by Weijian Shan
“What are you here for?” she asked with a poker face, even though it was obvious. We explained that we’d like to register to get married. The woman gave a grumpy sigh, rolled her eyes, and sat down at the desk. It was plain that she didn’t see us as two young people trying to celebrate a happy occasion, but as a major inconvenience and a pile of paperwork.
“How long have you known each other?” she asked, looking at me. It was a standard question for the marriage form, but I was annoyed by her unpleasantness on such a happy occasion. “Three days,” I replied, curtly and innocently; the cynic in me was coming out. The woman stared at me, and then turned to Bin. “Do you really know this man?” she demanded. It took a while for my bride to convince her I was only joking.
We finally had our wedding ceremony on February 12, 1980. We just invited a few family members for dinner at my parents’ apartment. The guests included Bin’s mother, her only living immediate family member, and my parents, of course, as well as my sister and brother.
Although we were married, we did not have a place of our own to live. Your work unit assigned you to a home, and since there was a severe shortage at the time, newly married couples might wait years for one. We had to use a room in the apartment of my parents, or sometimes stay at Bin’s mother’s. Or we slept in my office—which I shared with others but had to myself at night—on a small mattress on top of two rows of chairs.
Bin wanted to have a new dress made after the wedding; I remember the dress she wanted was light green in color. The day she went to the tailor she had to get up at 4 a.m. and wait in line to take a number, and then wait again for her turn to have the appointment with the tailor. She asked me to go with her. I thought it was not worth it to get up so early for a dress, because I hadn’t yet learned about what members of the opposite sex considered important.
Later that morning, Bin came back from the tailor’s crying. She had waited for almost four hours in line, but when her turn came all the numbers were already drawn, and she left empty-handed. She was less angry at the tailor shop than with me for not having shared her pain by getting up early to go with her. In the end, she gave up the idea and never had a dress made. To this day, I still regret her disappointment and sadness, since I had played a role in it.
* * *
The faculty training program really helped improve our language proficiency. I began to teach English in the spring semester of 1980. My students were in their third year of studies, having been accepted after taking the nationwide standardized exams in 1978. They were an even better class than the cohort of 1977, when Deng restarted the examination system. They arrived already reading and speaking English. These students were bold, proactive, curious, and challenging. I quite enjoyed teaching them.
In the spring of 1980, a group of Americans arrived on campus. A San Francisco–based organization called the Asia Foundation came to recruit visiting scholars. The foundation received funding from public and private sources and provided support to programs to help developing countries in Asia. It was offering scholarships for three BIFT faculty members to study at US universities for a period of one year. This was the first time anyone at BIFT had had such an opportunity. All faculty members under the age of 45 were eligible and encouraged to apply, but the selection would be through a rigorous, comprehensive, and blind examination process, meaning that the test papers were identified by number and the examiners wouldn’t know who took the test.
I had already been accepted into the UN translator program on a deferred basis. But that program wouldn’t start until winter of the following year. The Asia Foundation visiting scholar program would start this autumn. The dean of the English Department, where I was teaching, encouraged me to apply. “You are going to America anyway so it doesn’t matter if you do well or poorly on the exams,” he told me. “You might as well give it a try.”
But this time, I was competing not only against my peers but also with many of my own professors. I didn’t think I could outcompete my professors, but since there was nothing to lose, I decided there was no harm in trying.
The tests were rigorous, covering a wide range of both English and Chinese languages, essays, and history. The blind nature of the tests allowed me to level the playing field somewhat in my own way. I knew that those who administered the tests would be biased in favor of those mid-aged scholars who had been educated before the Cultural Revolution, because the education quality had been much higher then. After all, this was a process of selecting visiting scholars to the United States. In my essays, I wrote in a style and a voice that would give the reader the impression I was one of those mid-aged scholars.
The result was announced: I came in first. I was surprised, but of course happily. Maybe my trick worked, but still I hadn’t expected to do better than my own professors, many of whom I knew were far better educated than me. I knew I was just more experienced than they were in taking tests. For the past three years, they had been busy giving exams without taking any themselves, whereas I had been busy taking them.
I was much happier with this result than with that of the UN exam because I didn’t disappoint myself this time. By then my father had returned from his African post. I hurried to my father’s office to tell him the good news, as I knew this would make him happy.
“Oh.” That was all he said, but I could tell he was pleased.
Suddenly, I had two opportunities to go to the United States. All roads were leading to Rome. All I had to do was pick one.
By the rules of that time, a graduate of the UN interpreter-training program would be deemed as having obtained a graduate degree. That was a big deal for me. I was still, like the rest of my cohort, a worker-peasant-soldier student, considered to be of lesser quality than those who were accepted into college through the formal entrance examination. Accordingly, my pay was less than that of college graduates before the Cultural Revolution. The UN job would pay tens of thousands of dollars per year, an astronomical sum compared to my 49 yuan a month teacher’s salary, or just $379 a year. At the time Bin was earning 56 yuan a month. To this day, she enjoys telling friends that I married her for her money.
