by Ann Mah
“Um…” This would be the perfect time to talk about the expectations that Julia mentioned. I open my mouth to bring up the topic, but nothing comes out. Do I really need to have this discussion? Suddenly I feel irrationally neurotic. “Hey,” I say instead. “I didn’t know you were thinking about writing a book.”
He barks a laugh. “Me neither. I just thought up the idea today. But it’s not bad, huh? You think she’s interested? I figured I should milk the guanxi while I could, ya know?”
“Milk the guanxi? But Julia’s my friend, not a business contact. We were having a casual brunch, not attending some sort of networking event!”
“Babe, every event is a networking event.”
“Maybe for you, but I don’t use my friends just for their connections.”
“I’m not using her just for her connections. But if she’s got ’em, why not?”
“Do you think that about everyone?”
“Of course,” he says easily. “Like you and me. I think you’re cool, we have fun together, and if there’s an extra bonus of a Beijing NOW cover story, why not go for it? It’s not like your mag’s Rolling Stone, but I’ve got to start somewhere, you know?”
“So all this time, you’ve just been hanging out with me because I work for Beijing NOW?”
“No! Of course not. But you know that’s how business gets done.”
“Maybe in China.”
“Well, we’re in China, aren’t we?”
“I guess I’m just used to a different approach, that’s all. Things are a little more subtle in the States.”
He pats my arm indulgently. “But you’re really Chinese inside so I know you understand.”
Something in his voice makes me sit up and scan his face. “Can I ask you a question?”
He nods distractedly, his eye caught by the new Britney Spears video that flashes on the screen.
“Do you think of me as Chinese or American?” I keep my voice casual, despite the sudden thumping of my heart.
“Chinese, of course!” he answers immediately, bobbing his head to the groove of Britney’s hips.
For a second I think, Wow, my Chinese must have gotten really, really good! But then his answer hits me in the gut. After all this time, all these months, I thought he saw past my black hair, my almond-shaped eyes, the shell of me that looks Chinese, to the American heart beating inside. It turns out, he didn’t see me at all.
Later, I lie in bed and watch the lights twinkle across the harbor. Jeff snores softly in the living room, but my mind is too troubled for sleep.
As a child, I played with Barbie dolls and idolized Smurfette. I grew up in a middle-class world, a white world of girls with long blond curls and long last names that made my own—Lee—look like a stump. There were moments when I felt embarrassingly, painfully different, like when kids on the playground would push their eyes into slits and chant: “Ching Chong Chinaman, sitting on the fence! Trying to make a dollar out of fifty cents!” Or when my high school English teacher, Mrs. O’Grady, would urge me to toss my bobbed hair: “Shake your head! Just like a China doll!” But as I grew up and into my skin, dated frat boys, introduced my friends to a world of Chinese food beyond fried rice, perfected my tuna casserole, I felt less and less exotic. By the time I moved to Manhattan, ethnicity had become chic, and race had spun far from the core of my identity. Chinese American joined the other labels I used to describe myself—editor, foodie, New Yorker—a part of me, but not all of me.
But then I moved to China. And suddenly all those forgotten feelings of belonging and alienation elbowed their way to the front. They’re in the voice of the cab driver who tells me that I’m not American because Americans have yellow hair. In the face of the waitress who profusely praises Geraldine’s simple ni hao, brushing off my years of study, the hours I’ve spent memorizing characters. They’re in the glance of laowai friends, whose eyes slide over me when they pass me on the sidewalk, unable to pick my face out of the crowd. They’re in the surprise of the Americans I sometimes meet, who compliment my fluent English. They’re in the throngs that pack a restaurant, my dark head slipping in among the rest, indistinguishable from any other.
Before I moved to China, I thought I knew myself. In New York, no one expected me to speak Chinese or know anything about my ethnic background. Now that I’m in Beijing, I’ve realized that other people’s perceptions are as important as my own. I may think of myself as American, but that is an identity that a whole city, a country, my friends, cannot accept. I may think of myself as American, but it is my race, my Chineseness, that is the only part of me people understand.
The pain of alienation surprises me. I thought I’d left it behind with my adolescence, but it turns out it’s still there, still powerful enough to send tears sliding down my face.
