by Li Cunxin
Zhang Weiqiang and I went to the Beijing Passport Bureau as soon as we possibly could. The police handed us two application forms, and we were told to write down both our Chinese and English names. Zhang and I looked at each other. We didn’t have any English names.
“Write your name in pinyin then,” the policeman said.
Pinyin was invented by the Chinese government to help foreigners pronounce Chinese words. But it was based on Latin pronunciation, not English, and I didn’t have a clue how to write my name that way. So I just put my family name first, as usual in China, and wrote “Li Cunxin” on my application form.
“Is this your real birth date?” the police officer asked when he read my completed forms.
I had written 10 January 1961. “Yes. What do you mean ‘real’?” I asked.
“Is it your Chinese calendar birthday or the official calendar birthday?” he asked.
My family had always used the Chinese calendar, never the official calendar. It had never occurred to me that government agencies used the same calendar as the rest of the world.
“No good,” the police officer said when I told him. “We need the official calendar. You’ll have to go and find out before we can issue you a passport.”
But that date was the only birthday I knew. My parents wouldn’t know either, because most babies in the countryside were delivered at home and local records would state the Chinese calendar date only. Peasants never used the official calendar for anything. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered my official birthday was set as 26 January.
Zhang knew his official birth date, though. His application was fine.
I began to panic. I was nearly in tears. I had to get my passport and visa in time for the summer school in Houston. I couldn’t miss this opportunity! I begged the police officer, “Please, Comrade. Who would care when my exact birthday is? I don’t have enough time to find out. I will miss this opportunity to serve our country!”
He hesitated then. “All right,” he said eventually, and I sank with relief.
Our visas were approved by the American consulate in Beijing in a matter of days. We were overwhelmed with excitement. But once the euphoria faded away, panic struck. Zhang and I could speak no English. How would we ever understand the Americans?
An English tutor gave us a crash course for a few days, starting with the English alphabet and ending with simple phrases such as yes, no, good morning, hello and good-bye. I used Chinese words to help me pronounce the English words, as I’d done to learn the French ballet terms, but they sounded ridiculously Chinglish and I really had no idea how I would make myself understood.
We also had to go into the Ministry of Culture to be briefed by the officials. The head of the Educational Bureau, Wang Zicheng, met us briefly. He spoke with a gentle, persuasive voice. “Work hard while you’re there, show your American hosts how hard Chinese people work. Don’t forget that you’re representing China and the Chinese people. Treasure this opportunity. Bring back knowledge. Resist capitalist influences and make sure you exercise your communist judgment.” He shook our hands and left, but his assistant continued to lecture us. “Be polite at all times. If you don’t understand what people are saying, just say ‘yes’ and smile. Never say ‘no.’ Never. ‘No’ is a negative word. People might be offended.” She too told us not to let filthy Western influences into our pure communist minds. Everything we did or said would represent China and the Chinese people.
She then took us into a room which contained a few racks of used Western-style suits and ties. She said they had a small supply mainly used for government delegations going to foreign countries. We had never worn a suit before, only Mao’s jackets, but we were told to borrow a suit each from the ministry. We tried quite a few on but all were too big for our skinny bodies. We ended up choosing the smallest suits, but the shoulders still came halfway down our arms and we had to fold the sleeves up. We also borrowed two ties and a suitcase each.
Zhang and I, to our utter astonishment, soon became a news item in China. We were the first official exchange artists between China and America since Chairman Mao took over power in 1949.
I telephoned my parents for the first time since leaving home all those years ago. I rang from Director Chen’s office. My second brother, Cunyuan, came to the commune phone first. “Ni hao, Erga! ” I screamed excitedly into the phone.
“Ni hao, Cunxin! What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding concerned. Something dreadful must surely have happened for me to use a telephone.
“Nothing! I am going to America for six weeks!” I replied.
There was silence. “Really? You’re joking,” he said.
“No! I’m not joking. I am going to America with another student,” I replied.
“My brother is going to America!” he screamed loudly to the people in the commune office. I could hear a roar of cheers.
“I can’t believe this!” he continued. “America! I heard everyone there carries guns. If they don’t like you they’ll just shoot you. And everyone has cars. Niang is here . . .”
“Jing Hao!” my niang called.
“Niang, how are you?” I asked. I was so happy to hear her voice.
“I’m fine. Are you really going to America?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes, I’ll be leaving in a few days.”
“Ah! Why didn’t you tell us earlier? We could send you some apples and dried shrimps to take on the road,” she said.
“I am going on a plane. I was told no food is allowed on the airplanes.”
“On the airplane? Wo de tian na! How unthinkable! My son is going to fly on the airplane!” I heard her say to the people in the office, and there were more cheers.
“Ask him how many hours will it take to get to America?” I heard one of the commune leaders ask.
“Tell that Uncle, I was told that I have to fly to Tokyo first, the capital of Japan, and then it will be something like twenty hours to America.”
“Please be careful. Stay away from the evil people in America. Don’t they kill colored people there?” my niang asked, sounding worried.
