I Love a Broad Margin to My Life

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I Love a Broad Margin to My Life Page 10

by Maxine Hong Kingston


  cops in a blue line facing us, the width

  of the street between. On the White House

  roof, a man in uniform aimed a high-

  powered long-range sharpshooter

  rifle at us. He aimed it, put it down,

  aimed, put it down. A van drove

  into the cordoned area; I think the insignia

  on it said Federal Prison. 2 or 3

  cops unfolded a tarp, and taped it on to

  the side of the van, covering over the words.

  I got afraid. They’re hiding the place where

  they would take us. They would disappear us.

  They’re going to drive us through the streets

  of the capital in an unmarked white vehicle.

  No one would know what became of us. Keep

  singing. Keep loving. Say in unequivocal

  words, “I love you.” Hear, “I love you, Maxine.”

  The Metropolitan Police, the men, stood

  in one-line formation. The women, we,

  the demonstrators, drew one another close.

  We were a bouquet knot of pink roses.

  How can it be that all the cops are men,

  and all for Peace women? I can’t live

  in such a world. I don’t want to keep

  living out the myth that men fight

  and women mother. We regressed—the junior

  high dance. One boy crossed

  the wide floor, chose one girl,

  escorted her back to the other side, where

  he arrested her. “My wife

  is gonna kill me,” said a black cop;

  “I’m arresting Alice Walker.” “Don’t hold

  hands with me,” said a white cop,

  shaking off his partner, who was smiling up

  at him; “Don’t take my arm either.”

  They had each one of us stand by herself

  alongside the van, and took our pictures.

  “Quit smiling. What are you smiling for?

  This is an arrest.” This is your mug shot,

  not your prom photo. I was smiling from

  happiness; my government will not disappear me;

  the tarp was but backdrop for shooting pix!

  And the beautiful pink aura was still upon me.

  My cop and I did not speak. A woman

  officer in casual uniform, no gun,

  took my purse, hair clips, pink poncho,

  my earrings, and put them in a plastic bag.

  Ready for handcuffing, I presented

  my hands, wrists together, in front,

  but my arresting officer signaled: in back.

  I won’t be able to write, to touch, to catch

  myself, and will fall on my face. I turned about,

  held my arms behind me as high as I could,

  bending way forward, making my gestures

  large for the witnesses to see. Handcuffs

  in this age of new plastics work like the ties

  for bread and trees. My arrester could

  have tightened the cable-tie so that it cut

  into the skin. The hands turn blue, burst.

  These police were kind to tie us loosely.

  Our belongings taken, our pictures taken,

  handcuffed, we were made to get into

  a paddy wagon, about 8 per wagon.

  There are cages, like dog cages, between

  the front seat and the side benches. I sat

  in the middle of a bench, my shoulders touching

  women’s shoulders beside me, my legs touching

  women’s legs before me. Women outside

  pounded, drummed on the van. Through the windshield,

  we could see them applauding us. Somebody said,

  “There’s my daughter.” The van started up;

  the crowd parted, let the van through.

  It got quiet. We were driving away from

  the magic. The rose light went out.

  I had nothing apposite to say, but

  had to talk. “Now I’m on the trip

  my father went on. In a paddy wagon to jail.

  I’m reliving his arrests. I’m knowing his feelings.

  Scared. Helpless. He wondered what would become

  of him, maybe deportation. They’re driving

  him to the border, never to see his family again.

  Oh, but my father wasn’t committing civil

  disobedience like us. He committed crime,

  ran gambling, half the take in the city.

  It was his job—go to jail, regularly.

  Once a month, they raided the gambling house,

  and took just one guy, my father.

  He was all alone in the paddy wagon

  riding through the streets and out of town.

  It was okay. By the end of the night, he

  was home. They let him go. He gave them money

  and whiskey and cigarettes, and they let him go.

  He gave them a fake Chinese name,

  a different Chinese name every time;

  he doesn’t have a record.” BaBa

  used to say, “I want the life

  you live.” Now I’m living

  the life he lived.

  A few women squirmed

  out of their handcuffs, marveled at how

  loosely they’d been tied. Arriving at the prison—

  an immense spread-out building on bare land

  fenced off from other bare land

  in the middle of nowhere—they put their handcuffs

  back on. We were taken to an office,

  which had a wall that was a bank of jail cells.

  We were separated, I in a cell by myself.

  It was like a toilet stall; an unlidded

  toilet faced the door. Also for sitting

  was a little bench. Being little, I could

  sleep curled up on it, just right.

  At last, the solitary confinement of my dreams.

  Nothing to fear. I could live here.

  I could live here a long time,

  and be content. As a girl, I knew

  I could take solitary, if only I got

  to see movies. Older, all I need

  would be books and pencil and paper. But here I am,

  and I don’t feel like reading. And I don’t

  feel like writing. Can’t write, hands

  tied in back. Rest. Perfect rest.

