They Only Eat Their Husbands
Page 14
You see, I thought, isn’t it so much better to have him say it to your face? Without another word, I got in my car and drove away. As I made my sniveling way home, I realized I wasn’t a victim so much as a tragic hero. Weren’t they always the authors of their own undoing?
The Butt of The Lion
thirty-five years old—kunming, china
Yuantong Temple has been standing for more than a thousand years, and in such a venerable place I expected an afternoon of peaceful contemplation. But, without knowing the language, I feel destined to misinterpret this country, no matter what I do. I am an observer of people and sights I cannot hope to understand.
As I entered the temple, I saw signs saying that photos are forbidden inside the halls. But the guards in the main hall said nothing when flashes went off as several Chinese tourists took photos of an ancient Buddha. In the outdoor sections of the temple, photos are allowed, and I took several. In the midst of a large square pond stood a graceful octagonal pavilion linked to the surrounding complex by two stone bridges. The multiple arches of the bridges cast reflections in the water, creating a row of perfect circles that begged to be photographed.
Hundreds of Chinese on their New Year holiday swarmed the grounds. In the courtyard, they lit candles and incense and offered food and money before statues of Buddha. Although it was crowded by American standards, compared to the congested city outside its walls the temple was as serene as I’d hoped—until I took my final photo.
I was about to leave when I spotted a small hall I’d overlooked. Three golden Buddhas dominated the room where only a handful of people were meditating or praying. A shaft of sunlight pierced the dimness and turned the golden Buddhas into shining temptations. This room displayed no sign forbidding photos. Still, it seemed prudent to assume the rule applied here, too, and it seemed respectful not to snap photos inside a room where people were performing devotions. But after a few of the faithful left, an idea struck me. I decided to wait for the room to empty, step outside, and shoot a photo from there, catching just a glimpse of the golden altar in the background. Then there’d be no one to offend, and I’d technically be following the rules.
I waited until everyone left the room except one small boy. He was out of sight of the doorway and I knew my camera wouldn’t pick him up. So, I stepped well outside the room and casually snapped my shot. Instantly, a tiny elderly woman whom I hadn’t noticed rushed forward from the room’s shadows, shouting at me. Her angry movements threatened to fling her tight little bun from her head. My camera’s flash must have gone off, alerting her to my presence.
I’ll never be sure of her precise complaint. She spoke a vituperative rush of Chinese, of which I only understood one phrase: “Bu hao!” (“Not good!” or, more to the point, “Very bad!”) As she scolded me, she grabbed my elbow with one bony hand and smacked my arm with the other. When she propelled me down the walkway to an unknown destination, yelling and slapping my arm the entire way, I grew fearful. I was in a communist country. Evidently I’d broken a rule. But surely I wouldn’t go to prison . . . would I? She was pretty old, her back hunched with osteoporosis, and I could have outrun her. But the temple was filled with young, fit Chinese who would surely side with one of their own. So I made no attempt to flee her grasp.
The little boy followed after us as the old woman pushed me into the office of an official in a green uniform. She kept pointing at the boy and pointing at my camera, screeching with even more emotion now that we had an audience. The man looked blankly from her to me. “Do you speak English?” I asked the man. He shook his head. So while the woman continued to shriek, I pointed at my camera, then at the little boy, and made negative gestures with my face and hands, indicating I’d taken no photos of the boy. In response, the man grabbed my arm and firmly guided me to another office where he presented me to two more officials: a young man and young woman. The grandmother followed, still gabbling.
I asked the female official, “Do you know English?”
“A litter,” she said.
Oh God, I’m going to jail, I thought.
The young woman listened as Grandma continued her tirade. Even in my fear I was impressed at the old woman’s lung capacity. After many minutes even the officials seemed to tire of her monologue. But they listened with exaggerated patience.
Finally I interjected, speaking slowly and distinctly: “I see the signs that say ‘cameras forbidden’ inside temple. I took no pictures inside. I stood outside and took a picture. My flash must have gone off. (Here I pointed at my flash.) I think this woman saw the flash and thought I took a photo of the boy. I did not. (Here I pointed at the boy, pointed at the camera, and shook my head.) I took no forbidden photos.”
