by Anchee Min
The next line was “sex.” I looked up the word sex in my English-Chinese dictionary. The word didn’t exist. I visited the wise man again for help. He instructed me to circle “female.”
The line after “sex” was “field of interest.” I was supposed to check one of the following: drawing, painting, sculpting, designing, architecture, music, or filmmaking. I didn’t know which to circle. I scanned the remaining pages and sensed that I wouldn’t be able to complete the form on my own.
I visited a friend of Joan Chen’s after work at ten P.M. I needed help with my application form. The friend was not home, so I waited by her door. After midnight, she appeared. She was a translator and tour guide. She had just gotten off work, returning from Suzhou. I was sorry to bother her. Yawning, she took over my application.
Three months later, I received an acceptance letter from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Joan Chen had warned me that acceptance by an American school didn’t mean that I could enter the country. It was only the first of many steps. Next I had to obtain a passport from the security authority in Shanghai, and after that I had to apply for a visa at the US Consulate in China. The United States would grant visas only to those who showed promise and potential to contribute to the country.
If I had stopped to think, I never would have developed the guts to try. Everyone said to me, “Where did you get the nerve?” I had to force my mind to focus on jumping through the next hoop and nothing else. In the same letter, the school requested an important document. It said, “In order to issue you an I-20 form, which you will need to apply for a visa to enter America, we must first receive a signed Affidavit of Support.”
I had learned from Joan Chen that I must find an individual willing to play the role of my sponsor. I would have to convince this person that I would pay back anything I’d owed. I thought about my mother’s sister living in Singapore. The trouble was, I didn’t know my aunt very well. During the Cultural Revolution, my father made sure that we denied her existence to avoid the government’s suspicion that we were spies.
My mother refused to write her sister a letter on my behalf. “It is too much to ask,” she said firmly. I wrote a letter to my aunt behind my mother’s back. It was the most difficult letter I had ever written. I promised that I would not be a burden. Fortunately, my aunt agreed to lend a hand. I could not have been more grateful when I received the signed Affidavit of Support.
I was at the office of the Communist Party boss. I had asked for permission to apply for a passport. The boss was a former veteran and a chain-smoker. He spoke with a northern accent and did not look me in the eye when he talked. He asked me to explain the difference between America and Albania. The question confused me. I was afraid to give the wrong answer. Instead of answering him, I took out the acceptance letter from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. I pushed the papers toward the boss over the desk and asked him to examine them. He pushed them back.
“What’s the difference between America and Albania?” he insisted.
I wondered what kind of trick he was playing.
I spoke carefully and humbly. “Please enlighten me, for I am illiterate over international affairs.”
“We know that there are proletarians in Albania, yes?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Are there proletarians in America, Comrade Min?”
Relieved, I gave a firm answer. “Yes, of course, absolutely, definitely. There are many, many proletarians in America. Hundreds and thousands and perhaps millions of proletarians in America.”
“Excellent!” His eyes brightened. “We know what to do now. Are you, Comrade Min, a member of the Youth League of China?”
“Yes.”
“Do you intend to promote revolution in America?”
“Of course.”
“In the name of the Communist Youth League of China?”
“In the name of the Communist Youth League of China!”
The boss was satisfied. “I shall stamp your application and then forward it to the Department of Security for processing. However, I need you to answer my last question. I want you to complete the lower couplet of a poem I am going to recite.” Smiling, as if pleased with himself, he continued. “A spark of flame—”
“Will start a wild fire!” I was thrilled that I had received solid training in reciting Mao’s poems and teachings.
I ran from the studio like a criminal who had escaped by accident. I was afraid that the Party boss might change his mind or have another question that I wouldn’t be able to answer. I was surprised that he hadn’t mentioned that I was Madame Mao’s trash. I wondered if he actually checked my dossier. I had heard many people say that the boss was unpredictable. He had once been wounded in the skull. When he was in a dark mood, he would recognize no one. He described himself as a “loyal Communist dog” and was proud of being ruthless. I thanked heaven for putting him in a favorable mood that day.
{ Chapter 5 }
It was discouraging just to look at the long line wrapped around the block at the United States Consulate in Shanghai. It was an old-style mansion half hidden in a canopy of large trees on the west Huai Hai Boulevard. Armed Chinese soldiers stood on pedestals by the gate watching over the crowd. I was looking for information on how to obtain an American visa. Since our new leader, Deng Xiaoping, had opened China’s doors, the people’s view of America had changed dramatically. As we watched newsreels showing America’s poor protesting on their streets, we were shocked to see that many of them were obese. They dressed better than the rich people in China. For half a century, we had been fed the idea that American people were skeleton thin and wore rags. If a picture was worth a thousand words, the newsreel created a silent revolution in Chinese minds. The newly imported American movies Snow White and The Sound of Music fueled our doubts and wonder. I was beginning to understand that Americans were not the devils we had believed them to be.