  And no more contending against shyness.

  No more “sounded and resounded words,

  chattering words, echoes, dead words …”

  —Walt Whitman, lover of everyone and everyplace.

  Yes, I could live like a cloistered nun,

  but not have to pray for the good of the world.

  Too soon, the jail door opened.

  The cop whose wife is gonna kill him held

  it open for Alice Walker. Now there’s

  a pair of us. I gave her my seat

  on the bench, sat on the floor. She sat

  various positions, cross-legged, almost

  lotus, sat hunkered, arms hugging knees.

  I’m glad, we’ve both had Buddhist practice, and know:

  sit, be quiet. Breathe out.

  Breathe in. I spoke, asked her

  to undo my handcuffs, and if they

  won’t untie, to help me unbutton and lower

  my pants, I had to pee. She got them off.

  Kwan Yin, 2 more of your

  10,000 hands, ma’am, reporting for duty,

  for mercy. Being locked up with Alice,

  I saw her: now a girl perched on a wall,

  now we’re under the dark moon and she’s

  shaman crone, now the sociable lady

  on her book covers. She moves about in time.

  Her time and ages circle through her. Now

  her clothes flowed loosely on her thin body,

  draped the edges of the bench; now roundly,

&nb
sp; plumply she filled her blouse and long sweater.

  I must look like that too; being small,

  I could be a child still growing, or

  I could be a shrinking old woman.

  The light changes, the skin wrinkles, the skin

  smooths.

  The door opened again, we’re a crowd

  again, loud-speaking, loud-singing women.

  “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

  Oh, this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

  This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

  Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”

  The singing connected the women in all this block

  of cells; love and peace roused again.

  “On the children of Iraq, I’m gonna let it shine.

  Oh, on the children of Iraq, I’m gonna let it shine.

  On the children of Iraq, I’m gonna let it shine.

  Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”

  A nice woman cop came in, and asked us,

  please to sing quieter, explained that they

  couldn’t hear to process us. We quieted,

  pianissimo, “this little light of mine.”

  But impossible to keep it down. Crescendo. Waves.

  “Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”

  Fortissimo. The door opened; a policeman

  called a name, and took a woman away,

  for booking. When my turn came, I couldn’t

  find my I.D. “The big cell for you

  tonight.” Tonight, overnight, I will

  be with criminals, not sisters trained

  in nonviolence. I asked the cop across

  the desk from me—one prisoner and one cop

  per desk; a woman was shackled to her chair

  with old-style steel handcuffs,

  couldn’t be locked up because of illness—

  I asked my arresting officer, please to bring

  my bag of possessions, and let’s go through it

  again carefully for my I.D. Slowly,

  he examined each thing. I talked-

  story, “D’you know what I’m working on now?

  I’m writing a Book of Peace. Once

  in old China, there were books—reveries—

  about how to end war. Those books were burned,

  their authors’ tongues cut out. My dream

  is to write such a book for our time.

  People who read it, I hope, will vow

  not to use guns, not to use cluster bombs,

  not any of the new weapons, plasma bomb,

  neutron bomb, earth-penetrating bomb.

  D’you mind letting me rummage

  through my purse myself? Thank you. Thank you.

  I seem to remember a secret compartment somewhere.

  It’s a trick purse. I brought it—pink,

  sequins—especially for this demonstration.

  And now it’s fooling me. The hiding place

  has disappeared. Let me try again.

  Okay, it’s not on this side. Let’s try

  upside down, backwards, unzip—

  voilà!—here it is! My I.D.!”

  And so I was charged with STATIONARY DEMO

  IN A RESTRICTED ZONE—WHITE HOUSE SIDEWALK,

  and let go. To appear in court for trial,

  or else: A warrant will be issued for me, a wanted

  felon, throughout the United States. The 24

  women (25 counting a girl caught

  up in the fun; her mother took her away,

  bawled out everybody), the freed women

  waited for one another, made sure

  no one left behind. Where’s the nearest

  bus stop? No buses. Where’s the subway?

  “Far. You ladies don’t want to

  walk there. Dangerous.” “Will you please

  call us a taxi? 6 taxis?” “Cabs

  won’t come out here, ma’am. Please clear

  the waiting area. Leave the waiting area

  immediately.” Then we were out on a road

  in the middle of flat fields with nothing growing.

  No stars in the sky, too lit

  by the prison. Someone cell-phoned Code

  Pink colleagues to come get us. The journalists—

  journalists arrested too—turned on their equipment,

  and recorded us exulting, the most beautiful day

  of our lives. We rode back to the city

  in cars festooned in pink ribbons, rode

  showy through the capital of the U.S.A.

  The good citizens cheered us, honked horns.