“I’m going with another student. We’ll look after each other. I’ve also met the American dance teacher from Houston. His name is Ben. He seems nice.”
“Just be careful. These foreigners are wild! They are different from us. Don’t trust them.”
I wasn’t surprised by my family’s concerns about America. For so many years we had been told that the West, especially America, was evil. We’d heard of nothing but the mistreatment of black people, the violence on the streets, the use of firearms. Even I, who had read a few books about America since the downfall of the Gang of Four and didn’t totally believe what I had learned in the past, was still suspicious and apprehensive.
I could never have imagined, however, that this conversation with my niang and Cunyuan was the last one I would have with them for many long years.
In the last few days before we were due to leave, the whole academy became excited for us. Teachers and classmates constantly congratulated us. We were called into Director Chen’s office once again. She was all smiles. She gave us the familiar lecture, told us to study hard, to show the Americans our work ethic. Never to lose face for our great nation. Never to allow Western influences to penetrate our staunch communist values.
Our day of departure finally arrived. That morning, eight of my friends including the Bandit, Chong Xiongjun and my violinist friend, Liu Fengtian, went out to a nearby café and brought back some pig’s head meat, some red sausages, pickled vegetables, watermelon and a few jugs of warm beer. They had to smuggle the beer into the academy: we would be in trouble if we were found out by the teachers. For two hours we would enjoy our food together, our companionship, before the academy’s jeep took us to the airport. We speculated about what America would be like. I promised I would tell them everything when I returned. “Don’t you let a big-nosed girl kidnap you over there!” said the Bandit. How he wished that he was
allowed to go to the airport with me.
My classmates and myself, center front, wearing Mao’s Red Guard scarves. This was taken in early 1972, in Laoshan.
The New Village, Li Commune—the world of my upbringing. This photo was taken in 2002—nothing much has changed since I was born.
Proudly wearing Mao’s army uniform, in January 1974—aspiring to become a true and faithful follower of the communist ideal.
My beloved niang washing, forever washing, in the courtyard of our home. This was taken when I went back to China in 1988.
My first lonely day in Beijing, posing for one of our group photos in Tiananmen Square—I am in the front row, fourth from the right.
The Beijing Dance Academy—my world for seven long years. Here it is in 1997—again, nothing much had changed: the studio building is on the right, hot-water boiler room and teachers’ rooms in the center, and the canteen to the left.
Hai Luo Sha, one of our political ballets, with me and “Chairman Mao.”
Rehearsing Hai Luo Sha with Teacher Zhang Shu in 1976. In the background are Mao’s grand words: “Have your country in your heart and the world in your vision.”
First contact with the West—Zhang Weiqiang and I in New York in 1979.
On the steps of the Vaganova Ballet School in Leningrad—my first trip to another communist country.
Defection. April 29, 1981. Being freed from the consulate with Elizabeth Mackey and Charles Foster.
Finally at ease as the Western prince— Sleeping Beauty in 1984.
With Barbara Bush at the White House in 1991. She was instrumental in bringing my parents to the U.S. and in fostering my relationship with China.
Applying my makeup for a performance with the Houston Ballet—a new identity, a transformation: what would my niang and dia think of this? I lived in another world now.
In Glen Tetley’s Rite of Spring—making the giant leaps I’d always dreamt of.
The Esmeralda pas de deux with Mary, in 1990, in a gala performance at the Sydney Opera House.
My beloved family in Melbourne in 1997—my wife, Mary, and our children, Sophie, Thomas and Bridie.
When it was time for Zhang and me to leave, our friends fought over carrying our luggage to the jeep, and in the commotion the Bandit quietly shuffled something into my hand. “Read it on the plane,” he whispered.
I quickly slipped the paper into my pocket. Before we stepped into the jeep, our friends, teachers, everyone came forward to shake our hands. Teacher Xiao was very emotional. “Yi lu ping an!” He wished me a safe trip and shook both of my hands hard. “Cunxin! Cunxin! I know you will make China proud! Bring back new knowledge! I can’t wait to share all your discoveries when you return!”
The last to say good-bye was the Bandit. Tears filled his eyes, and he couldn’t speak a single word.
“Six weeks will disappear before you know it!” I said to him.
As the jeep pulled away from our academy buildings, the last thing I saw was the Bandit’s tear-stained face.
I’d never been to an airport before, except the abandoned military airport near our village where I’d tried to dig up half-burned coal as a small boy. But this Beijing Airport was not what I had expected at all. It was strangely quiet compared to the hustle and bustle of Beijing Station. Everything was orderly.
We were hours too early and the check-in counter wasn’t even open, so Zhang Shu, the head of our ballet department who was accompanying us, took us to a little canteen and bought us each a Coca-Cola. We’d heard all about Coca-Cola—the most successful invention of the Western world. We couldn’t believe we were about to taste some. I took a big mouthful and swallowed it eagerly. Too eagerly. I nearly choked with all the fizz. So did Zhang Weiqiang. We looked at each other and laughed. Our first Western experience, an American icon, and I didn’t like it at all.
