by Weijian Shan
When classes started again in the fall, I moved out of Jean’s house and into Berkeley’s International House, an on-campus residence for students known as I-House. Every quarter it awarded free room and board to one student selected on the basis of both merit and need. I qualified based on grades, and I was also demonstrably poor. My coming from China probably also appealed to the selection committee.
Berkeley’s I-House was the second of an international network of residential dormitories that John D. Rockefeller Jr. had funded. It was the brainchild of a young YMCA official, Harry Edmonds, who came up with the idea after encountering a Chinese student on the steps of the Columbia University library. After Edmonds wished him a polite “Good morning,” the Chinese student was overcome with emotion, saying that he had been in New York City for three weeks and that those were the first words anyone had spoken to him. Edmonds and his wife realized they needed to do something to help foster better interactions between US students and their foreign classmates. The first International House opened in New York City near Columbia University in 1924.
Berkeley’s I-House, which opened in 1930, was built on the university’s fraternity and sorority row. It began, at a time when the university didn’t allow coeducational living and people of different races generally didn’t mix, as a deliberate attempt to promote integration and to draw foreign students. I-House was a grand building, five-plus stories topped with a distinctive dome. It had its own dining hall and a 24-hour library, and it was bustling with social activity at all times.
If John D. Rockefeller Jr. had meant to foster communication between Americans and foreigners, Berkeley’s I-House was a screaming success. We all had our own rooms, yet I still found the collegial buzz of the students quite noisy and potentially distracting. One had to be disciplined, so as not to be lured by all the parties, activities, and gatherings. One time, I found myself sitting in a circle on the floor of someone’s dorm room. Someone lit a cigarette and passed it around. Each person took a deep inhale of the smoke. But it did not smell like tobacco. I was naïve enough not to know it was marijuana until a few moments later. I politely declined a toke, but sat there chatting. I expected the joint would have some noticeable effect on my friends, but it didn’t seem to me anyone behaved any differently after smoking it.
I also became a teaching assistant that quarter. On Professor Yellen’s recommendation, I interviewed with Professor David Teece, who taught BA188, Introduction to International Business. I got the job but soon nearly lived to regret it as more than 100 students were on the roster. I taught four sessions, one day a week, plus office hours. The salary of $9 per hour didn’t compensate me for the many hours of preparation required. Nor did I anticipate that many of my students also lived at I-House and, once they discovered me there, would drop by my room endlessly to ask questions. Despite this, it was a rewarding experience. I enjoyed teaching, and especially interacting with the students.
Once I had enough mathematics and economics under my belt, I retook Econ 201A, the microeconomics course I had earlier dropped after two weeks. This time, the class wasn’t difficult to understand, and in fact I enjoyed it.
Fall turned to winter, and my semester-long residence at I-House came to an end. Although there was still no certainty that Bin would join me, I applied, and was accepted, for an apartment at Albany Student Village, housing for married graduate students. The new apartment was in the town of Albany, right near the San Francisco Bay, about three miles from campus. With its streets lined with two-story apartment buildings made of wood, it looked like an army barracks. My apartment, on an upper floor, felt extravagant to me. It had two bedrooms, a small kitchen connected to a modest-sized living-dining area, and a bathroom: This was the most spacious and luxurious home I’d ever lived in. I knew Bin would love it, if only she could get here.
Just before Christmas 1983, Bin and I got a break we sorely needed. Captain Nelson Tsui, a businessman who had made his fortune in shipping, offered to pay my airfare to Beijing for Christmas vacation. I had been away for 16 months, and I was desperate to see Bin and meet our son for the first time.
I left for Beijing on the cheapest flight I could find, transiting through Hong Kong, which was tense from negotiations between Britain and China over its return to Chinese rule, and arrived to find Beijing in a deep freeze. The temperature was –15° C (∼5° F). The steel gray sky was forbidding, and the air, as usual, badly polluted. Chimneys belched black coal smoke from the furnaces keeping the city warm. I could feel and smell the soot in the air. Most residents walked or biked around wearing white surgical masks, as did I. These both made breathing easier and kept the face warm in the freezing cold.
Underneath the soot, economic activity was visible. For the first time, Beijing had supermarkets and telephone booths. Perhaps my favorite sign of progress was that, due to the increased number of cars on the roads, the government banned honking, so Beijing was much quieter than it had been when I left.
These economic green shoots were sprouting thanks to the efforts of Deng Xiaoping and his left and right hands, Party Secretary Hu Yaobang and Premier Zhao Ziyang. One of Deng’s major contributions to China was the abolishment of lifetime tenure of senior government officials. Deng himself never assumed the highest titles in the Party or the government, even though they were his for the taking. In 1983, he suggested the establishment of the Advisory Committee of the Party Central Committee. Essentially this was made up of retired senior government officials, and it became a gracious way for them to retire. Deng himself became chairman of this advisory committee, setting an example for others.
This was a major step away from Maoist policies and cleared the way for a more regular transfer of power. Hu and Zhao now were implementing Deng’s vision, helping to streamline the bureaucracy and introducing more market elements into the Chinese economy. The reforms that took root in these years would underlie much of China’s future growth. Unfortunately, the one that didn’t last was the ban on honking. Beijing would soon be back to its noisy self.
