by Cole Reid
Chapter Four Taiwan
The sun was high but bent low against an industrial sky. The air carried its own color—not infected from other sources. It was a fair weathered afternoon. Outside was a perfect combination of people and their influences. Buildings were stoutly grown along the banks of wide avenues in the city. Buses like whales dominated the lanes of Bitan Bridge and cars like dolphins swam leisurely in their jet stream. Buses and cars weren’t the only species swimming in the sea lanes of Taipei. There were bicycles, motorcycles and motorized scooters, thousands of them. They swam in schools on the sides of roads. Like fish in Tanshui River, they were safer if they travelled together.
There were also sharks, sporty low-lying beasts. They were flashy pieces of American muscle, fond of showing teeth called horse-power. They would pierce up and down the streets of Taipei gobbling up road and space alike. Loud engines showed their predatory nature. Their presence was slightly threatening to the local population. It showed the growing influence of American soft power on the island. Even the names were threatening: Thunderbird; Camaro; Firebird; Mustang; Corvette. They were names that standard Chinese language had to accommodate and the feeling on the island was much the same. Since the Formosa Resolution in 1955, the United States began to take a second look at the island of Taiwan. It was a long second look. The Americans, convinced the island wouldn’t come under communist rule like its larger cousin, thought the island had potential. Twenty-five years after the Resolution, the island was starting to industrialize. The undisputed ruling party, the Kuomintang, leaned westward. The Kuomintang lived under heightened anxiety that the island was incubating pockets of communist sympathy. The island was under military rule. Any academics, scholars or writers who had published or reported communist sympathies had to fend for themselves against the harshest of critics, the Kuomintang.
On a fair-weathered day in the late spring of 1980, there was a large cloud of anti-communist feeling that hung over Taipei. But the cloud had a silver lining. It was a boon for economic prosperity and trade with the West. She was one such silver-liner. She moved to Taiwan for her own economic prosperity. Her hair was tied into a ponytail that waved like a black silk flag in the wind. Her head was covered by a red motorcycle helmet. The helmet was the old-fashioned kind that didn’t include a visor. It was the kind tailored for Harley-Davidson enthusiasts, a literal bucket. But she wasn’t riding a Harley. Her green Vespa motor scooter was more piglet than hog. Still, it carried her where she asked it to, all over Taipei. The light of the sun gave sheen to her honeysuckle skin as bits of sweat slid down her cheeks as diamonds—a prize from the heat. For a woman in her early thirties, she could have turned the heads of men any age. She was born and raised in Kuandian, a tiny Northeastern town on the Chinese mainland. She had a promising start in middle and high school and studied economics and English at Dongbei University of Finance and Economics in Dalian. She had hopes of going into politics and scaling the ranks of the Communist Party becoming a Senior Advisor. She was forced to change her plans when nature’s rent was two months overdue. In December of 1966, she had gone to the hospital to confirm what she already knew, she was pregnant. The father was a classmate. He wanted her to abort; she wasn’t going to. In the late sixties in the People’s Republic of China, he had no choice so he married her. She dropped out of university to raise their child, a daughter. He would graduate and join the Communist Party and they would be a happy family, but that plan, like the one before, changed.
Xiaofeng was a good baby. She seemed prepared for any reality, especially a harsh one. She never cried and would fall asleep when expected. She was a dutiful daughter; she knew her role. Despite her perfection as a daughter, it could not fill the holes in her father. He could never come to love a child he had never wanted or a wife that society forced on him. When Xiaofeng was three weeks shy of being sixteen months old, he left. There was no warning, no letter and no goodbye. Xiaofeng’s mother knew her father was leaving the morning that became the last. He said he would be back in the evening, like he had to say it, like he had to marry, like he had to be a father. He said it exactly as if he didn’t want to. She heard it in his voice. It was the same on their wedding day and she was ready for it. Deep down, Xiaofeng’s mother always knew he would leave, though more than eleven years had followed she had never tried to chase him. Leaving was what he wanted, so she gave it to him. She took advantage of the law at the time in Liaoning province. A child’s name could be changed within two years of birth. Two weeks after her father left, her mother thought about changing Xiaofeng’s name entirely so that her father could never find her as an adult. She reconsidered. She liked the name Xiaofeng, Young Wind, and the child had gotten used to answering to it. She had always been an appropriate woman, so she did the appropriate thing. Two weeks to the day of Xiaofeng’s father’s absence, her mother went to the Dalian City Communal Records Bureau and changed Xiaofeng’s family name. She deleted the father’s family name, Zhang, in favor of her own family name, Li.
