by Li Cunxin
During the first week of the summer school, Ben arranged for us to attend an English-language course, and I began to learn ten to fifteen new words a day. I carried a piece of paper everywhere I went, with my new English words written on it. The most effective place for me to learn them was in the bathroom. My English improved quickly, and I ended up translating for Zhang. Clearly he should have spent more time in the bathroom.
I was constantly surprised by how much freedom the American people had. One day in the dressing room one of the students from New Orleans noticed my Mao button on my dance bag.
“Do you like your Chairman Mao?” he asked.
“Yes, I love Chairman Mao!” I replied with my fist over my heart.
“Well, I don’t like our president, Jimmy Carter. I don’t think he’s a good president at all,” he said.
“No good? Jimmy Carter?” I asked, amazed.
“No good.” He pointed his thumb down.
“Shh ... !” I looked around nervously. “You not scared people listen to you talk about your big leader this way?” I asked in my broken English.
“No, why? I can say anything I like about our president. This is America.”
“If I say bad thing about Chairman Mao,” I whispered, “I will go jail and may be killed,” I sliced my finger dramatically across my neck.
“You’re kidding!”
“Yes, it is true!” I replied.
“You know,” the student continued, “Ronald Reagan, he’s the governor of California and wants to be the next president. He was only a Hollywood actor before.”
“Actor?” I didn’t understand what “actor” was so I took out my dictionary. An actor who wants to become the president of America? Surely I had translated incorrectly.
Ben choreographed a dance for Zhang and me over the next few weeks using George Gershwin’s music. We had such difficulties understanding what Ben wanted us to do in the rehearsals, though. Everything was so relaxed, and our minimal understanding of English made it intensely frustrating for Ben. Zhang and I could easily complete the difficult and challenging turns and jumps but taking an effortless walk across the studio without turning out our feet or pointing our toes was a real challenge. At one point during a rehearsal Ben grabbed my arms and shook my entire body. “Relax, relax!” he shouted. Then he rushed over to Zhang and did the same. Zhang’s shoulders will pop out of their sockets any minute, I thought. When I finally got the hang of what Ben wanted, it felt like I was cheating. It was too easy and casual. It didn’t feel like dancing at all. But I could feel the gradual progression and developments in Gershwin’s music, and I could feel Ben’s choreography naturally meshing into it.
By the end of our six-week stay I had started to relax. I began to make friends among the students, the dancers in the company, the balletomanes and even some board members. Each weekend we had to report to the Chinese consulate officials. One of the senior consuls was Zhang Zongshu, and his wife was a translator in the consulate. They were assigned to look after us.
It turned out that Ben had decided to ask Consul Zhang if I could come back to work with the company again.
Once more Ben’s influence worked. Consul Zhang and the Chinese consulate sent a favorable report to the Ministry of Culture. I was granted permission to return for a whole year to work with the Houston Ballet, only two months after my scheduled return to China. There were also discussions about the possibility of Zhang Weiqiang’s return too.
The thought of being able to come back to America made me happy, but really it sounded completely unbelievable. I was so grateful to the Chinese government. I felt that they really cared for me. For me, a peasant boy. Communism truly was great.
For our last few days in America, Ben took Zhang and me to Washington, D.C., and New York. We didn’t do much in Washington except pose for photos in front of the White House and the Kennedy Center. In some ways I was disappointed. I had expected to see a massive number of security guards with machine guns around the gate and the fence, just like I’d seen in Beijing on my first day there. But there were only a few guards standing by a small gate, looking rather relaxed. They even let us stand next to the fence to have our pictures taken.
We stayed with two close friends of Ben’s while we were in New York. They were involved with television, and they had two skinny, funny-looking dogs that sang while one of them played the piano. Those dogs would be eaten back in Qingdao too.
Ben rushed Zhang and me around like mad to see as many of the great sites of New York as possible—the twin towers, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, the theater district: I was in awe of this hustling, bustling city. Everything surprised and impressed me—the gigantic buildings, the number of cars, the cleanliness compared to Beijing. But it was the little things that left deeper impressions on me. A friend of Ben’s showed us a thing called an ATM. I was speechless when twenty-dollar bills began spewing out. I’d seen a lot of electrical appliances in Houston, but to see money coming out of a wall was beyond my wildest imaginings.
Just like any tourist, with our limited money we bought a few souvenirs such as “I Love New York” buttons, postcards, and mugs with big apples on them. My favorite was a T-shirt that had my face and “I Love New York” printed on it, a present from Ben. But we found New York scarily expensive. I couldn’t stop comparing everything to China and thinking about my family’s poor life back home.
After New York we returned to Houston for our last two days before heading back to China. People gave us farewell gifts. My heart filled with ambivalence with each good-bye. Ben had made our stay such a positive experience, and he was proud to have arranged for the first two Chinese cultural exchange students to come to America. He had been thoughtful and generous, protective and kind. He had poured special interest into our dancing. I knew I could never repay him. So by the time Zhang and I said our final good-bye to Ben at the airport, we felt sad to be leaving a special friend.
