by Weijian Shan
On Telegraph Avenue, which I took every day to classes, an earnest American man kept trying to sell me a copy of Mao’s Little Red Book. He was not at all happy with the path of economic reform China was taking. “China has changed color,” he would yell at me. “Down with the revisionists! Down with Deng Xiaoping!”
Finally, after a few weeks of haranguing, I’d had enough. “You know that little red book of yours?” I stopped to say. “You don’t need to sell it to me because I’ve memorized it.” He snorted. “I don’t believe you.”
“Would you like me to recite it?” I asked. I was bluffing—I couldn’t recite the whole thing—but I did know quite few passages by heart. I could even sing them, since during the Cultural Revolution, many of Mao’s quotations were made into songs.
“The force at the core leading our cause is the Chinese Communist Party,” I began. “The theoretical basis guiding our thinking is Marxism-Leninism. If there is to be a revolution, there must be a revolutionary party . . .”
“Okay, okay, okay,” the young man said hastily. Still, he wanted to lecture me on how Deng Xiaoping betrayed the revolution, and why Jiang Qing was a great woman and a true Marxist. There was no point in arguing with him. I simply said, “You would know better if you were sent to the Gobi for a few years.”
“Eh?” He was puzzled.
I didn’t explain and went on my way. But he stopped harassing me.
The first professor I went to meet with on campus, on September 15, was Professor Dick Holton. He was in his midfifties and wore a pair of dark-rimmed eyeglasses. Soft spoken, he came across as both kind and patient. He had served as the dean of the Haas School of Business, as Berkeley’s business school is known. I had corresponded with him in connection with my admission, and he was a great help in securing my financial support at Berkeley. I considered him to be my faculty sponsor. He was happy to see me now that I had finally made it to Berkeley, as he knew how difficult it was for a Chinese student to navigate the process of coming to the United States.
Then I went to meet with the faculty adviser I’d been assigned, Professor Janet Yellen. Her sunlit office was modest in size and well organized. She greeted me warmly and introduced me to her husband, Dr. George Akerlof, who happened to be in the room. He was a professor in the Economics Department. She appeared to be in her midthirties and he in his early forties. They were both friendly and casual in their manners and in their dress, she in her red sweater and he in his green one. I immediately felt relaxed and comfortable.
Professor Yellen had known that my background was different from a typical doctoral student. She was still quite surprised when I told her I had never taken a formal course in mathematics in my life beyond elementary school, although I had studied some math on my own. She was somewhat incredulous. She must have wondered how on earth this guy had managed to get into a doctorate program at UC Berkeley. If she had such doubts, she did not articulate them. But both she and her husband thought the courses would be challenging for me, as they put it rather mildly, in view of my educational background (or lack thereof).
The doctoral program required a concentration in another branch of social sciences, like economics, psychology, or political science. I chose economics, which required a lot of mathematics and statistics. I knew I was ill prepared, but I was confident I would be able to do it by working hard, as I had done at USF.
I wanted to take Econ 201A, a graduate-level course in microeconomics, in my first quarter. Professors Yellen and Akerlof both strongly advised me against it, suggesting the level of difficulty would be “insurmountable.” The right thing to do, they said, was to first take Econ 291A, Math Tools for Economics, the prerequisite course for 201A. I was hesitant. I couldn’t tell if they doubted my abilities, or if the course was truly that difficult.
I found some senior-class doctoral students and borrowed their homework and final papers for Econ 201A, to get a feel for how difficult this course was. Even though I couldn’t understand much of it, I felt I could grasp the concepts. I decided to take Econ 291A and Econ 201A concurrently, as well as some other courses in math and economics. Drs. Yellen and Akerlof were not convinced I could handle the course load. She counseled me to only take the required math classes, fearing I might get distracted and bogged down, but she let me make my own decision.