Yunnan
“Yunnan is a large province in which Chinese were a minority until recently…Its cuisine…comes closer than other Chinese provinces to the Alpine preserved-meat model. The finest hams in China are made here…Another oddity of Yunnan is the use of dairy products.”
—E. N. ANDERSON, THE FOOD OF CHINA
You can’t just keep avoiding Jeff’s phone calls and not returning his text messages, Iz. You have to break up with him.” Geraldine turns and scans a row of laundry detergent boxes.
“Break up with him?” I jump as a shopping cart whizzes by my left foot. Even at 8:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning, Carrefour, the French hypermarket import, throbs with people. “How can I break up with someone who’s never even been my boyfriend?”
“Iz,” she says warningly. “Maybe you never considered him your boyfriend, but he obviously thinks of you as more than a friend. Unless you’re interested—and in light of your experiences in Hong Kong, I’m guessing you’re not—you need to end it.”
“But any moderately sensitive guy would have gotten a clue by now. And don’t quote your Men Are from Mars, Women are from Venus crap,” I say as she opens her mouth. “We’re in China and those rules don’t apply here.”
“You need to talk to him. The sooner the better.”
“Let’s just focus on finding the dishwashing detergent and getting out of here.” I approach a smock-clad employee. “Duibuqi mafan ni. Ni men de hua fen zai na’r?” The shop girl shakes her head and darts away from me like I’m covered in open boils.
“You just asked for flower pollen,” Geraldine says when she’s finished laughing. “The dishwasher powder is over there.”
“Smarty pants,” I mutter, grabbing a box. And I thought my Chinese had improved.
I haven’t seen Jeff since we hugged good-bye in front of the taxi queue at the Beijing airport. “I’ll call you,” he said, before hopping in the first cab, and eight days later he did. I heard the phone bleat from the shower, but for the first time since meeting him, I didn’t feel like picking up. Three weeks later we still haven’t talked, and I keep hoping Jeff will interpret my silence as a brush-off. Unfortunately, he seems to think I’m engaged in some sort of mating ritual, a prolonged form of playing hard to get that has only inflamed his interest.
I wheel the shopping cart around and follow Geraldine to the produce section, where we examine twelve varieties of fresh tofu. “You’ll feel better once you talk to him, Iz.” She selects a creamy square and pokes at the smooth surface. “It’ll be like…what’s that word?”
“Hideously awkward?” I offer as we move toward a towering pyramid of leeks.
“Closure,” she says, shoving a few stalks into a plastic bag. “You need closure.”
“Maybe.” I toss a bunch of cilantro in the basket. “Hey, let’s go check out the cheese aisle. I’ve got a hankering for a wheel of long-life Camembert.”
“Ooh, cheese!” Geraldine’s face lights up. I knew that would distract her.
Of course I should talk to Jeff. Even though our relationship never developed beyond the platonic level, he deserves my sincerity. It’s the right thing to do, we’re both adults, I should be honest about
my feelings—sheesh, I sound like I’m on Oprah. But what I haven’t admitted to Geraldine—or anyone, for that matter—is that I’ve never broken up with anyone, least of all a guy I never even considered my boyfriend. I’m thirty years old and a break-up virgin.
Sure, I’ve shot down first dates who wanted to go to second base, tossed the phone numbers slipped to me at crowded bars, ignored e-mails. But throughout my entire life, from my high school boyfriend, Patrick Black, to my office romance with Rich, I have always been the dumped, not the dumper. I could think of this as pathetic, which, alone on a Saturday night with a wedge of Gruyère and box of Carr’s water crackers, I often do, or I could consider myself a hopeful romantic, someone willing to fight for love.
The weird thing is, now that the roles have been reversed, now that I’m the one who has to end things, I suddenly understand my ex-boyfriends’ hurtful behavior. I now know why Patrick still escorted me to our senior prom, even though he’d slept with Jennifer Santora two days before. I know why Brett Corcoran insisted that the only reason he split up with me was because I said I disliked Canadians. (I was kidding!) I know why Rich pretended his parents had died in a tragic plane crash, when in reality they were happily ensconced in an Orlando condominium.