On the plane I thought of the possibility of returning to Houston in only two months’ time. I thought of how I’d felt about America and its people before I came. I laughed when I remembered my initial suspicions.
But most of all I thought of those dark, scary images of capitalist society and how they had now been replaced by an entirely different picture in my mind. China’s most hated enemy and the system it represented had given me something that was my heart’s desire. Now I was frightened. Now I was confused. What should I believe? What communism had taught me? What I’d seen and experienced? Why had Chairman Mao, Madame Mao and the Chinese government told its people all those lies about America? Why were we so poor in China? And why was America so prosperous?
I kept resisting my doubts all the way home on the plane back to China. I tried to tell myself that my strong communist faith was still unshakeable, but I knew I was lying to myself. I knew I had to believe what the Chinese government wanted me to believe, or at least I had to pretend to. All this made me even more afraid. I was never supposed to question my communist beliefs and I never, ever thought that I would. So I kept telling myself that I was happy to return to China, because that’s where my parents, brothers, friends and teachers were. That’s where my roots were. I’m the fish and China is the pond. I can’t exist anywhere other than China.
But still the doubts persisted. I had now tasted freedom, and I couldn’t lie to myself about that.
19
GOOD-BYE, CHINA
The first thing I did when I returned to the Beijing Dance Academy was to tell Teacher Xiao, Zhang Shu, the Bandit and all my friends about my new discoveries in dance: the Gershwin pas de deux, the Martha Graham technique, the body conditioning classes. I simply couldn’t hide my excitement and enthusiasm. I had decided, however, that I wouldn’t say anything at all about how much I liked America. I especially wouldn’t mention the sense of freedom I had experienced. I desperately wanted to, but I knew it would give the authorities reason enough to deny me permission to return to A
merica. I wouldn’t take that risk. As an old Chinese saying goes, “The wind will carry the words to other people’s ears.”
The freedom I’d experienced in America occupied my mind constantly. In China, Chairman Mao and his government’s absolute authority could never have been challenged. We didn’t have individual rights. We were told what to do, how long to work each day, how much we would be paid, where we would live and how many children we were allowed to have. I struggled with my communist beliefs: memories of America were so fresh. What if I were to have that same freedom? What could I do with my ballet then?
Eventually I talked myself into believing that if I had stayed in America any longer, I would surely have seen so many bad things about capitalism that I wouldn’t have liked America at all. Even so, I was surprised that I was wavering after spending only six weeks there. How could eighteen years of communism be so easily influenced by six short weeks of capitalism? Without Chairman Mao I was lost. He was my god. Would I still die for Chairman Mao? Now I wasn’t sure.
I also started to question certain aspects of our ballet training in China. I became frustrated at the lack of freedom in my teachers’ thinking. I began to feel once again like a trapped animal. I couldn’t wait for the two months to pass so I could go back to America and continue my learning.
As soon as we returned, Zhang and I had to report to Director Chen of our academy and to the Ministry of Culture, who required a written report from us about our American trip.
“Would you like to meet this evening to work on the report with me?” I asked Zhang.
“Why don’t you just write it yourself,” replied Zhang. “I trust you.”
But I told him that I needed his help because our report would require a certain degree of deception if we were to avoid any suspicion from the officials.
“Write what you have to write. I will understand,” Zhang said.
I was happy that Zhang trusted me to complete this task, but I found it very difficult to write bad things about America. I simply couldn’t think of any. So I made up some bad things about “rotten capitalist influences.” First I described the daily routine at the Houston Ballet Academy and the new experiences in Ben’s ballet classes. I emphasized the goodwill Zhang and I had generated for China. Then I put a considerable amount of time and effort into describing the diseased aspects of America. I described the restaurant owner from Taiwan as one of our class enemies, with her strong perfume smell, her thick makeup and her plastic smile. I described a black neighborhood in Houston, the decaying houses and leaking roofs. I said it was infested with flies and mosquitoes and that people slept outside on mats on a dirt floor. Only a privileged few lived in air-conditioned luxury homes. I expressed sorrow for the poor black people of America. I emphasized our superior communist system and Chairman Mao’s valued principles.
“This is great! Thank you, Cunxin!” Zhang said enthusiastically after he’d read the report.
But I wasn’t happy. I felt angry that I’d had to do this at all.
When we handed in our report and returned the borrowed suitcases, ties and suits to the ministry, Wang Zicheng’s deputy also asked us to relinquish any living allowance we’d been given.
Zhang and I were completely shocked. “We spent most of the money on food while we were there,” I replied. I didn’t tell her we’d also spent some of it on gifts for our families and friends.
“I want every remaining dollar here by tomorrow,” she demanded.
So being good and honest Red Guards we gave all our remaining money to the ministry the following day. But I was desperately disappointed—I had planned to give that money to my family. They needed it more than the ministry did.