Dr. Akerlof taught one of the classes I took; he turned out to be a funny, genial lecturer and an absolute perfectionist. Copies of his lecture notes were kept on file at the university library for student reference. While reading them to catch up on a missed class, I was astonished to find he meticulously wrote down every single word of his lecture, including what he would do in class. It was like reading the script of a show. A discussion on market barriers to entry, for example, would go something like this:
Why do companies like Coca-Cola spend such huge sums on advertising? It’s not as if people don’t know what they make. The answer is that the advertising deters competitors from entering the market. Advertising is a contest to see who can burn the most money. (Take $10 bill from pocket and show to students.)
Dr. Akerlof was well known for his influential paper, published in 1970, titled “The Market for Lemons: Quality Uncertainty and the Market Mechanism.” The paper explained that “information asymmetry” was the underlying cause for the differentials in the perceived value of the same product between sellers and buyers. Among other applications, his analysis helped lay the theoretical foundation for the insurance industry to price its products. This and his other contributions to economic theory would win him the Nobel Prize in 2001.
It turned out that he and Professor Yellen were right about Econ 201A. After two weeks, I was devoting two-thirds of my time to this one course and only one-third to all my other subjects. Eventually, as an economist might put it, I conceded that Econ 201A was not an efficient use of my time and dropped it.
Another academic challenge for me that semester was linear algebra, a required course for doctoral students. Without any training in the basics, I plunged in and struggled. But I noticed that I wasn’t alone. Several other PhD students were having a hard time, too, including a few from Taiwan who I knew were strong in mathematics. Our textbook, Linear Algebra and Its Applications, was a beast, at more than 400 pages long. I read each chapter repeatedly and did all the exercises to drill myself on the concepts, theorems, and formulas. By the end of the quarter, I counted that I’d read the thing cover to cover seven times. An A + for the course was the hard-won reward.
Thankfully, the straightforward logic of calculus I found to be a bit easier. Berkeley offered a self-paced calculus program, which allowed you to take Calculus A and B in two quarters. I had completed Calculus A halfway through the first quarter and sat for the exam, which was supervised by a teaching assistant from South Africa. I ripped through the test at a fast pace, finishing long before the other students, and gave it to the TA. She flicked through it quickly and then put the test booklet down.
“You cheated,” she said, staring at me. “What do you mean, I cheated?” I said, thinking this was a joking conversation opener. “It’s not possible to have finished so quickly and get every answer correct. You must have cheated,” she said scornfully. I felt somewhat insulted that she would accuse me of such a thing. But I was also a little amused that she didn’t believe anyone could do it—when I clearly just had.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Why don’t you give me another exam? Just for me this time. I will do it right in front of you.” She rolled her eyes, searched in her pile of papers, took out a sheet, and handed it over to me. “You have half an hour,” she said.
I sat in front of her and set to work. She was reading but glanced up from her book from time to time, to check on me and to see how the others were doing. I finished the second exam before some of the students turned in the original. Seeing my work was genuine, the TA apologized and gave me an A.
I had worked hard. I got straight As that quarter, if I remember correctly, but hones
tly, some of it was a blur. I would have enjoyed studying in a more leisurely manner, but I didn’t have that luxury, as I had so much ground to make up.
My studies were not the only focus for me that fall. Both Bin and I had been making every effort for her to join me. We had the all-clear from Berkeley, as Bin was included in my stipend. The problem was that we needed the approval from BIFT.
I wrote letters to Bin frequently and eagerly anticipated hers. On November 15, 1982, a letter from Bin arrived. In it, she told me that she was about four months pregnant. At first, Bin and I had not wanted to have a child until we were settled down in one place. But when I was home in 1982, we decided to try, partly hoping a grandchild would be good for my mother-in-law. Her health had started to decline even though she was only 46 years old then. She appeared open and carefree in front of others, but the loss of her husband and Bin’s two younger sisters in the tragic earthquake had taken its toll on her, despite her brave nature. We hoped a new baby in the family would bring Bin’s mother some new joy and help improve her health.