Most important, the UN job would allow me to take my spouse with me to the States.
The Asia Foundation program, on the other hand, would only pay a stipend of about $250 per month. I could only stay in the United States for one year. And I could only go there alone, leaving my bride behind. But I would finally get a chance to study in a US university, which was something I had dreamed of doing. It was hard to say goodbye to a lot of money the UN job promised, not to mention my new wife.
Eventually, I chose the Asia Foundation. My friends at BIFT told me that I exchanged a watermelon for a sesame seed. In any case, the die was cast. On August 8, 1980, I received the formal notice to go to the United States as a visiting scholar.
The president of BIFT would decide which university I was going to attend. “There are three universities on the list provided by the American sponsor,” the president said, opening a letter written on finer, thicker paper than I had ever seen. “We can send one person to each. Since you did so well on the exam, you will go to the best one.”
I thanked him and waited anxiously to hear my destination.
“The first on the list is called Stanford.” The president paused. “Stanford. I’ve never heard of it. It must be an obscure school. You know there are thousands of universities in America.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Another is called the University of California at Berkeley. We have all heard about California. The University of California must be pretty good, but this one apparently is a branch school.”
At that time, because of the surging demand for higher education after the Cultural Revolution, several Chinese universities in Beijing had set up branch schools that accepted applicants who otherwise could not qualify for regular universities. A branch school to us meant second rate. I would not want to go there.
“The final one on
the list is the University of San Francisco.” The president beamed. “San Francisco. I have heard so much about San Francisco. Have you heard of San Francisco?”
“Yes, certainly,” I replied. Who had not heard of San Francisco, the Old Gold Mountain, as it is known in Chinese?
“This one must be the best of the three.” He folded the letter. “You will go to the University of San Francisco.”
I smiled and thanked him profusely. I was so grateful and so excited.
Chapter 20
Old Gold Mountain
As the relationship between the United States and China warmed up, the tension between the United States and the Soviet Union reached another high after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979. In retaliation, the United States boycotted the Moscow Summer Olympics in 1980.
Americans were gripped by the Iran hostage crisis that had started in November 1979 when 66 American embassy staff members and their families were held hostage in the wake of the Iranian Revolution, which overthrew the Shah. President Jimmy Carter authorized an ill-fated attempt in April 1980 to rescue the hostages that resulted in the deaths of eight servicemen due to mishaps with their aircraft on the ground at their own base after the mission was called off. The incident dealt a serious blow to the credibility of the Carter administration and contributed to his defeat in the subsequent presidential election. The hostages were finally released before the next president took office in January 1981.
In the United States, 1980 was an election year. Ronald Reagan, a former actor and the governor of California, challenged Jimmy Carter and won. Reagan was good-looking, confident, and charismatic. Carter had been so ensnared in international crises that he looked tired and distressed during the campaign, appearing more often on TV with a frown rather than the broad smiles that bared his piano-key-like teeth, his former trademark.
In China, Deng Xiaoping was now firmly in control of the country. Zhao Ziyang, a reformist, replaced Hua Guofeng to become the premier. Zhao, under Deng, had initiated broad-scoped and large-scale economic reforms and continued to adopt market-oriented policies. The doors of China were opening wider in trade, investments, and international exchange of students.
In January 1981, Jiang Qing and the rest of the Gang of Four were put on trial; Mao’s wife, ever defiant, received a suspended death penalty and the others were sentenced to jail terms. The trial itself was a farce. But it marked a clear break from the arbitrary persecution of political opponents that had been the hallmark of Mao’s rule. It also seemed to have closed the final chapter on the Cultural Revolution.
* * *
The name “San Francisco” translated into Chinese literally means “Old Gold Mountain.” It must have originated from the time of the California Gold Rush (1848–1855), a time also of significant Chinese immigration to the United States. Thousands of Chinese workers built the first transcontinental railroad in the United States, completing it on May 10, 1869.
I arrived in San Francisco on August 28, 1980, along with three other BIFT faculty members, and was picked up at the airport by Andy Andrews, the Asia Foundation’s Director of Programs. Andy was in his forties, with close-cropped dark hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. His high forehead and prominent nose gave him an intense look, but he smiled warmly and greeted me as I approached.
“I knew you were our new scholar from China,” he said. “I could tell from your suit and haircut.” I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.
Andy drove me in his Buick to downtown San Francisco. The scenery along the highway from the airport was beautiful. On the right I caught glimpses of the blue water of San Francisco Bay, and on the left were rolling hills covered in yellowing late-summer grass.
Andy took me to lunch in San Francisco’s Chinatown. The food was excellent. Andy was surprised when I told him the Chinese food in this restaurant was tastier, with a broader range of fresh ingredients, than what we had at home; China was still working its way through shortages. The only things not Chinese were the fortune cookies, the likes of which I had never seen. Yet Americans loved them and seemed to think they were authentically Chinese. Still, I thought they were clever, a small splash of entertainment to end a meal. I remember my fortune read, “Confucius likes mini-skirts.” I was sure he did and laughed inwardly.