Going back to America so soon meant that I wouldn’t be able to see my parents until after my return the following year. I knew they’d be eager to hear from me, so I wrote them a letter. “I will miss you dreadfully,” I wrote, “especially upon New Year’s Eve. I will raise my glass full of Tsingtao beer in a faraway foreign land and drink to your health and happiness. I will kneel and kowtow to you. If you sneeze, you will know that it is probably because I am mentioning your names. I hope you will understand how much I want to come home and tell you all about America. There is so much to tell it would take me too long to write it all down. Please be patient and wait for another year, and before you know it I’ll be back. I have brought presents back for you. I will bring them home next year. I am sending along with this letter a flight safety card so you can see the picture of the plane that I flew on. They are the most beautiful, awesome things in the world. I was flying so high above the clouds. I wish you could have the chance to fly in them one day. I’m sending with this letter all the love in my heart to all of you. I want to tell Niang that I miss her dumplings and all her delicious food. With all the expensive food I had in America, nothing tastes as good as Niang’s dumplings.”
On the third day after I returned, Zhang Shu, the ballet department head, asked me to teach a master class to all the ballet teachers in the academy to show them what I had learned while I was away. Teach my teachers a class? I felt nervous about that, but it went well and I continued to participate in most of our practice classes and rehearsals while I was getting ready to reapply for my passport. Our passports had been taken back by the ministry as soon as we’d arrived home.
I was happy to see my good friends at the Beijing Dance Academy again, especially the Bandit. I gave him an “I Love New York” button and some postcards from the cities I’d been to. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to wear the button in public, but he loved it all the same. “How do you say ‘I love New York’ in English?” he asked excitedly. “I wish I could have the privilege to see New York one day!”
“You will,” I replied, but I knew that was very unlikely.
“You didn’t fall in love with a pretty big-nosed girl while you were there?” he asked suddenly.
I laughed. “No, don’t be silly. Of course not! What about you? Over Zhou Xiaoying yet?”
He shook his head sadly.
“What did you do with the rest of your holiday?” I tried to divert the conversation away from Zhou Xiaoying.
“I went home to see my father and mother. They all asked about you! They are so proud of you going to America, and they want me to bring you to Hezi to spend a holiday with them sometime.” Hezi was his hometown and reportedly where Confucius was buried. It was something the Bandit always boasted about.
“I will come after I get back from America next year,” I replied.
“Tell me, what do you really think about America?” he asked.
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what to say. I wanted to tell him about the freedom I had tasted, but I knew this would only lead him to misery. “There were many clean and wide streets, a lot of cars, tall buildings and good living standards,” I said instead. “But the best thing was Ben. He was so nice and kind, and I love his teaching.” Then I told him about the White House, about New York, the ATM machine and all the electronic gadgets. He was especially surprised and excited about the ATM machine.
“Did you see anyone carrying guns on the street?”
“No,” I replied, but I didn’t want to talk about America any more. I told him I hoped he’d have the chance to see it all for himself one day, and quickly changed the subject.
I received my visa papers from Houston toward the end of the second week and immediately went to the Ministry of Culture to reapply for my passport. But when I arrived the deputy had some devastating news. “Cunxin,” she said casually, “I’ve just received a directive from the minister’s office. The minister has changed his mind. He has refused your request for a passport.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“The minister is concerned about potential Western influences. He thinks you are too young.”
“But I’ve been there once already, and the Western influence did nothing to me! Didn’t you read our report?”
“Yes, I did. It is very good
. But the minister has made up his mind.”
I walked out of the building in total despair.
As soon as I arrived back at our academy, I charged into Director Chen’s office. “Director Chen, did you know about this?”
“Yes, but only this morning.”
“Why?” I pressed.
“The minister thinks you are too young to go to America by yourself. It is a dark and filthy world out there,” she replied.
“But the minister already gave me permission before I left America!” I said, full of emotion. “I have to go back! To learn more from Ben’s teaching, to serve our country better!”
“I understand your feelings. I’m disappointed too. But you must trust the decision of the party. You shouldn’t question the wisdom of the minister’s decision. Now, go and carry on with your normal activities. You are only a tiny part of the communist cause. Forget your personal desires. And if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
I left Director Chen’s office frustrated and angry. I walked right out of the academy. By this time they were more relaxed about senior students coming and going, so the security guard didn’t stop me. I didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do. I just needed time to think, so I bought a five-fen entry ticket to Taoranting Park. I walked faster and faster. I broke into a run and ran without any thought or purpose, trying to drive away what was in my mind and heart. I ran like a blind, scared tiger. It was as though a beautifully sunny day had, without warning, turned dark and unfamiliar. All I could see was a never-ending road, leading nowhere, only closing into a circle, a circle that was full of misery. My heart was racing, my legs were cramping and I gasped for air. “I have to get out!” I kept telling myself.