From Darkness to Sight

by Ming Wang

  The next day, Dr. McNesby gave a presentation to a group of about one hundred students and faculty members. He looked so tall, and his nose seemed so big! His American features were so different from mine, unlike anything I had ever seen. Once Dr. McNesby finished his lecture, he asked if anyone had questions. While the other students remained formal and quiet, my hand shot up immediately. He motioned to me, and I stood up and asked him the question I had spent the night before preparing.

  “Professor, what is the academic load of your school?”

  Dr. McNesby looked puzzled. “Can you explain what you mean?”

  “What is the academic load of your school?” I asked again.

  “I’m sorry; I still don’t understand. What do you mean by ‘academic load?’”

  I couldn’t understand him clearly either, because despite all my previous English studies, my ability to speak the language was still very limited. To my horror, I realized I had only memorized that one question, but I failed to prepare for the possibility of needing to respond to Dr. McNesby’s answer. So all I could think of to do in that moment was just smile and keep repeating the same question over and over.

  “What is the academic load of your school?”

  To make the matter worse, it dawned on me that perhaps the reason that he did not understand my question was because though I did pull out a English textbook to study and prepare my question the night before, I picked up a British English textbook, not an American one, so the expression “academic load” might not have as specific meaning in America as it did in Great Britain!

  His confused look continued. I could see that my hope of impressing him was quickly waning, and I was about to sit down in total defeat.

  “Ah, you mean ‘what are the credit hours required for a doctorate degree?’”

  Professor McNesby finally understood my question and gave me a response. Even though I didn’t really understand his answer, I had nonetheless achieved what I set out to do; I had asked him a question! And just as I had hoped, the professor was indeed impressed, perhaps not by my rudimentary English but by my persistence in repeatedly asking him a question without giving up.

  Before he left the podium, Professor McNesby pointed at me and said, “I want to see that kid in America.”

  Though I didn’t completely understand what he had just said, seeing him smile gave me the feeling I had accomplished my goal. He would help me get to America!

  Professor McNesby did help me secure a coveted opportunity to study in America, and as chairman of the chemistry department at the University of Maryland in College Park, he was also able to arrange a teaching assistantship not only for me but also for my classmates Jason Zhou and Ji-hong Dai, who were among the five chosen from our department to study overseas. The official offer from the University of Maryland and my student visa were secured by the end of the semester. Professor McNesby had also lent me fifty dollars, and relatives and friends gave me enough money to buy a one-way plane ticket to America!

  I was visiting my grandparents in the Fujian Province when USTC’s vice president called to confirm that all the paperwork had been finalized. My parents, aunts, and uncles surrounded me with exuberant cheers. “Little Ming-xu is going to America!” I promised them I would do a good job in America, and would honor China and the Wang family name. My family members’ faces glowed with pride.

  It was official; I was bound for America. Reflecting on my life up to that point, I was amazed that not only had I survived the devastating Cultural Revolution and gotten into college in the toughest year to do so in China’s history, but now I was fortunate enough to be going to America for my graduate studies! How had I made it this far? Looking at the beaming faces of my family, I knew how much I was indebted to them for their love and support. My parents were dedicated to their children, and instilled in us from a very young age the desire to learn. Their encouragement sustained me during very trying times. Though I had suffered greatly during the Cultural Revolution, persevering through the difficulties had only made me stronger, and now I truly appreciated the opportunities of an education and freedom. I realized that it was the combination of my inner resolve and my parents’ tireless advocacy that had helped me overcome these monumental challenges. In time, I would come to see just how much this upbringing shaped my character and influenced my life in America.

  In January of 1982, I celebrated my last New Year at home with my family. In early February, in the dark hours of morning, an entourage of family members and well-wishers accompanied me as I began my journey overseas. I sat on the back of a classmate’s bike, my luggage hanging from each side, as my parents, relatives. and friends rode alongside us through the streets of Hangzhou to the train station.

  My dad accompanied me on the train to Shanghai, where I would depart the following day. He and I huddled tightly on the crowded train. My family had pulled together just enough money to buy a one-way airplane ticket to America, and now he was spending even more money to travel with me to Shanghai.

  “You didn’t have to come all this way with me,” I said.

  “I know,” Dad said, “but I want to see you get on that plane.”

  Up until then, I had been so excited about America that I hadn’t had much time to think about leaving my family so far behind. My lips started to quiver. The passengers across from me disappeared behind my blur of tears, which I then quickly wiped away.

  At the Shanghai International Airport the next day, I stared up at an enormous Boeing 747, part of the fleet flown by the Civil Aviation Administration of China. A throng of people clustered on the tarmac as passengers made their way up the open-air staircase to get into the plane. As I reached the top, I turned around and looked toward the crowd in search of my father. I wanted to confirm that he had definitely seen me board the plane headed to America, and wave goodbye to him one last time. But the large crowd of family members was too far from the plane, so I couldn’t see them clearly enough to identify anyone’s faces. My stomach clenched, and a lump formed in my throat. My father had sustained me throughout this very long journey for so many challenging years, and now it looked like he would actually miss seeing me move on to the next stage of my life.