The old lady shook her head, stomped her foot, and made other gestures to indicate she didn’t believe anything I said, whatever I said.
With deliberate calm, I gradually backed away. “I have done nothing wrong. I am sorry for the trouble. I will leave the temple now.” I bowed and turned to leave. I tried this trick twice, and twice the officials blocked the doorway.
The young female official and the old woman began conferring and gesturing to my camera. “Please don’t take my film. It will ruin my pictures. I have done nothing wrong.” I was worried they wanted to do something worse than take my film, but thought it best to direct their attention to the most optimistic of potential punishments.
When I tried to leave a third time, the entourage shepherded me toward a desk where the young woman pulled out an official form. There was only one thing left to do. I thought, Start crying, Cara. Now! My nerves were already ragged, so it was easy to call forth some real tears. My lips trembled as I pleaded, “Please let me go! I’ve done nothing wrong. Please let me go!” That’s when they did the most surprising thing of all. All three officials, and even the old woman, took one look at my face, shook their heads with pity, and more or less said, “Oh, no, no,” in Chinese. The young female official and the old grandma gently shooed me out the door with a soft flutter of their hands. I turned and scurried out before they could change their minds. The problem was, once I started crying I couldn’t stop. I found myself walking down a public street, weeping profusely before hordes of gaping Chinese, most of whom I towered over by several inches.
Through the water trebling my vision, I made out an old man smiling at me and holding out an ice cream bar. It took a moment for me to realize he was a street vendor. An Englishman who lives in China recently warned me, “Chinese ice cream can be a bit dodgy,” but I bought one anyway. The old man patted my arm as if to comfort me. He kept smiling and asking questions in Chinese, even though I kept saying, “Ting bu dong.” (I don’t understand.)
By the time I walked away, slurping the watery-tasting ice cream, I was smiling. Then, as I recalled the tiny old grandmother dragging me and slapping me, I started to giggle. If anything, passersby stared even more than they had at my tears. But their eyes held no judgment, only barely suppressed mirth. Lack of understanding can carry a penalty, but it can also carry a reward: laughter, the trophy of escape artists and survivors.
Dali, China
Today I spent Valentine’s Day alone, in a land of 1.3 billion people. This morning I rented a bike for five yuan (about sixty-five cents) and rode from Dali to Xizhou, a village of Bai people, the local minority group. For twenty-five kilometers, I rode on a long ribbon of two-lane highway, passing acre after acre of flat farmland.
Along the way, I stopped in a hamlet to ask directions. The village looked deserted until I spotted an old woman standing next to a small temple. She smiled and beckoned. As I approached, she waved me into the temple. Curious, I bowed then stepped through the entry into a dirt courtyard. A small building stood along one of the four walls. There was nothing else except a palpable silence.
I crossed the courtyard to the building and took a few tentative steps into its single large room, which was barren of
decoration. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed the prayer rugs lined up before me and realized this was not a Buddhist temple. It was the prayer hall of an Islamic mosque. I remembered something and looked down. My shoes! I turned to walk back to the door and remove them. Too late.
Before I could exit, a girl of about ten appeared in the empty courtyard and rushed toward me, chattering. I didn’t know what language she was speaking, but it was obvious she was scolding me. I quickly backed out of the building, bowing and apologizing in bad Chinese, “Dui bu qi! Dui bu qi!” (Excuse me! Excuse me!)
As I backed into the courtyard, the girl crawled partway into the temple on hands and knees, swatting and rubbing the floor. That’s when I noticed the dirty footprints I’d left behind on the thin carpet. Even Buddhist temples often require people to remove their shoes and I should have erred on the side of caution in the first place, but in the profound silence I’d stopped thinking. The mosque was silent no more, and neither were my thoughts, as the little girl continued to pummel the floor. I wondered if this community frowned on women entering the prayer hall at all. The girl had entered, so maybe not. Still, I felt like an intruder.