The time I spent with Bin and LeiLei that winter was better than anything I could have imagined. For Bin and me, seeing each other again was so satisfying that we simply stayed inside, enjoying being together. We had so much to talk about. I was floored when I saw LeiLei, who was only eight months old. I felt an immediate bond. Despite my misgivings, it took him only a few minutes to warm up to me and soon we were playing together as naturally as if I’d been there all along. It was still freezing cold outside, so apart from visiting with a few close friends and relatives, we didn’t do much. But those moments were priceless, more than enough to warm our hearts and celebrate as a family.
I made an exception to spending time with my family for a visit to BIFT, noting with satisfaction the progress my former students, who would be future BIFT faculty, had made in their studies.
I was asked to give a lecture while there, on a subject of my choice. I spoke about the benefits of international trade and the need for developing countries to industrialize.
The lecture went over quite well and was well attended. By this point BIFT not only had foreign professors of languages, but also foreign professors of other subjects, such as economics. A visiting US professor named Vin Hawink liked my lecture so much that he personally gave me $400 to help me out financially. He wouldn’t take no for an answer when I said I couldn’t accept his gift. Instead, I gave the money to the school to help the next student going abroad.
My winter break was over quickly, and I left Beijing on January 17, 1984. Soon after returning to San Francisco, I learned from Berkeley’s Chinese Student Association that a delegation from the Chinese Ministry of Education was visiting, and there was a party at the Chinese consulate. So I went. That night, I learned an astonishing thing. The delegation announced a new policy regarding Chinese citizens studying overseas. The spouses of graduate students studying abroad would now be granted approval to join them, assuming the spouse was also accepted at a university
and had proof of sufficient financial support. This was a major step in China’s policy regarding Chinese students abroad. It fit Bin’s and my own situation perfectly. The path seemed clear for Bin to join me: All she needed was an acceptance letter from a US university, a passport, and a visa from the US consulate.
I was so excited I tried to call Bin to tell her the good news. She had no phone at home, so I had to call her workplace. I asked the operator to place a person-to-person call, a concept that seems so antiquated now. On a person-to-person call, the rate per minute was higher than for placing a regular call, but the caller would not be charged if the person they were calling couldn’t be reached. The operator told me that it would take five to six hours to get through to Beijing.
I gave up and wrote Bin a letter. “Now all is ready but the start of the East Wind,” I wrote. It was an old expression, referring to a historic battle on China’s Yangtze River. “Please don’t delay. We need to seize the day, even the minute and the second. I know how Beijing people do things, including ourselves: never in a hurry, and always taking our time. We can’t do it that way. You must come as soon as possible. Now that the door is open, there will be a rush and if you are late, you have to wait in line and then there will be further delay. Please hurry!”
I thought it was an extraordinary thing for Deng to open the door for so many Chinese students to study abroad. In one form or another, every country in the Communist world had a barrier preventing its people from traveling abroad—an Iron Curtain or something similar. The gap in living standards between China and the developed world was much greater than that between, for example, East and West Germany. It seemed obvious that many Chinese students who went to study abroad would not return. Deng’s open-door policy seemed almost certain to lead to a brain drain, just as China’s economic development needed more smart young people than ever. When Deng had told Jimmy Carter he would send 10 million Chinese to the United States, everyone thought he was joking. But Deng was resolved to make this bold move. In order for China to become a member of the international community, Chinese people had to be able to study and travel abroad. Eventually Deng’s decision paid off, although it took decades.
To wait for Berkeley’s Slavic languages department to readmit Bin would take too long. I went back to USF for help. My old friends at the business school, including Professor Murray and others, helped Bin apply for the MBA program. She was quickly accepted. L. Z. Yuan also informed me that the Asia Foundation would issue her the necessary visa forms.
Things moved quickly after that. At the end of January 1984, I received a letter from Bin saying that she expected to leave by May 1, although she still hadn’t received all the papers. Finally, on March 12, I received a phone call from China. It was a collect call. I knew immediately it was from Bin. Her voice came across loud and clear. She told me that BIFT’s vice president had agreed to do everything possible to help her join me. She was planning to be in Berkeley by the end of June.
It was a busy and overloaded academic term for me at Berkeley. I had a full course load and was continuing as a TA for Professor Teece’s class. I found out that I had already taken enough courses in economics to qualify for a master’s degree short of a comprehensive exam. Professor Yellen advised me that I didn’t even need to take the exam—instead I could just take another course, Econ 201B. Since taking a class was more appealing than preparing for an exam on old materials, I chose the class. But it was one more thing to do, on top of my other responsibilities.
The workload and preparing for Bin’s arrival must have put too much pressure on me. One night I was jolted awake by a sharp pain in my chest. I was worried and took myself to the university clinic the next day. A cardiologist told me that my blood pressure was high: 145/110, indicating early stages of hypertension. After a slew of tests, the doctors eventually found nothing else wrong. They advised me to take it easy and get more sleep. They were right. After a few nights’ rest, the problem was gone.