  I waved in the general direction of the crowd, hoping my father might see me and wave back. But the hands of so many people were in the air, waving to their own friends and family; how would I know which one was actually my father’s? As I put my arm down in disappointment, I noticed through the corner of my eyes that a person in the crowd put his arm down as well. Curious and excited that the person might be my father, I raised my hand again, and so did that person. I put my hand down again, and so did he. I waved again. He waved back. It finally dawned on me that that person was indeed my father! While I could not identify him in a crowd of people, he could actually see me standing alone on the top deck of the staircase, so he had figured out a clever way for him to stand out himself in the crowd by synchronizing our hand waves so we could identify each other from distance among all these people and wish each other a heartfelt goodbye.

  I could now finally cross the threshold of the plane with peace of mind. I hummed the tune “Little Bird.” In a matter of moments, I would be flying into the open skies to begin an entirely new chapter of my life, life in the United States of America.

  Part Three

  Life in America

  Chapter 7

  Three Musketeers

  As the plane descended into the airspace of the San Francisco airport, I pressed my forehead against the oval window. The deep blue Pacific Ocean below me stretched and curved toward the horizon until it disappeared into a pale haze. Northern California’s dark-green hills rolled outward into an ever-increasing expanse of land. I had never seen so much green in all my life, nor so many cars! I looked down at thousands of vehicles streaming through highways, and I couldn’t believe I was finally about to step onto American soil. Tchaikovsky’s symphony, Romeo and Juliet, wafted through my headset, a soundtrack to the sc
ene I was beholding. If I could have gathered all my hopes and dreams for my new life in America, the glittering sea below me could not have contained them all.

  Our route across the globe took us from Shanghai to San Francisco to New York City before we reached our final destination. I arrived in Washington, D.C. on Wednesday, February 3, 1982 with my USTC classmates, Jason and Ji-hong. It’s a date I will never forget as long as I live. I was twenty-one-years-old. Everything I owned at that point I carried in my two hands, including two suitcases of clothing, a well-worn Chinese-English dictionary, and fifty dollars in cash.

  We hailed a cab at the airport, excited and exhausted at the same time. The drive from Washington National Airport to the University of Maryland at College Park took us across the Potomac River and along the outskirts of the capital city. The three of us were crammed into the back seat, elbowing each other and pointing at sights like the gleaming dome of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial and the sharp point of the Washington Monument jutting straight into the sky.

  The cab driver was from Africa. I was intrigued to meet another immigrant, and I asked him if it was difficult to drive in America.

  “No, it’s easier,” he replied, “because the roads here all have lines and lanes.”

  This was true. Back in China, the roads weren’t divided nicely with painted white or yellow lines like these orderly, American streets were, so driving on them in China was basically mayhem! I couldn’t get over how immaculate the city looked with its trimmed lawns, clear sidewalks, and lack of leaves or garbage strewn throughout the streets. It was so clean that I was even attempted to just lie down and roll around on the ground. The difference between the pictures of America that I had been shown back in China and the reality I experienced from my cab window was so drastic that it left me disoriented. Nowhere did I see the widespread poverty and misery in which Americans supposedly lived. The real America wasn’t at all the dark and unhappy place I had been told it was. I let out a sigh as I realized that everything I had previously been taught was now suspect. I would have to seek out the truth now for myself.

  Jason and Ji-hong were no less surprised than I was. We marveled at our surroundings for the entire fifteen-mile drive from the airport to campus. As we unloaded our luggage outside the University of Maryland at College Park, I looked around at the gently rolling grounds and the elegant, red-brick Georgian buildings with their stately, white column-lined entrances. Winter had muted the colors of the lawns and sky, which left the trees barren of any leaves, but I still reveled in the awe-inspiring beauty of our new school. Jason, Ji-hong, and I picked up our bags and made our way toward the chemistry building, occasionally asking for directions in our broken English. Each time we approached someone, the student or faculty member would stop and patiently explain the route, repeating it until we indeed knew where we were going. I was taken aback by the empathy and courtesy Americans expressed toward strangers. Such openness was foreign to me back home, and I was moved by it.

  When we finally arrived at the large, boxy, brick complex, staff and faculty were trickling out the doors to head home for the day. We went inside and presented ourselves to the department secretary, who introduced herself as Marsha. She was a lovely woman in her mid-thirties who wore thick makeup—I had never seen ladies with such thick makeup in China before, and whose eyes smiled behind thick, gold-framed glasses.

  “Welcome! Glad you made it safely,” Marsha said. “You can go home now and rest for a day, and we’ll see you back here on Friday.”

  Her accent sounded funny to me. I hadn’t heard anyone speak English quite like that before. I stared at the abundance of red hair flowing around her face. I had also never seen that hair color previously in my life.

  “But where is home?” I asked. “Where will we be staying?”

