“No,” said Dad. “I’m not paying for you to go to college to study history.”
Kenny didn’t say anything, but I thought, You can’t force someone to become something they don’t want to be, can you?
After Mom and Dad’s fight with Kenny, I wasn’t sure we were going to have a family get-together after dinner. We usually had one on Sundays. But as we were clearing the dishes, I saw Mom carrying The Big Green Box into the living room, which meant we were definitely going to have one.
Some people use the word scrapbook as a verb. I’m scrapbooking tonight! For Mom, though, the word is just completely foreign. All our family photos, all our school pictures, any picture that someone might have sent us, went into what we called The Big Green Box, a large, dark green box that I think once held a pair of boots. Need a photo for a school project? Go get The Big Green Box. Want to know what you looked like five years ago? Look in The Big Green Box. While normal people sat around and looked in scrapbooks that might be organized chronologically, my family sat around The Box, pulled random photos out, and tried to figure out what they were and where they were from.
“We’re looking through The Big Green Box tonight, huh?” I asked Mom.
Mom nodded. “I thought Yi Po might like to see some photos before she goes, and we can make copies of any pictures she would like.”
This ought to be good. I could just see us plowing through haphazard piles of photos, looking for anything decent for Yi Po.
Me: This is Regina batting a piñata from her fourth birthday party!
Mom: Here’s Kenny’s second-grade soccer team that he quit halfway through!
Dad: This is Lucy when she was missing her two front teeth!
Yi Po (in Chinese): You guys ever heard of a scrapbook?
In reality, though, Yi Po didn’t seem to mind looking at odd photographs of me riding a bike or even Christmas photos from neighbors who had moved away. She paid particular attention to pictures of Po Po, from birthday parties and the holidays. She smiled at each one and then set it aside so it wouldn’t go back into the mysterious depths of The Big Green Box.
Kenny pulled out one and started laughing hysterically. We all leaned over to see what he had found. Dad tried to yank it out of his hand but Kenny held it away.
It was a picture of a college student, wearing sandals, jeans, and a fringe jacket. He had on sunglasses and was carrying a guitar. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
I realized it was Dad. And he was smoking!
“Dad … is that … you?” I asked. Kenny was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe. “You … look … like … a … Chinese … John … Lennon.”
Dad straightened his neck, trying to look dignified. “I guess some photos from your grandmother’s house got mixed up in here,” he said stiffly. “It was a brief stage I went through in college.”
Dad plunged his hand into The Big Green Box and yanked out another photo. “Look what I found,” he said with a note of forced enthusiasm in his voice. “A really old one.”
We all turned to look at the small black-and-white photo. A woman and a young girl stood on the deck of a ship with the Statue of Liberty in the background. They were both squinting at the camera.
I stared at the photograph. I had seen the picture before, and just assumed it was from a family we didn’t know.
“Look at those clothes,” murmured Mom. “They don’t dress like that anymore.” The woman was wearing a dress, white gloves, and a hat. The little girl was also wearing white gloves and carrying a little purse.
“That girl looks a little like you, Lucy,” said Kenny, “when you were her age.” I looked harder but I couldn’t see a resemblance.
Yi Po reached down and gently plucked the photo from Dad’s hand.
I thought I’d never see this picture again, she breathed. For a second, she sounded so calm that I thought I’d misunderstood. But my parents and Kenny looked just as startled as I felt.
Slowly, slowly, Yi Po told us the story of the photograph. My parents translated. And Kenny explained until I had a whole story in my head, pumping through my veins and swirling in my heart. Until her story became my story, too.
It was the year after the Cultural Revolution began, when Chairman Mao began the Four Olds campaign. I was a young woman then. We were told, “Get rid of your Four Olds — old culture, old habits, old customs, and old ideas — bring China into the future!” Bands of Red Guards roamed the streets, entering homes to look for evidence of Four Olds. After a while, we started to recognize the sound of their terrorizing. The banging, the smashing, the screaming. Many times, people were dragged out of their homes for a “struggle session,” where neighbors would be forced to watch the Red Guards beat, torture, and humiliate their victims.
One day we saw our neighbor, Old Zhou, lying on the ground. He had been kicked and pummeled by the Red Guards. We later found out he had been punished for trying to hide a single postage stamp from the United States. It was forbidden because it showed that he admired Western objects. He almost died from his injuries.
Then my aunt heard that we might be next, perhaps because my family had once been landowners. It was hard to know — anyone who once had money or who had an education was under suspicion. We looked quickly through our belongings, examining each one for any quality that might make it a Four Old. I did not think we would have anything that would displease the Red Guards — we just did not have much. But then, my aunt seized upon our photo album.
“Hurry! Look!” I remember her hands shaking as she leafed through the album. We tore out photos of older relatives, anyone who was in fancy or Western dress. I felt as though we were suffering their deaths once more as we ripped out their pictures — we would never see their faces again.
She turned the page. There was the photograph, a duplicate of the photograph you have here. It was the only photograph I had of my mother and my sister. How many times had I looked longingly at that picture?
“This one, too,” said Auntie firmly, and she grabbed a corner and started to pull.