* * *
On March 23, 1984, Dick Habor, a Berkeley administrator from the business school, called to inform me that I had been elected by my students as the best teaching assistant, and that I would receive an award for Excellence in Teaching during the University’s spring banquet. It was the annual Earl F. Cheit Award, Dick explained, named after dean emeritus “Budd” Cheit, and given to the business school’s best teachers. (Professor Cheit worked at Berkeley for more than three decades and helped build the business school into a major institution; he eventually became a good friend of mine.) Only one teaching assistant was chosen to receive it, voted on by students and based on three criteria: excellence in teaching, genuine interest in the students, and attention to their personal development. I was quite surprised and did not know what I did to deserve this honor. But I was grateful that all my efforts to help my students were not lost on them. All those late-night visits by my dorm mates at I-House the previous quarter must have counted for something.
Dick invited my family to the award ceremony. But of course, I did not have any family with me. In the end, Mrs. Calhoun and a few other friends joined me. After the award was presented, I was asked to say a few words. I remembered how my parents had always wanted me to get a good education, and how proud they would have been at this moment. In addition to thanking everyone, I said I was happy for my parents. But I was so embarrassed to be honored in front of so many people that it was difficult for me to find words to express myself. The audience must have been wondering how someone who spoke so incoherently could be a good teaching assistant.
Just before the end of the spring quarter, Bin’s paperwork came though; she was ready to fly to the United States. I bought her an air ticket, Beijing to San Francisco, for $475, which Sandy Calhoun’s secretary and my friend Della kindly put in the Graham & James inter-office mail pouch for delivery to Beijing. On the same day, we heard from Berkeley’s Department of Slavic Languages and Literature that Bin had been readmitted to its program. I had kept her application current even while we pursued acceptance at the USF business school. Now, when she arrived, Bin would have the choice to study Russian or business.
On a warm and sunny June 30, 1984, Bin arrived in San Francisco, just shy of two years since I had left Beijing for Berkeley. We were together at last. Bin loved ice cream, and I wanted to surprise her with the variety of American ice cream flavors. After I picked her up at the San Francisco airport, I drove her to Fisherman’s Wharf and bought her the largest bowl of ice cream I could find. In China, ice cream usually came in one flavor, milk, and a serving was the size of a golf ball. That day, Bin’s was a rich, dark chocolate and the American portion was about the size of a grapefruit. Too much of a good thing really can be too much. She loved it but she couldn’t finish it and possibly made herself a little sick from such sweet, rich food so soon after a long plane journey. She steered clear of ice cream for many years.
The apartment in the Student Village was a hit with Bin. We finally had a home of our own. As we settled in, I enjoyed seeing the United States through Bin’s eyes. She was so impressed with the abundance of everything in the supermarket that she wrote to a friend back in China that here in the US she’d seen communism—the utopian ideal of which was defined by Marx and characterized by the abundance in the supply of everything.
That July, the 1984 Summer Olympics were held in Los Angeles. China participated in the Games for the first time since 1952. We bought a secondhand TV and friends joined us to watch. China had never won any medal in Olympic history but won 15 gold that summer. It was exciting for us to watch this strong showing, which was doubtless helped by the Soviets, as well as other East Bloc competitors, having boycotted the games in retaliation for the US boycott of the 1980 Moscow Summer Olympics.
Xu Haifeng, a Chinese sharpshooter, won the first gold medal of the Games, for the 50-meter pistol event. Chinese gymnast Li Ning captured the world’s attention with his beautifully articulated moves, winning six medals in all: three gold, two silver
, and a bronze. But the most mesmerizing, for us, was the fast-paced, nail-bitingly suspenseful women’s volleyball championship match between China and the United States, which China won, 3–0. Our friend, Li Yue, was so excited she was jumping up and down in front of the TV, shouting instructions at the players like a coach from the sidelines. We had to calm her down for fear our downstairs neighbors would complain of the noise.
Bin and I were given two tickets to the closing banquet for the Chinese athletes. The banquet was held in a large hall in Los Angeles, attended by hundreds of Chinese from all over the United States. As soon as the athletes entered, the event descended into chaos. Li Ning, the incredible gymnast, and the members of China’s women volleyball team were mobbed. All night, the event’s moderators attempted to restore order in vain; the athletes spent the dinner surrounded by swarms of picture-taking, autograph-seeking fans.
We drove down the Pacific Coast Highway to Los Angeles and back in a rented car, because mine was too rickety to make the journey. I remember at one point, driving through a storm, enjoying the serenity inside the car with Bin, the windshield wipers rhythmically beating time as we sped along next to the ocean. My mind wandered to the Gobi, with its choking sandstorms and days of bitter cold. I felt deeply appreciative of my life’s journey in that moment, triggered by something that I now take for granted, the simple act of traveling in the comfort of a car with my wife, protected from the weather. I think one always appreciates most the things that are difficult to get, those things that once seemed impossible to attain.
* * *
That fall, Bin had to choose between continuing her Russian studies at Berkeley and working toward her MBA at USF. She chose the latter because she had studied Russian since she was small, but she had never met with a Russian to speak the language. She settled into the routine of class but was haunted at the thought that we had left our son, now over a year old, with my parents in China.