Doggy bags were a surprise, too. In China, no one would want to lose face by asking to take leftovers home. Americans have a clever way of getting around the face issue, by ostensibly implying that the leftovers are for their dogs. In the United States, I also learned later, children were told to eat all their food, and become members of the “clean plate club,” because children in China were starving.
After lunch, Andy dropped me off at my hotel on Post Street. I wanted to take a shower, but I couldn’t figure out how the faucet worked. It took me a while to examine and experiment with the knob under the shower before I managed to turn it on. After cleaning up, I turned on the television for news, but it seemed every channel was only broadcasting commercials. When I found a news broadcast, there was hardly any international news.
One thing that surprised me was that Americans had not been receiving the same news that I had for years. I thought that in San Francisco Voice of America would be ubiquitous. But I couldn’t get the VOA shortwave broadcasts anywhere. Where had those voices I’d been listening to all those years been coming from? Shortwave travels all around the world, allowing people to receive signals from anywhere in any country. In China, almost every radio sold in stores had shortwave bands, which could travel long distances and without which a radio would be virtually useless in China’s vast rural areas. In the United States, it was almost impossible to find a shortwave radio. Americans did not seem to need news from outside their own hometowns, and therefore AM/FM radios were sufficient.
The day after I arrived, Andy drove me to the Asia Foundation office on Geary Street to meet with Dr. Haydn Williams, its president. Square-jawed and patrician, Dr. Williams had served in the State Department and the Pentagon under presidents Eisenhower and Kennedy and as President Nixon’s ambassador-level representative to the talks deciding the fate of Micronesia. I thought he looked straight out of central casting for the role of a US diplomat.
He welcomed me to the states and said how pleased he was to meet me, one of the first Chinese visitors sponsored by the Asia Foundation. He wished me an enjoyable stay and asked me not to hesitate to contact him if I needed any help. He asked me for my first impressions of America. I told him everything looked wonderful, the people were very friendly, and I had even managed to take a shower. I was so looking forward to learning more.
Then Andy and I went to his office and he asked me what I would like to study. I was surprised to be offered a choice, and I couldn’t tell if he was being polite. I told him it didn’t matter what I would study as long as I studied something. He paused for a few moments and then said, “China doesn’t have a legal system. It would be good if you would study law.” I had already heard before leaving Beijing that I might be assigned to study law in the United States. I had no idea what it entailed but law sounded exotic.
My future course of study seemingly decided, Andy drove me to the University of San Francisco (USF). The hilly streets made me carsick, and at one point, Andy had to stop the Buick to let me out so I could get some air and settle my stomach. It would take a few months for me to get used to riding in a car through San Francisco’s roller- coaster streets.
USF is a Catholic school, established by the Jesuits in 1855, riding on the growth of the post-1848 California Gold Rush. The most prominent building on campus is St. Ignatius Church, whose twin spires can be seen for miles across the city; it sits at the corner of Fulton and Parker Streets. A few years before I arrived, the school had expanded by acquiring a second campus nearby, a former women’s college high on top of a hill, called Lone Mountain. It was an imposing complex of buildings with red-tile roofs, set at the top of an elaborate series of stone staircases with gardens on all sides and sh
aded by tall pines. This was where I would be living during my year at USF.
At the heart of the Lone Mountain campus was a large, windowless chapel at the top of yet another set of imposing stairs. It seemed to be unused except on Sundays. I was given a room to myself in the chapel building, in what I assumed had been housing for the clergy. It was a luxury to have a room of my own, but I was quite far from the four-story dorm building where the rest of the students lived.
My first night there was very quiet. Nobody else seemed to inhabit my particular part of the campus. Once I wandered into the church to look around, but I found the vast emptiness somewhat intimidating when the lights were out. Even though I was afraid of nothing after the Gobi, the eerie walk back to my room gave me goose bumps. The darkness, the silence, and the unfamiliar setting made me feel like a stranger in a strange land and deeply lonely. I felt the name of the place, Lone Mountain, was quite fitting.
After having been so attentively taken care of by Andy upon arrival, I was surprised to be left to myself. I was already late for school, as the semester had started more than a week ago. What’s more, my first day on campus turned out to be the Friday before the long Labor Day weekend, so the campus remained largely deserted. Labor Day was another surprise. I had always known it to fall on the first day of May. I had no idea Americans celebrated the day in September.
I was sure to be in for a lonely weekend on Lone Mountain. Fortunately, there were some students from Taiwan on campus who also didn’t have anywhere to go. A few of them came to check me out, because they had never met anyone from the Communist mainland. I tried my best not to appear menacing. I did not know if they were surprised or disappointed, but they said I didn’t look much like a Communist bandit, which was the term of endearment Taiwan had reserved for Mainland Chinese. Soon we got along quite well. A couple of them offered to tour me around the campus and to pick up a few needed items in the bookstore.