  Her brow furrowed, and she looked at me curiously. “You’re actually on your own for that, but I can recommend a hotel and give you a list of nearby apartments.”

  We thanked her and went back outside.

  “What should we do now?” Ji-hong asked.

  We didn’t have enough money for a hotel. We had just spent more than fifty dollars for the cab ride from the airport. We were accustomed to the communist system in China and assumed that our housing would have already been arranged in advance and assigned to us by the university. We weren’t prepared for this newfound independence and the responsibility that came with it.

  I felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation, the first taste of freedom. For my entire life leading up to that moment, I had been told what to do. Now that I had arrived in America—the land of freedom—this new feeling of independence was refreshing, but it also left me a bit unsettled. Where would we stay?

  Jason pulled out the phone number of a visiting scholar named Teacher Cai from USTC. We were relieved we were able to connect with Teacher Cai quickly, and he kindly allowed us to stay at his apartment for a few nights while we figured out our next step.

  When I spoke to Professor McNesby later, he explained that graduate students were expected to manage their own affairs. “Our society is clean and civilized, as you have seen,” he said, “and we’re also highly individualistic. You have to depend on yourself to make a living. Everyone must pull their own weight here.”

  Once we had arranged to stay with Teacher Cai, I turned to Jason and Ji-hong, “You guys hungry?”

  “Let’s go find some food,” Jason said.

  We looked for a Chinese restaurant near campus, but there wasn’t one within walking distance. We had no car, so we went somewhere close and cheap, a place a few broke students could afford. Our first meal in America was at a McDonald’s right on the edge of campus. I was so hungry that I would have eaten anything. I ordered four Big Macs, but then immediately realized there was no way I was going to be able to eat it all. The Chinese diet is generally free of dairy, and I was about to eat double cheeseburgers slathered in mayo!

  I expected the worst … but I loved it, I really did! So much so that I ate at McDonald’s nearly every day, and in just three months, I had gained thirty pounds.

  On Friday, Jason, Ji-hong, and I put on our best clothes. We wanted to make a good impression on our new colleagues and professors in the chemistry department. My parents had spent three months of their salaries to buy me an elegant three-piece suit, black with a white shirt and red tie. The three of us walked onto campus dressed head to toe in full formal attire … and immediately felt completely out of place.

  All the other students and professors had on very casual clothes, like blue jeans, T-shirts, and polos. Some of them even wore shorts and sandals. People turned to look at us as we strolled by. We may have been nearly penniless, but we were certainly the best dressed. My face was burning with embarrassment. I had only brought two sets of casual shirts and pants. We had to go shopping as soon as possible.

  Once we arrived at the chemistry department, I asked Marsha, “Can you give us some money? We need to buy some food and clothing.” Seeing us standing there in fancy three-piece suits, I wondered if she really believed me.

  “Your first paycheck will be in two weeks,” she said.

  “So, no money right now?” I asked.

  She gave me a funny look.

  I realized once again that we were on our own here in America. I had longed for independence, but now that I actually had it, I felt a bit lost. For years in college in China, I had relied on a national system of support. Being free and completely on my own in America would take a lot of getting used to.

  During our graduate studies, Jason, Ji-hong, and I worked as teaching assistants to support ourselves. We hadn’t yet been assigned cubicles, so we camped out that first day in the department chairman’s conference room. My eyes felt heavy from lingering jet lag, so I leaned on the conference room table and propped my head up with my hand to keep from nodding off. But when Marsha entered the room and announced that we had to take a number of tests, I bolted upright. This was the first time since meeting her that
she was not either sitting or standing behind her desk. She wore shoes with the highest heels I had ever seen in my life.

  “These are subject matter tests,” she explained, “that will determine what level of graduate classes you’ll take.”

  I watched her walk around the conference table, marveling that she could move with such grace and effortless balance on heels that were so high, yet had such tiny points touching the ground.

  We were sequestered in that conference room for the next six hours. Our studies at USTC in China had given us a very strong foundation in science, and my written English was now good enough to understand and respond to the questions without too much trouble. The tests covered several subjects, including analytical chemistry, physical chemistry, organic chemistry, and inorganic chemistry.

  Marsha came in periodically to check on us. At around five o’clock, she returned one last time to collect our exams. “You guys ready for some pizza?”

  We followed her to a party down the hall. I had no idea what pizza was, but I was starving and therefore open to anything. Once again, I was faced with another odd new food. I looked at the spread of food on the table and wondered who on earth would just throw meat and vegetables on a slab of dough like this and then just bake it? It seemed so uncultured and unsophisticated. The rich assortment of toppings could be made into a variety of so many nice dishes by a Chinese chef. But yet again, I ended up loving it anyway. At the pizza party, I learned that Marsha was Irish. Another immigrant! No wonder her English sounded so funny. As I introduced myself to others at the party, I soon discovered that people had trouble pronouncing the “xu” in my name so I decided at that point to just drop it to make things easier for everyone, so my new American name became just “Ming.”