More and more university graduates wanted to go to America to see for themselves. The visa office was jammed with applicants. The neighborhood near the consulate entrance became a hot spot for young and interested people. During visa hours, the place was like a refugee camp. Makeshift vendors sold food, water, and aspirin. Old ladies rented out stools, sun hats, sunglasses, fans, and umbrellas. There were wise men and fortune-tellers giving opinions and predictions. The crowd grew bigger in late summer before the start of the school year in America.
The crowd was divided mostly into two groups. Group A was formally rejected visa applicants who wanted to try again. Group B was people like me, about to try their luck for the first time. The update was that the American government had raised the qualification bar on visas. Master’s-degree applicants were no longer promised visas. One had to be a Ph.D. candidate in the area of math and science in order to get a visa.
People said to me, “Going for a bachelor degree in art? Next life!”
I began to cough blood again. My doctor said that it was not tuberculosis, though he couldn’t tell what it was. The traditional Chinese doctor told me that my internal breath “chi” was “gravely disturbed.” My body had lost its ability to heal. My intestines no longer functioned properly. I suffered from chronic diarrhea. When I saw undigested spinach floating in the toilet bowl, I wept.
I carried English 900 Sentences on buses going to and returning from work. Compared to Chinese, English as a language made more sense. For example, the English “I” took one stroke while the Chinese “I” took seven. The Chinese “I,” “”, looked like a walking person in an elaborate costume. English seemed to serve as a better tool, while Chinese existed to be admired.
It was obvious that the English “I” was the result of capitalism. Time equaled money. I welcomed the English “I.” In China we never stopped talking about “Serving the people with heart and soul,” yet people, the majority, were uneducated and illiterate.
To prepare to face an American visa officer, I drafted a “self-introduction.” I composed it in C
hinese first, then had it translated into English. At the entrance of the US Consulate, the wise men had told me that a “self-introduction” must focus on three points:
1. Who are you?
2. Why do you want to go to America?
3. How will you be able to survive in the US?
“If you fail to impress the consul, you will be given a rejection stamp called code B-14 on your passport. Do not try to lie, because the consuls are trained lie detectors. They can see through you.”
When people learned that I did not speak any English, they said, “You must have eaten a lion’s gut! How dare you plan to fool the consul?”
There was no way I’d be able to impress the consul, but it would be suicidal if I told the truth: “Hello, I’d like to go to America because I want to escape my misery in China.” An American consul in his or her right mind would never issue a visa to a desperate person like me. Would it be better to say, “I’d like to go to America for an education. It might serve to reverse my ill fortune in China”?
Answering the question of how I would survive in the United States would be hard without speaking English. I couldn’t afford to be honest and tell the consul that I had memorized the speech.
Why rob myself of my one chance? If the consul were in my shoes, would he not be lying himself? I was not hurting anyone. I had to overcome my guilt. My mother hadn’t raised me to be a liar. She would rather die than tell a lie. She would be disappointed and ashamed that her daughter would choose to lie. She would threaten to disown me. What would happen if I gave up? I would end up living the life my mother led. I felt that this would be worse than getting caught lying.
What if the consul interrupted me? What if he asked a question? I wouldn’t be able to understand him and wouldn’t know how to respond. I decided that I would recite my self-introduction so fast that it would be difficult for the consul to interrupt me.
I began to drill myself after work. Everyone was irritable around home. My father had collapsed at work due to internal stomach bleeding. He had recently been transferred from the printing shop to a position as an instructor of astronomy at the Shanghai Children’s Center. In gratitude to his new Party boss, my father worked long hours and was exhausted. He was rushed to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with stomach cancer. The news sent our family into a panic.
The surgery removed five sixths of my father’s stomach. Then he underwent chemotherapy. We took turns caring for him. I studied English 900 Sentences with a flashlight under his hospital bed. My mother had never been good at caring for her own illnesses, but now she had to learn to care for her husband. My sisters and brother were in their twenties and worked as laborers in factories where their prospects for the future were dim. I worried that I would have to leave home soon. Traditionally, female children were not supposed to remain at home if there was only one room. Once my brother was married, I would have no place to go.
While my father’s discouragement brought me despair, my mother predicted that I would achieve my heart’s desire just by believing.
“How?” I yelled. “Don’t you think I am too old to be told a fairy tale?”
The government’s rule forced me to resign from my current job before I applied for a passport. My father was crushed after learning that I was jobless. He was sure that I had made a critical mistake and ruined my life. I wanted to cry when I looked at my father’s ghostly pale face. The chemotherapy had drained the life from him. He was hairless and bone thin. He looked at me with great fear in his eyes.
Never in my life had I been as terrified as I was the day I left for the US Consulate. I shook so hard that I was unable to say to my parents, “Wish me good luck!” My father and mother leaned on each other’s shoulders for support. They were in their early fifties and had lost most of their teeth. There was not a hint that my mother had once been a great beauty. Both of them watched me nervously and were unable to say a word.
“May I borrow your clothes?” I asked my mother.
“Why?” She was puzzled.