And now, as I pace the kitchen putting away my groceries, I try to think of the kindest, most thoughtful way to have the Talk with Jeff without hurting his feelings. In a coffee shop? Too public—I don’t want him to lose face. Over the phone? A possibility, but given the language barrier, he’s more likely to think I’m asking him to move in with me. At my apartment? No, no, no. What if he refuses to leave? I shove a six-pack of yogurt into the refrigerator and sigh. The path of least resistance has never looked so appealing.
My cell phone beeps, interrupting my thoughts. It’s a text.
U CAN’T DISTRACT ME W/CHEEZ. DO IT TODAY!! GER
I toss my mobile on the counter. Obviously I’m not going to talk to Jeff today, Sunday, the day of rest. I have pedicures to indulge in, DVDs to watch, spaghetti sauce to simmer. I open a can of Diet Coke and decide to ignore Geraldine. My phone beeps again.
DON’T IGNORE ME! G.
Arrggh! She can be such a pest. I sip my soda and scroll through the received messages in my phone’s tiny in-box. Geraldine, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff, Ed, Jeff, Jeff. Hmm, he has been calling me a lot lately. I glance at the column of names, and a twinge of guilt nips at me. Geraldine is right. I should talk to him.
I take a deep breath and try to figure out what to say. “Jeff,” I mutter, “we need to talk…I think you’re really great. But…” My fingers hover over his number, but before I can dial, I snap the phone shut. This is ridiculous. Jeff and I aren’t in a relationship, we never have been. So why is my heart pounding in time to the jackhammers twenty floors below?
I stand there for a while, staring at my phone, trying to work up my nerve. Open phone, close phone. Open, close, open, close. Dial, end call, dial, end call. Oh God, it’s no good. I can’t tell him. I’ll just have to screen his calls for the rest of my life. The phone beeps again, and I jump, nearly dropping my Diet Coke on the floor. What does Geraldine want now? Oh God. It’s from Jeff.
HEY BABE, U UP FOR SUSHI 2NITE?
Clearly, this is a sign. I start punching in a message, my fingers moving faster than my judgment.
SORRY CAN’T DO SUSHI. BUT I DO NEED TO TALK
TO YOU ABOUT S.T. THINGS MOVING IN WRONG
DIRECTION 4 ME. THINK WE NEED TO TAKE A BREAK.
Quickly, I hit Send and watch the screen as a little envelope folds itself up and floats away. There, it’s done. It may have been unorthodox, but at least I was honest.
The swiftness of his answer startles me.
R U BREAKING UP W/ME OVER TEXT MSG?!
Breaking up?! We were never together! Quickly, I press the buttons to reply.
DIDN’T THINK U THOUGHT OF ME THAT WAY. I THINK YR GR8,
BUT WE’RE 2 DIFFERENT. R U MAD?
His answer is only one word but it worries me.
WHATEVER
Hm. Maybe a text message wasn’t the best way to handle the situation. Oh well, it’s over now and no one ever has to know.
The shaky feeling of uncertainty plagues me for the rest of the weekend, but I manage to tamp it down with half a bottle of red wine and a pirated Grey’s Anatomy DVD box set. Now, thank God it’s Monday morning and I’m back at work, surrounded by friends and colleagues and not my own thoughts. I stare out at the oddly tinged winter sky and wait for our editorial meeting to begin.
“Okay comrades,” says Ed, plopping into a chair with uncustomary good humor. “It’s February, I’m thinking twittering love birds, hearts, romance in old Beijing…Isabelle, let’s start with you.”
I glance at my notebook. “I thought we could ask the St. Regis’s chef to do a recipe column on chocolate fondue. The dining feature is on track for romantic hot pot for two. And we’ll do a rundown of the top spots in town to take your sweetheart on Valentine’s Day.”
“Yes, good,” Ed nods. “But watch the clichés, we’re not fucking zombies. Let’s add something for all the bitter single people out there. Maybe a feature on the best and worst breakup spots…” He muses. “Or breakup horror stories…like Dear John letters, voice-mail messages, getting dumped by SMS…” He fixes me with a wicked grin as the room erupts in laughter.