* * *
Bin and I were elated about the pregnancy and redoubled our efforts to be together. In spite of our petitions, there was still no telling when she would receive the permission to travel to the United States to join me. Allowing spouses to travel abroad was as yet unprecedented and there was no clear policy in this regard. The relevant authorities we had petitioned probably did not wish to take the risk of setting a precedent.
Just before Christmas, I met up with an acquaintance visiting San Francisco from Beijing. He brought me a package from Bin, containing a cassette tape of her talking to me, updating me on her life and the goings-on at home. She also included a pair of elegant blue pants that she’d made in a sewing and tailoring class. I donned them immediately with some excitement, finding they fit me perfectly. It was raining that day, and by the time I got home, I was soaked. Looking down, I noticed my shoes had turned completely blue. When I removed my wet pants, I was amused to find that even my legs were dyed blue, and the pants had lost most of their color. It was no surprise that the dye from the hand-sewn pants had run, but neither Bin nor I expected it would wash out almost clean after one rain.
Bin and I changed tactics to get her to Berkeley. Since there was as yet no policy in China to permit students studying abroad to bring their spouses, we decided there was little point in being crusaders for change. Our best chance for Bin to join me was for her to come to the States in her own right, as a student, not a spouse.
Her specialty was Russian, a subject she had studied since elementary school and for which she earned an undergraduate degree. We felt she excelled in the subject and had a good chance of winning a scholarship. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that UC Berkeley had a Department of Slavic Languages and Literature. I dropped by and discussed Bin’s case. It was certainly unique: The professor I spoke with said she had never heard of a Chinese student interested in studying Russian in the United States. But she was warm and encouraging, urging her to go ahead and apply to the graduate program. Bin and I shared a laugh in our letters about the irony of coming to America only to study Russian, but getting her on a plane was all that mattered.
We set to work feverishly to apply for the program. Bin gathered her transcripts and a copy of her diploma, taking the required exams to complete her application while pregnant and taking care of her mother as well. Our hopes were up, but we sensed there would be many hurdles before our dream of living together became a reality. At the Asia Foundation, I discussed our plans with L. Z. Yuan, a spry 73-year-old who had been born in Shanghai in the last years of the Qing dynasty. Educated in American schools, he became a war correspondent for the United Press Syndicate after the Japanese invasion and later was the founding editor of Hong Kong’s first Asian-owned English-language paper, the Hong Kong Tiger Standard. Although he had officially retired from the Asia Foundation in 1977, L. Z. had returned to manage the foundation’s China program.
He took our case under his wing and assured me that if Berkeley’s Slavic languages department accepted her, the Asia Foundation would write a support letter for Bin to get a student visa.
Bin and I received great news on March 2, 1983: She had been accepted, with a scholarship, by Berkeley’s Slavic languages department. We were overjoyed. L. Z. Yuan, who was traveling to Beijing, brought with him both the visa form and the admission letter from Berkeley and delivered them to Bin personally. We are both grateful to this day for his kindness to us.
But just as we thought things were looking up, Bin’s mother began to experience severe bouts of muscle weakness and could not function on her own. She needed Bin’s help and Bin would not leave her mother alone. There were no other close relatives. So it seemed that our dream of Bin coming to the United States would have to wait, at least until her mother recovered. I felt helpless to do anything to ease the burden Bin carried of caring for her mother, even as she was on the verge of giving birth to our son.
On April 20, 1983, I received a letter from my father informing me that Bin had given birth to a boy on April 13. Our son weighed 8.7 pounds and had been delivered by caesarean section in the same Army General Hospital where her mother was being treated in a different ward. One consolation for Bin was the knowledge that her mother received the best care possible. This was the hospital where Bin’s mother had worked as a dentist and Bin’s father had worked as a doctor. Bin visited her mother every day.