We said good-bye to Teacher Zhang before we checked through immigration. Zhang Weiqiang and I were now on our own. We sat on the bench in the waiting room and looked at each other. We hadn’t a clue what to do. We looked out the window toward the huge airplane with “China Airlines” written on it. I had never seen a plane so close. It was gigantic. It was overwhelming. How could a heavy thing like that ever get off the ground?
When the time came for us to board, several uniformed airline people escorted us downstairs to a bus, which took us out to the plane. As we moved closer the plane became bigger and bigger and bigger. I felt like a tiny insect.
We walked up the steps, and as we entered the plane a pleasant cool air seemed to cover me completely. I liked it, but I wondered where on earth it was coming from. And I couldn’t believe how big the inside of the plane was! Rows and rows and rows of colorful seats.
Eventually we found our seats and waited nervously for something to happen. When it did, I nearly suffocated with excitement. I looked out the window. I saw the accelerating engines. My heart was pounding. My stomach churned—I didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream. I could never have imagined this! My heartbeat raced faster and faster, my excitement flew higher than the clouds! Here I was, leaving behind our great nation of communists with its steadfast beliefs and ideology forever supporting us. I felt unbelievably proud.
Our plane leveled out, and once I was over the shock of the takeoff I began to explore and investigate everything I could. Movies to watch! Music to listen to! And a hostess to serve us beautiful meals: rice with fish, Japanese noodles. The hostess asked us what kind of drinks we would like. I chose something called Sprite this time.
We were treated like royalty. I felt bad just sitting there being waited on and letting someone else do all the work. What would my niang say? So I offered to help the hostess wash the plates. She just looked at me with a very strange expression. “No, thank you,” she said.
This must be a millet dream, I thought. Too good to be true. But I pinched myself and it hurt. I was like an ant in a hot wok. I couldn’t stay still for a minute. I went through the contents of the seat pocket in front of me and found a little bag that contained unbelievable luxuries: a miniature toothbrush, toothpaste, a pair of socks and eye covers for sleeping. Zhang and I even kept the safety card as a souvenir. It had a picture of the entire plane on it! What would my niang and her sewing circle think of this! How could they even begin to imagine it?
I looked around and noticed that most of the passengers on the plane seemed to be Chinese, government officials most likely. Many of them gave us rather surprised looks, no doubt wondering how two young students could be so privileged to be flying overseas. Very few government officials were allowed overseas, let alone students like us.
With all the excitement of the takeoff I had forgotten about the Bandit’s note. I opened the white envelope he had given me, and a small piece of paper slipped out. It was a poem:As blood brothers,
the departure of one
will never wane the love in our hearts.
Not fortune or money,
but only the pursuit of innocence and honor,
will strengthen the love in our hearts.
I thought of the past seven years and our hard and lonely life at the academy. Without the Bandit and his friendship, my life there would have been unbearable.
The three-hour flight to Tokyo went by very quickly. We were told we had to get off the plane for a couple of hours at Tokyo Airport. I couldn’t believe we had traveled so far in only three short hours. But once again Zhang and I didn’t know what to do. We were too afraid to leave the gate area in case we missed our flight, so we just wandered around or stood together until it was time to board. I happened to glance up at a coffee-stand’s price list and noticed that a cup of coffee cost U.S. $3.00. I did a quick calculation. That was nearly half a month’s salary for my dia! Perhaps I had got the numbers wrong. I did the sum again. No, that was right. I could only look at the list in total astonishment.
This time we boarded a Northwest Airlines plane and walked directly onto it through a sort of tunnel without havi
ng to walk up any steps at all. This plane was even bigger than the first. Much bigger. This was something called a jumbo jet, we were told. It was awesome. There were endless rows of seats and we were, amazingly, ushered to an upper deck. Blankets and pillows were neatly placed on the seats, and there were more gift bags and more flight safety cards for us to keep as souvenirs. There were even magazines, which we couldn’t read, but we did look at the pictures. A beautiful car was splashed across two pages with $35 written below it. Perhaps this was how much it would cost the Americans to buy this magnificent car, Zhang and I pondered.
This time over half of the passengers in our cabin were foreigners. I noticed a strong smell of perfume from some of the women, and I couldn’t quite get used to it. The combination of watermelon and beer at my farewell party caused me a great many trips to the toilet too. I thought the hostess must have thought something was wrong with this Chinese boy who kept going to the toilet all the time.
It was impossible for me to believe that I was actually sitting on this gigantic airplane on my way to the West. I looked down at the thick beautiful clouds and thought I was in the ninth heaven. I was so excited, but neither Zhang nor I had a clue about what was waiting for us.
18
THE FILTHY CAPITALIST AMERICA
Our plane began to descend through thick cloud. We were about to land in Chicago. All of a sudden I remembered those few pages from the book about the steel tycoon in Chicago, the book I’d found on the street in our commune, years ago now, the one that had stirred up such curiosity in my heart and mind. I longed to see if the little knowledge I had learned from that book was true about this Paper Tiger country.