I turned to leave and tripped over two more girls who’d followed the first into the courtyard. They stared at me as if I were naked. Self-conscious, I looked down again and saw my other mistake: I was wearing pants with zip-off legs, and I’d gotten so sweaty from bicycling in the heat that I’d zipped off the lower legs, converting the pants into shorts. They weren’t all that short, but they showed my knees. I didn’t need to be told that this was disrespectful to Islam. In fact, I haven’t seen any women in China wearing shorts—Muslim, Buddhist, or otherwise. I gestured at my legs and repeated my apology, which sent all three girls into a fit of giggling.
It was obvious my pronunciation was gibberish to them. I still can’t get the hang of the Chinese tones. Maybe these girls didn’t even know Chinese. Nonetheless, I pulled out my phrasebook and riffled the pages until I hit on a word that seemed to fit the situation. Pointing at the prayer hall, I attempted to ask, “No women?” This only made them laugh harder.
Their laughter was cut off by a voice issuing from the mosque’s humble minaret, a muezzin calling the men to prayer. Realizing that it was now too late to leave the mosque without being noticed by the men who were surely heading this way, I opened my fanny pack and found my pant legs. I frantically stuck a leg through one of them and began zipping it back on. I stopped in embarrassment when a man entered the courtyard, but he ignored me as if I were invisible, walked right past me, entered the hall, and knelt on a prayer rug.
While I pulled the second leg on, the scolding girl beckoned to an old man. He walked straight up to me with a questioning look. In my nervousness, I dropped the unzipped pant leg around my ankle as I again struggled to apologize. I repeated my rendition of, “I’m sorry. No women, only men?” as I pointed at the building. He looked even more baffled than the children.
Giving up, I hopped out of the courtyard, one leg off, one leg on, the three girls following at my heels. When I sat on the ground outside to finish re-assembling my pants, the scolding girl sat next to me and smiled. I smiled back and pulled out my phrasebook, hoping to find something new to say. She gestured that she wished to see the tiny book. I handed it to her, and she started reading some of the Chinese words aloud, unwittingly giving me a lesson in pronunciation. I looked over her shoulder and repeated some of the phrases. She smiled again and corrected me, this time squelching her obvious urge to giggle.
When I looked up from our lesson, I saw that we’d attracted a crowd of a dozen or so curious children and adults. Most of them were chuckling. I bowed and said, “Ni hao!” More chuckling. Then I asked the girl for the phrasebook, riffled the pages again, and haltingly asked the elders, “Please, how far to Xizhou?” Several of them pointed in the same direction. One white-haired man held up a single finger. I assumed he meant one kilometer, although he might have meant one minute. Maybe he was pointing to Allah. “Xie xie ni! Zai jian! (Thank you! Goodbye!)” I said, and mounted my bike. I turned to wave as I pedaled away. Several people smiled and waved back. That’s when it became clear: I had not offended them, only surprised them. Their unreserved smiles made me wish I hadn’t decided to leave so abruptly, but I could think of no excuse to stay now.
I rode one kilometer in the direction they’d pointed, and found Xizhou. When I arrived the market was in full swing and I had to walk my bike through the buzzing swarm of people. The Bai have dark, delicate, sweetly crinkled features reminiscent of Tibetans. Bai women wear either a multicolored cloth wrapped around the head, or a flowery pink and blue fitted cap with a white tassel. The bright headdresses floated between vivid displays of vegetables, mandarin oranges, Popsicles, apples, and bananas. Slabs of fresh meat crawling with flies were thrown on bare folding tables. A butcher leaned over hunks of bloody meat, a cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth as he haggled with customers. A dead rat lay stiff on the corner of the table, its eyes squeezed shut into little cartoon X’s.
