemed overwhelming dissipated until I felt calm and almost cool. It was as if my body had given up the futile struggle to cool itself, and instead warmed up to match its sweltering surrounding. I felt at ease with the steamy temperature, the low-to-the-ground table, and the short stools that forced my back to arch. I even gave the liver a fair chance. At that moment, I felt truly Chinese.
*****
Outside of legal citizenship, it's probably not possible to define what it means to be one nationality or another. But many people, at some point in their lives, must have felt that they wholeheartedly belong to a nation. Like many other Americans, September 11th, 2001 was a day when I felt like an American, perhaps more so than at any other time in my life. On that Tuesday, I woke up at 8:50am, just in time to attend a morning meeting with some pre-medical advising staff. I got out from the meeting a few minutes before 11 a.m. The meeting room was windowless, with dim fluorescent lighting, so I was not only oblivious but also drowsy as I instinctively headed for classintro to biology lab techniques. On the way, I heard a friend call out my name. "Hey, you're from New York, right? Did you hear about the plane crashing into one of the Twin Towers?" I mumbled something and didn't give it a second thought; I was late for class. Planes had accidentally crashed into tall buildings in the past.
I am able to relive the rest of that day whenever I want. The memories are sharp and powerful. My 11 o'clock class that morning is in the Green building, the tallest one in Cambridge. Arriving a few minutes late, I see a small crowd of classmates standing in the courtyard next to the building. Immediately I think fire drill, but a friend tells me that class has been canceled. I must have looked puzzled, because she immediately went on to explain that one of the planes that crashed in New York was hijacked from Logan Airport, so the MIT administration decided it wouldn't be safe to hold classes in a building that defines the city's skyline. It begins to hit me that this may be serious, so I walk through campus towards the closest TV. I join the mass of viewers who are intently staring at the screen, waiting for a replay of the impacts. They say something about the towers actually collapsing. What if mom or dad was in Manhattan today? I fumble for my cell phone. I dial home. The line is busy. Again. "Network busy, please try your call later." I rush through the hall to a cluster of payphones, passing people who are crying. The line for the payphone is impossibly long so I walk outside of the building and check my phone to make sure I'm getting full reception. Other students, many of them New Yorkers whom I recognize, are doing the same. But we do not acknowledge each other; we just keep dialing.
A half hour later, I give up trying to call home, resorting to e-mail instead. As I type a message to my dad, my phone suddenly hums, vibrating against the tabletop. "Mom! How did you get through? Are you home?" I ask loudly. She goes on to assure me that everything is fine, that she is home, and that no one we know is in lower Manhattan this morning. I knew this before she called me. Home is in Staten Island, separated from Manhattan by three miles of New York harbor, and dad works in Brooklyn. But I just had to call. I just had to hear mom's voice.
When I hang up the phone, it hits me that the towers are gone forever. That the Structures where I bought the pants I'm wearing right now is nothing more than rubble. That I would never again be able to taste the thick slices of pizza served in the Mall under the Twin Towers. That I won't be able to lounge around in Borders Bookstore anymore, reading free magazines and listening to sample CDs. That my memories of going to a high school four blocks from the towers will have to keep them standing, if only in my mind.
The first time I visited ground zero was during Thanksgiving break, a little over two months after the towers fell. Alone, I walked uptown on Broadway, passing a quiet financial district on an early Saturday morning. As I got closer to the site, I was greeted by waves of resourceful New York vendors, laying out their NYPD sweatshirts and American flags, ready for tourists who needed proof that they saw the ghostly space where the towers stood. A block from ground zero, on the fence surrounding Trinity Church, I stopped by a mosaic of photos and banners paying tribute to those who had fallen and offering words of hope to those who remained. I walked onto the newly constructed viewing platform provided by the City of New York. Next to me were others who had come to look and reflect. That morning, I chose to come to ground zero alone, but as my eyes panned over the gaping void where the towers once stood, I felt the presence of others who were near me. Some of us exchanged glances, but we all remained silent. We only stared into the sea of concrete dotted by bulldozers and cranes, thinking about the past and about our collective future, as Americans.
*****
The summer after September 11th, I travel back to China along with two other MIT students from Ohio and New York, on a cultural exchange program that brings us to rural Chinese high schools.
We are in An Xian, a small town in Western China that cannot be found on most maps. It's duskright around the time when electric lights need to be turned on. We join teachers from our host school for after-dinner tea next to the river that runs through town. We sit down at one of the many tables that are set up nightly and soon it seems like the whole town has congregated next to the river. The teachers show us the favorite pastime of An Xian residents, a game called Mahjongg that is played with thick plastic tiles. Groups of townspeople slowly stroll past our table, cooling themselves with paper fans and turning their heads to see the Americans playing Mahjongg. Along with the bittersweet green tea, we are treated to barbequed lamb skewers and dried freshwater fish. Following our first game, as we noisily shuffle our plastic Mahjongg tiles, I remember that I am wearing my "American" boxers. It's the pair with rows of small star-spangled banners printed neatly on the fabric. I close my eyes for a second and think. These boxers are a perfect fit.