  Not one disagreeing person

  yelled or honked in anger. 12 days

  later, Iraq War II, Operation Iraqi

  Freedom, Shock and Awe started.

  A-Day, hit Iraq with 300

  to 400 satellite-guided missiles.

  On the second day, round-the-clock bombing,

  another 300 to 400

  smart bombs. That was the plan, spoken by

  an “author of Shock and Awe.”

  “You have this simultaneous

  effect, rather like the nuclear weapons at Hiroshima,

  not taking days or weeks but in minutes.”

  We had used all our arts—

  sung, danced, walked about as goddesses.

  Full body puppets on stilts, in pink

  and red garments of flowing silk, bent

  down in mercy to children. We staged

  a theater of peace, recited poems—and did not

  stop our country from war. I wanted to lie down

  and die but did not. I do believe: Because

  the world protested, the tonnage of bombs was not as

  massive as planned. And we hit fewer civilians.

  The peace we have made shall have consequences.

  All affects all.

  On parade in Viet Nam,

  the dragon on hundreds of pairs of feet walked

  and ran along the river—a river once red

  with human blood from slaughter that these very

  people around me eyewitnessed, and had part in.

  We, dragon, ran and walked until

  the village we’d left came into sight; the river

  circled and returned us home. We rested in tents

  and ate joong. I pointed, said, “Joong,”

  hoping Chinese and Vietnamese

  feed rice, beans, meat, 100-

  year-old eggs wrapped in leaves

  to the same ancestor, Peace, and to the dragons

  who live in and are the river. But

  they called this food something else,

  and their story was about a beautiful princess

  captured by / run off with a dragon.

  All the village every year give

  chase after her, and come home happy,

  and in union.

  FATHER’S VILLAGE

  Follow the rivers and streams north,

  deltas of Viet Nam turn into deltas

  of China. There be my root villages.

  23 years ago, from Guangzhou,

  we had to hire a van and driver,

  and a guide, get on 2 ferry boats—

  drive, ferry, drive, ferry, drive

  some more—the Pearl River’s side

  rivers winding and hairpin turning

  at islands and bars. Had to stay overnight

  in the one hotel, farmgirl maids

  yell-talking, loud laughing, no sleep.

  Drive on the next morning, and arrive

  at Roots Headquarters for Long Lost

  Overseas Relatives Finding Relatives.

  Word, my father’s name, my name,

  had been bruited about this land. My cousin,

  Elder Brother, heard, and was there to meet

  me, recognized me, and greeted me, “Hola,

  Younger Sister, our family is running in harm
ony.”

  “Hola, Elder Brother, our family is running

  in harmony.” Harmony. China has announced Harmony

  its official theme. Harmony posted on walls.

  Lights flash Harmony up on buildings;

  the night rivers reflect Harmony. Our son,

  a musician, has tattooed on each arm:

  harmony

  make peace, make kindness

  mutual, reciprocal

  extraordinary (like outlanders, like barbarians)

  I did the calligraphy myself.

  Harmony also translates as peace;

  its roots are mouth and growing grain. The mouth

  speaks peace. Peace is food; peace nourishes.

  Confucius said, Whoever plays the music

  controls the world, spinning like a top

  on the palm of his hand. (He ordered the killing

  of 80 musicians.) Elder Brother said,

  “My elder brother of Boston went

  back just this morning. He’s upset

  over his kids. Every one of them married

  a white demon.” He laughed a big, relishing

  laugh, not the laugh that Chinese

  make after telling a tragic awfulness. I

  translated for Earll, “A generation of nephews

  and nieces married white demons!” Elder

  Brother looked at my husband, did a double-

  take—a white demon! He saw me laughing,

  and gave 2 thumbs up, and cheered, “Okay!”

  Thumbs up with strong farmer’s hands.

  He and Earll walked hand in hand

  through the fields. I stayed with the women—

  our families have many more girls

  than boys—and watched the 2 men now giant,

  human, against sky and land, now

  as nothing, transitories in the infinite.

  To amble the earth that you work daily is to give

  yourself and guest entertainment and rest.

  Earll understood his Elder Brother-in-Law

  to be naming his happinesses. Ah,

  generous fields of rice. Ah, great

  water buffalo, and baby buffalo. Ah,

  kinship. But for skin dark from the sun,

  and arms and legs brawny from labor, this “brother”

  looked like my real American brothers. None

  of the women looked like my sisters and mother.

  In Earll’s presence, they marveled, “He doesn’t

  understand us. We can say anything

  we want.” They dared one another,

  “Say whatever you like to say.” I listened

  hard, but didn’t catch their secrets. I saw

  the brick stove where my mother cooked,

  reading a novel all the while, and let

  the food burn. She’d foraged for straw

  to heat that stove. I saw my parents’ cupboard

 

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