I wanted to tell her how scared I was.
“Why do you want to borrow an old lady’s clothes?” my mother asked. “My white cotton shirt has been washed so many times that it has turned brown. The fabric has frayed around the collar. My skirt is twenty-five years old. It’s got stains and moth holes. Are you sure?”
I put my mother’s clothes on and immediately felt better.
On the way to the consulate, I kept thinking about what I would do if I was rejected for the visa. I would not be able to get my old job back. The last thing I wanted was to become a burden to my family. The thought of suicide again entered my mind. I found myself unafraid. Life would not be worth living. Death would be an escape.
Before I got on the bus, I felt a sudden weakness. Doubt came over me. Was I being too foolish? Was I mad to push forward knowing that I was not a Ph.D. candidate, knowing that I would be hitting a rock with an egg, knowing that the odds were stacked high against me?
I had no memory of how I got off the bus, walked several blocks, and arrived at the US Consulate. I had no memory of the crowd, the stool-renting lady, the food and water seller, the fan and umbrella seller, the aspirin seller, or the wise men and fortune-tellers. I also had no memory of how I presented my passport to the guards. What I did remember, in fact the only thing I remembered, was the sound of my own thumping heartbeat.
The image of the American consul standing behind the window was rather blurred. He was a man with pale skin and brown hair. He didn’t pay attention to the papers I pushed through the bottom of the window slot. He stared at me in silence.
I couldn’t breathe. My eyes wouldn’t focus. I knew my cue had arrived, but I was unable to deliver the performance. My body was not mine to command. You can do it, Anchee. Jump off the cliff. Now!
The drill kicked in. The flow of English syllables poured out of my mouth like a waterfall. I had no idea where I was in terms of the speech.
The consul continued to stare at me.
My mind spun like a greased wheel. My mouth opened and closed on its own. I was the heroine who ran through the woods toward the enemy carrying a pack of explosives.
I made myself stare back at the consul. I imaged myself locked in hand-to-hand combat with an American soldier. I was ready to be a martyr.
The consul blinked. His expression turned soft and his face human again. He held up a finger as if to ask me a question.
Stop him from interrupting! My tongue rolled faster. I was back in time, acting as a child reciting Mao’s quotations onstage. My hands rubbed against the fabric of my mother’s skirt. I was running out of air in my lungs.
Then I heard an “Okay!” I wondered if I was hallucinating. Did that okay come from the consul or was it just my imagination? I stopped and started to panic. The consul spoke again, but I couldn’t understand a word he said.
With a pencil in one hand, the consul flipped through the papers that I had submitted. He checked something off on a page, then nodded.
I prepared for the worst.
“I am sorry to have bothered you,” I said in Chinese.
To my confusion, the man pulled down his curtain in my face. “Next!” I heard him yell.
Had I been rejected?
I heard my name called in Chinese by a female voice. It was from the next window. I collected myself and moved to the next window. I came face-to-face with a Chinese secretary, who sneered.
“You think you fooled the consul? You are just lucky.” She shoveled the papers around.
“May I know what you mean?” I asked.
“What do you mean, ‘What do I mean?’ ”
“Visa or no visa?”
“Did I just say that you were lucky?”
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
“It means that the American liked you. They like people with crazy determination.”
“But that doesn’t tell me … I mean … please … visa or no visa?”
“Visa!�
� She yelled, turning her head away in disgust.
Happiness enveloped me. My feet had never felt lighter as I climbed the stairs at home. My parents opened the door looking as if they had been waiting to console me after the bad news.
My father spread his feet apart as if he was ready to receive a blow. My mother held on to his arm. They didn’t have the courage to ask, “Did you get the visa?”
My tears came as I took out my passport. I showed my parents a slip notifying me that I was to pick up my visa in seven days.
My mother collapsed and pulled my father down to the floor with her. “I can’t see,” my mother said. “I can’t see!”
“I shall go to America!” I sang.
My mother let out a cry of joy.
My father smiled. A moment later, he was himself again. “You will be caught and deported when you arrive in America! You can’t change the fact that you don’t speak English.”
“No spoiling the moment, Father, I beg you!”
Humming a tune, I ran to the Shanghai Postal and Telegram Center. I sent a two-word telegram to my aunt in Singapore: GOT VISA. If those words had not already cost me a month’s salary, I would have added more to express my gratitude. After all, my mother had said, “Your aunt barely knows you.”
Mother made me promise to repay the debt I owed my aunt as soon as I became capable. The words “became capable” sounded abstract in that moment, but I was determined to honor my mother’s wish.
I wrote a letter to Joan Chen in Los Angeles. I thanked her for helping me. I told her that I’d be departing for Chicago in a month.
My health improved magically. Within a week, I stopped coughing blood. My stomach pain went away. I was able to consume tofu and eggs without getting diarrhea. The bitter Chinese herb soup I had been taking helped too. By the time I received Joan’s letter saying, “Congratulations. I’ll see you in America,” I was fully recovered.