When I first found out Bin was pregnant, I’d suggested the name Bo if the baby were a boy, which in Chinese means “doctorate,” in recognition of my recent good fortune. My father considered that somewhat vain, however, and suggested using a different Chinese character that is also pronounced bo but means “fight.” Bin didn’t like “fight,” as she thought it evoked the image of a fighting rooster. So we named him Bo, settling on the pacifist character. My mother, ever considerate, suggested we nickname him LeiLei. The character for lei is made up of three characters for shi, which is also the character for Bin’s family name. So, our son would have my family name, but his nickname would contain six of Bin’s family names. It seemed more than fair. I was overjoyed at my son’s birth, but I knew it would be a long time before I could see him and his mother.
My landlady congratulated me and offered me some wine to celebrate. I called Mrs. Cassou and some other friends to report the good news. I happened to reach the Cassous on their eighth wedding anniversary. I knew they had been trying to have a child. I privately wished that my good luck would rub off on these lovely people who had helped me so much.
Happiest of all, I think, was my mother-in-law. To finally have a grandchild after losing so many members of her family cheered her up immensely, but it was not enough to save her. Two months later, in June 1983, she succumbed to her illness, at the young age of 47.
Even beyond the grief of her mother’s death, Bin’s life in Beijing was hard. Not only was she taking care of a newborn, she was also working in the administrative office at BIFT. Bin would leave our son with my parents during the day, and then commute for 45 minutes by bus to her job on campus. It was exhausting, emotionally and physically.
I stepped up my efforts to help Bin get all the necessary approvals and papers to travel to the United States. Now there was the added complexity of our newborn son. Naturally, Bin wanted to bring him with her. But I thought that was unrealistic. It was hard enough for her to come. I thought we had to take it one step at a time, and the priority was to get her over first. My parents would take care of our son until we could manage.
By then, Bin’s acceptance by Berkeley’s Slavic language department had expired. So she had to go through the application process again, and petition authorities in Beijing for necessary approvals. As with our previous efforts, we had no idea if any of this was going to work. It was nearing midsummer of 1983. Bin and I had been apart, for the second time, for nearly a year. We had been apart more than we’d been together.
I enlisted the he
lp of my US friends to speed up the process to get Bin over. Again, thanks to the help of L. Z. Yuan, the Asia Foundation issued papers for Bin to obtain a student visa. Dr. Haydn Williams of the Asia Foundation and Professor Dick Holton of UC Berkeley both wrote letters to the president of BIFT, lobbying him to let Bin join me.
Meanwhile, my life in Berkeley went on. Americans like to say that theirs is a free country. I had discovered that you could not be free in America without a car. That spring, I bought my first car. It was a used beige-colored Opel that cost $1,900. The day I was to pick it up, the woman I was buying it from called to say that, despite our agreement, she had sold it to a dealer. I had no idea that someone could just walk away from a deal. I called my friend Bob Meyer, a lawyer I knew at Graham & James, to ask for his help. I don’t know what Bob said to the seller, but I was able to pick up the car at the dealership the next day. I was so excited about my newly found freedom that I immediately began to drive everywhere, even though I had yet to obtain my driver’s license.
Later that term, Professor Yellen suggested that I find a summer job to supplement my income. I interviewed with two banks, the First National Bank of Chicago and Chase Manhattan. Eventually I chose First Chicago because I liked the person in charge there, Rand Sparling. Rand was a man of his word. When he said he would call me at 5 p.m., the phone rang promptly at 5. First Chicago placed me in the trade finance department in its San Francisco office and paid me $500 per week. I was reporting to Ken Petrilla, the head of the department. Ken was kind to me, as were the two young women who worked for him. After some discussion, Ken tasked me with a study of the trade flow between Asia and the West Coast of the United States. This job was perfect for me, as it allowed me to get some experience working in a bank, earn some additional income, and use my training in business and economics to do something that was both satisfying and useful.