My face burns. Do they know? Surely they don’t know.
“Good idea.” I nod, hoping my bland tone will distract them from my flaming cheeks.
“Great!” booms Ed. “I’ll expect copy by this afternoon. Shouldn’t be too hard since you’re such an expert.” More laughter.
“I told you to break up with him, Iz, not permanently emasculate him,” Geraldine teases. “I hear he’s furious! He’ll probably never date again.”
“Don’t feel too bad,” Gab smirks. “Think of it as a favor. This’ll be great material for his next album.”
“But we were never even together!” I protest. “Does everyone know?”
“Not everyone.” Ed pats my arm. “Just everyone who reads the Beijing NOW online forum.”
In other words, everyone.
Oh God. People keep sneaking up behind my desk, shouting, “You’re texted!” and then bursting into laughter. It’s become the new office slogan. Ed told Lily he was going to text her if she didn’t come up with an exclusive interview with the designers of Shanghai Tang.
I stare at my calendar while waiting for my computer to chug to life. The empty boxes wink at me mockingly. Monday, no plans; Tuesday, no plans; Wednesday, young professionals’ meet-and-greet—or should I say meat-and-greet; Thursday, no plans; Friday, Saturday, Sunday…ugh. Here I am, alone. Okay, so maybe Jeff and I had some issues, but in the grand scheme of things, were they really so important? We had some fun times together, despite the fact that he thought we were in a relationship that would lead to a Beijing NOW cover story and I didn’t. Now that I’ve texted him out of my life, I miss him.
My e-mail starts to load and I scan the names hoping to see Jeff’s. But no, just spam, spam, freelancer queries and…something that makes my heart stop.
To: Isabelle Lee
From: Tara Joyce, NY Tribune
Subject: Max Zhang feature
Hi Isabelle,
Thanks for your query and sorry for the slow response. We’d like to include your piece on Max Zhang in a special issue on Asian filmmakers, to run next week. Are you still interested in writing this? Time is short and I’d need to have copy by Friday, 2000 words, okay with you?
Cheers,
Tara
PS Tell Ed I say hello and that he owes me a beer, the old reprobate.
Ohmigod, ohmigod. The New York Tribune. The New York Tribune! The city’s biggest newspaper, with an arts section read by anyone who’s at all interested in modern culture? My stomach clenches and I swipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. It’s been so long since I wrote to Tara Joyce that I’d given up on ever hearing back from her. Now
she wants two thousand words by Friday? Okay, calm calm calm. Youcandothis. Deep breath. You can do this.
Oh fuck. It’s no good. I can’t do this. I’m going to have to turn them down. I stare at my computer screen, at the words New York Tribune, and curse the day I ever wrote to Tara Joyce. I hit Reply, but before I can start typing Ed’s red face looms over my desk.
“Have you moved on to breakups by e-mail now?” he asks, his mouth curving into a sardonic grin.
Grrr. “Actually, I just got an assignment from the New York Tribune,” I snap, crossing my arms. But then the panicky feeling takes over again. “And I’m really freaked out,” I admit. “I really don’t think I can—”
“You need an extension on your dining section this month?” he booms. “Well, I guess I can give you a few extra days. How about Monday?”
“No, you don’t understand. I truly don’t think I’m capable of—”
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, no need to text me, Isabelle. How about next Wednesday?”
I swallow. “Wednesday is fine. But I really wanted to ask you how I can get out of—”
“Jesus, you’re tough. All right, you can freelance a couple of the pieces out, but just this once, okay?” He leans against my desk and regards me thoughtfully. “You know, when you first walked into this office I thought you were a real pushover. Claire told me about what happened in New York and you just seemed…defeated. Talented, sure, but without the balls to really go for it.” He pauses to sip his coffee. “But first you dump Jeff Zhu—who most women in this town would kill to date—and now you’re really nailing this Tribune story. I guess I underestimated you.”
I bite my lip. “Er, thanks.” Shit. There’s no way I’m getting out of this now.
He turns to stride toward his office, and as I watch his retreating back it takes all my resolve not to throw myself at him and croak, “Help.”