“Please, no,” I begged. I grabbed her arm.
She shook her head. “We must.” She continued to rip out the photograph.
I felt as if my heart were being torn out with the picture. “It’s my only photograph of my mother and sister. Please. I’ll hide it. I know I can hide it where they’ll never find it.” Of course I didn’t know where I would hide it, but I had to try.
My aunt turned and glared at me. “You ingrate!” she hissed. “All these years I’ve cared for you as one of my own. Where were your mother and sister when you needed them? And now you want to risk this … this paper family for your real family. How dare you!”
In that split second, I thought I saw something else in her eyes. Not fear. A look of calculation, perhaps. Jealousy? Not for the first time, I wondered if she was jealous of the love I still had for my parents and my sister. Not for the first time, I wondered if she knew what had happened to them.
But then I hung my head. How could I be so ungrateful?
“Remember Old Zhou!” she cried shrilly.
I held out my hand. “Give it to me. You are right. Please, just let me take care of them.”
The Red Guards often searched through the rubbish bins, so we couldn’t simply throw away the photographs. We had to burn them. I shut the bathroom door and burned the photographs one by one. I saved that photograph for last.
I held the picture and stared at it, trying to memorize every last detail. The look in their eyes, the patterns on their dresses, their hair. Then I held it to my chest. “Forgive me,” I whispered. Then I watched the photo curl and burn until there was nothing left but black ash.
The Red Guards did come. I found out later that a friend of mine had accused us of being counterrevolutionary to protect her own family, and that was what had provoked the attack. It was such a terrible time — truth, loyalty, honor meant nothing. The whole order of our society had been turned upside
down.
I watched them ransack my home, tearing apart the beds, tossing drawers on the floor, and going through trunks. They seemed to delight in throwing our belongings around, stepping on them carelessly. I don’t think I could have hidden that photograph, they were so thorough. But I did not flinch, I did not cry. They could not hurt me anymore.
When she finished telling her story, we were all quiet for a moment. Kenny looked at my parents for a long time.
For the longest time, China had seemed like a separate place, the hyphenated place in my life. Chinese-American. But now China was close, because that’s where Yi Po was from.
She had lost so much — her family, her history, even her friends. How did she ever manage to smile or feel happy again? I thought about the way she looked when she brought me the basketball hoop and backboard. Could I go through something so awful, and then care about making another person happy?
Zhan qi lai. Get up. You had to get up again.
I leaned against her, trying to give her the support my words could not provide. I wondered what my grandmother would have thought. I think she would have been proud to have Yi Po as her sister. If she could be that brave, maybe I could, too.
When I went to school on Monday, the first thing I did was look for Harrison. His desk was empty. I tried to get ready for the social studies quiz, but I couldn’t help checking every few minutes.
Then, a few minutes after the bell rang, Harrison came hobbling in. He was on crutches. “Still getting used to these things,” he said to Ms. Phelps.
I waited for Harrison to look my way, hoping for a smile or something. He didn’t. He probably hates me. A heavy feeling of disappointment wrapped around me. It was the best conversation we ever had, and look what happened!
Finally it was time for lunch. At least I had lunch to look forward to. Instead of the usual peanut butter and jelly, I had lemon chicken — one of Yi Po’s best dishes. I watched the clock tick toward lunchtime. I swear that the hands got slower as it grew closer to 11:20.
I grabbed my lunch and headed toward the cafeteria with the rest of my class. My mouth quavered in anticipation of the tangy lemon flavor blending with the gently steamed chicken. I eagerly unscrewed the top of the container.
Whoa. I dropped the lid and stared inside. There, on the topmost piece of chicken, was a small, dead cricket. It might as well have had a little card attached saying Compliments of Sloane Connors.
How did she do that? My mind raced back over the morning schedule. Social studies quiz, language arts, music … ah, that’s it. She must have slipped into the classroom while we were in music class. It would have been easy for someone like Sloane, who was always running errands for the teacher. Haley and Serena were missing lunch right now because they were helping the art teacher, Mrs. Felsworth.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Madison in a low voice.
“Yeah, I guess my good friend Sloane thinks I’m not getting enough protein.”
“Throw it away,” urged Talent. “We’ll share our lunches with you.”
I looked at the cricket again. Having once had a frog on my plate, I wasn’t that grossed out by the cricket.
“I have a better idea. Is Sloane watching?”
Madison turned her head ever so slightly and checked. “Oh, yeah, you’ve got the whole Amazon crew looking.”
I carefully dug my fork in, stabbing a piece of chicken away from the cricket. I lifted it up and ate with great relish.
“I don’t know what’s different, but this is the best lemon chicken ever,” I announced. Shrieks erupted from the next table.
Then I waited. We had recess right after lunch, along with Sloane’s class. For the first time in months, I didn’t avoid Sloane.
I didn’t have long to wait. Sloane, Gabi, and Ariana slithered over to me. I could have sworn that Sloane was panting with glee. Madison scooted over next to me until her arm was touching mine. Talent stood next to me on the other side.
“Hi, Sloane!” I said brightly.