Ever since I arrived in China, I’ve mourned my lost eighteen inches of personal space. But it wasn’t until I reached this rural village that the pressure of China’s overpopulation felt physically dangerous. Bodies continued pouring into the market until I was wedged so tightly into a jostling line that the possibility of being trampled became quite real. It was frightening, but energizing. Being squashed in a crowd made me feel very Chinese—though the stares did not.
You’d think I’d be used to people staring at me. They’ve been doing it all my life. I both hate it and love it when people stare at my face and ask, “What are you?” Part of me wants to scream, “I’m an American!” or “I’m a human! What are you?” But another part of me loves being the melting pot personified, and watching their faces change as I share my story.
I’m not aware that any of my father’s Mexican ancestors came to the U.S. by wading or swimming across the Rio Grande, just as none of his Chinese ancestors ever worked on a railroad. My Chinese great-grandfather was a restaurant owner in El Paso, where Mexicans have lived since long before the borders were drawn. My great-grandmother was Mexican, but I believe she and her family simply walked across the bridge from Juarez to El Paso.
On my mother’s side, one of my Irish ancestors was a hillbilly. That great-grandmother was a poor girl from Appalachia, but she was lucky enough to be born with a pretty face. So when she was a teenager, she put on her best dress, came down from the mountains, went to the city, and caught herself a man. Then there were my English ancestors who lived in New England before the Revolutionary War, my Swiss ancestors who moved to the Midwest, and my French and Cherokee ancestors—I’m not sure I buy the bit about being descended from a Frenchman who married a chief’s daughter, although that story has been passed down in my mother’s family for years. According to another old family story, whispered for generations, one of our New England ancestors married a half-African woman. That makes me something like 1/2048th African, completing the American mosaic, the torn bits and pieces that make up me.
Some people do recognize one of those torn pieces or another, and it seems that some don’t like what they see. One tanned summer day when I was twelve, I was riding my bike through the white suburban neighborhood where I lived with my grandparents when a voice startled me from my daydreams. A little girl of about eight hollered, “Get out of my neighborhood, you dirty Mexican!”
Ever the optimist, I duck-walked over to her on my purple Schwinn with the banana seat to explain why it was wrong to call people things like that. I was sure that when she saw how friendly I was she would recognize her error and apologize. The pain didn’t hit me until I saw the truth in that little girl’s narrowed eyes, followed by her turned back and stomping feet: my friendly explanation only made her hate me more. I slowly pedaled away, thinking, This can’t be how most people are. This can’t be how my life is going to be.
Many men find my exotic blend intriguing. Then they discover I’m just another American woman who has spent half her life looking for an American man, often going to lengths that would shame the skeletons in my ancestral closet. They find me unusual, yes, but not in the ways they want.
Alaska taught me to embrace being different, to almost desire oddity. But the penetrating, sometimes hostile stares in this country are growing tiresome. Until now, I never really knew what it felt like to be a foreigner. Before China, the only foreign destinations I visited were Canada and Mexico. Because I’m 3/8ths Mexican, in Mexico I’ve sometimes been mistaken for a local. Because I’m 1/8th Chinese—as if a person could be broken down into a pie chart—Asians back in the U.S. sometimes study my eyes and ask, “Are you part Asian?” But here all they notice is my difference.
So when I returned to Dali this afternoon, I bought a new outfit: a pajama-like top and pants set, turquoise batik with tiny white flowers. While it’s not traditional, it has an Asian feel that I hope will make me less conspicuous. I tried to buy a traditional qipao dress as well, but even the extra large was too tight to zip up. I’m barely five-foot-two and a size six, yet compared to the women of China I look like a Clydesdale clomping among ponies.
I returned to the courtyard of the Number 5 Guesthouse, where I’m staying, and a voice called out to me in a jovial accent, “You look amazing, like a China doll.” I looked up to the second floor gallery to find the source of the voice: Rolf, a carelessly handsome young Dutchman with blond curly locks, a stubbly chin, and laughing green eyes. He was dangling his legs over the edge, grinning down at me, smoking a joint. He’d been sitting in that exact same place, joint in hand, when I’d arrived last night, and again when I’d left this morning.