Sloane looked a little surprised, and glanced at Gabi and Ariana. “Hi, Lucy,” she said uncertainly. Then, gaining a little steam, she added, “How was your lunch today?”
“It was great. I had lemon chicken — one of my favorite dishes. And today it was even better than usual.”
“Really?” Sloane turned and gave the Amazons a look. “Why do you think?”
I cocked my head to one side, pretending to think very hard. “Extra lemons?”
Sloane looked like she might explode. Then she burst out, “You ate a cricket! Oh, my God, you ate a cricket!” Sloane started cackling gleefully. Gabi and Ariana actually took a step away from her.
This is what I had hoped for. “Don’t be silly, Sloane,” I said deliberately. “I know what a cricket looks like and I certainly didn’t eat one. But I can’t imagine why you thought there was a cricket in my lunch unless you put it there yourself.” I raised my voice just a bit for the last sentence. There are no 300 taels of silver here.
Suddenly, Sloane realized what she had done. She stopped laughing just in time to see Ms. Phelps turn our way and tilt her head to one side. Sloane’s eyes widened.
“Y-y-you don’t know what you’re talking about!” she stammered, and her group quickly scattered. A cool, pleasant feeling began to fill me up like a drink of water.
“That was awesome,” said Talent.
I turned to Madison and Talent. “Wouldst thou like to play some basketball?” I said, using my best Queen of England accent.
Talent shook her head, holding up a book as an excuse. “Maybe next time.”
But Madison said, “I couldn’t imagine anything more delightful,” in an equally haughty accent and we headed to the courts.
I was so excited when I came home from school that I ran around the house, looking for Yi Po. She was in the living room, reading a Chinese newspaper.
“Wo zhe ge xing chi wu you yi ge lan cho bi sai …” Suddenly, I realized I was speaking Chinese without thinking about it first. I’m having a basketball game at school this Friday …
Yi Po put her newspaper down and listened.
Wait, did she have a mah-jongg game on Friday? I know you have mah-jongg, but … will you come? And will you bring a can of food? I finished. I was pretty sure that I had messed up about half the word order and maybe some of the pronunciation, but I had surprised myself. I did actually know all the words I wanted to use. I even remembered the word for can: guan tou.
Yi Po pretended to dribble a ball and shoot it. Then she cupped her hand into the shape of a can. Then she pointed at me.
I nodded.
A wide grin spread across her face. She held up her hand for a high five.
Maybe the best year ever was still possible.
I wish I could say that the rest of my family had an equally positive reaction when I invited them to the game that night at dinner.
Dad shook his head. “I’ve got a meeting Friday afternoon. We’ve already moved the meeting twice.”
“I wish you had told me earlier, Lucy,” said Mom. “I’ll try to work something out but I can’t make any promises, okay?”
I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I had invited them to something like a science fair or even a spelling bee, they’d be trying harder to come.
“What about you, Kenny?” I asked. Kenny got out of school earlier because he was in high school, though he usually stayed for after-school clubs.
“An elementary school basketball game? I don’t know …” He shoved a forkful of shredded pork and tofu into his mouth.
“C’mon,” I begged. “They might have food.” I wasn’t sure of this, but it was the best bribe I could come up with.
Kenny took another bite of food and considered. “Maybe,” he said.
Any feelings of triumph I had about my encounter with Sloane officially disappeared at 9:17 a.m. the next day. That’s when Ms. Phelps made an announcement.
“The president of the PTA had a sugges
tion for this Friday’s game. Instead of just bringing cans of food to the game as part of the food drive, you all will be using your cans to vote for a team captain,” she said. “Each person will be allowed to vote with their can of food. So now the team captain will be determined by the number of free throws he or she makes, plus the number of cans of food he or she receives in the voting.”
No way! My jaw nearly hit the desk. Now that Sloane knew she couldn’t scare me off the court, she was getting her mother to rig things for her. I wanted to jump on top of my desk and yell CHEATER! The whole class began to talk.
Ms. Phelps pressed her lips together and frowned. It’s the face she makes when she’s trying not to yell at us.
“Obviously, this isn’t what was planned in the beginning, but in any event, please be sure to bring your cans of food to school on Friday and vote for your pick. Now, moving on to today’s test on fractions …”
I wasn’t sure, but I thought Ms. Phelps seemed kind of annoyed by the whole thing, too.
“That’s it, I’m sunk,” I said at lunch. “There’s no way I’ll get to be captain now.”
“I’ll vote for you,” said Madison. “And so will Haley, Serena, Lauren, and a bunch of the other kids. We’ll bring lots.” Haley and Serena nodded in agreement.
“Mrs. Connors knows tons of people through the PTA. She’s here all the time, right? She’ll get everyone to vote for Sloane.” I slouched in my chair.
“You can’t give up, though. Not now. You can’t just let her be captain without even taking a shot,” argued Madison.
I thought of something else. “You know, all this time, we haven’t been thinking of anyone else who could be trying out for captain. Other people will also be trying out, you know, to give Sloane some competition.”
The Great Wall of Lucy Wu Page 14