She had spent the past eleven years raising Xiaofeng and working different jobs to support herself and her daughter. Xiaofeng’s grandfather had helped her out when he had a job, but for the past five years, she was on her own. She saw an opportunity in moving to Taiwan. Most of the jobs she took had no permanency built in. She had a stint as a private English tutor for over two years but the economy in Anhui lead to growing competition, especially from native-speaking foreigners. She served as a teaching assistant to an older American woman for six months in Anhui. Working with an American woman, who waited tables to support her son after her husband left with another woman, Xiaofeng’s mother learned one very important cultural difference between East and West, tipping. In China, you didn’t give servers something extra for good service. They’d be rude to accept. In the U.S., a patron was rude not to tip. And if the service was above, a patron was obliged to give more. Learning this, Xiaofeng’s mother considered waitressing a better way to support herself and her daughter.
In 1979, the U.S. Congress passed the Taiwan Relations Act. The long-term effect of the Act was the transfer of American military technology in one direction and Taiwanese consumer technology in the opposite direction. The weapons trades were package deals that included US military personnel to train the Taiwanese on weapons made in America. American soldiers began exercising with Taiwanese soldiers in Taiwan. The locals understood that the arrival of American military personnel meant the arrival of American dollars. Savvy Taiwanese entrepreneurs realized they could convince more American Dollars to give up a sedentary lifestyle if they catered to American interest. 1980 Taiwan saw American themed bars, restaurants, nightclubs and barbershops replace local spots and empty spaces in Taipei. Local Taiwanese grimaced at American flag stickers on shop windows. Still, everything was understood: business is business.
Unleaded started out as a regular bar and grill in mid 1979. It served a regular half-pound hamburger with spud potato fries. Your choice of side was 10 cents extra which included: coleslaw; baked beans or mashed potatoes with gravy. The hamburger could become a cheeseburger for 5 cents extra. The T-bone steak came in rare, medium or well-done with the same choice of sides. Potato salad was added to the menu later in the year, as well as, the New York Strip steak. One G.I. from Philadelphia showed the kitchen they could make a Philly Cheese Steak with ingredients already on the menu. It became the second most popular dish after the cheeseburger, by early 1980. Along with the menu, the name Unleaded changed as well. Mr. Nan, the original owner, took the suggestions of a few patrons and changed the name to Unleaded 87. By early December of 1979, the same month Xiaofeng’s mother was added to the wait staff, the name was 87. Mr. Nan insisted that wait staff correct anyone who said eighty-seven. The name was eight-seven.
Her black ponytail slowed with the pace of the green Vespa. The hair, braided like black scales, wound around the nape of her neck and came to rest over her left shoulder. Her Vespa came to a complete stop just after her ponytail.
She rolled her wrist to look at her watch. It was 3:42pm in the afternoon. The students would be let out in three minutes. At thirty-four years old, Xiaofeng’s mother was the youngest parent waiting outside the Xindian District Junior Middle School. She didn’t know it. She wouldn’t have cared. Thirty-four years hadn’t given her time enough to compromise her thoughts. She made decisions and didn’t do anything else. She unbuckled the helmet strap wrapped around her chin and took the helmet off her head. She put the helmet in her lap to adjust it for someone more precious to her than herself.
The building was a composite of neatly stacked red brick with concrete trim. The building was four floors from the ground with external air-conditioning units hugging the brick just below each window sill. The building was L-shaped, a design that let it fit into a highly developed area in Southern Xinbei City. Children began flooding out of the wooden doors on the ground floor. The boys wore plain white dress shirts with navy slacks and socks; black loafers echoed against the concrete as the children moved quickly across the courtyard. Near the front of the pack, was a medium-height girl with a slightly round face and serious disposition. She wore a white blouse and green plaid skirt with knee-high navy socks and black slippers. Unlike most of the other students, she was dutiful not boisterous. Her hair was silk black like the others, but it was given a bit more attention than the others. Her hair was pulled back straight and tight. She used four pins to make sure it stayed firm atop her head and the rest followed the beat to the back of her head, clinging tightly to the sides. Her hair was still, no ponytails, nothing to flop or attract. Her hair obeyed one command, do not distract me!
“Xiaofeng!” said the woman on the green Vespa. Xiaofeng spotted her mother around the same time she heard her voice. Xiaofeng didn’t say a thing; she locked eyes with her mother and steadily walked in her mother’s direction.
“Hey Mama,” she said.
“How was school?” asked her mother.
“Not bad,” said Xiaofeng.
Xiaofeng’s mother extended her arms toward her daughter with the red motorcycle helmet in hand. Xiaofeng grabbed the helmet and put the helmet over her meticulous hair. She was able to adjust the chin strap and snap the buckle in one motion. It was a drill she was used to. Xiaofeng checked her satchel to make sure it was closed before throwing her right leg over the back of the Vespa. She tightened her grip around the back ridge of the Vespa on each side. A year before she would have been content to wrap her arms around her mother’s waist and hold on for the ride. But it was early May. She would be thirteen years old in June. Dutiful as she was, Xiaofeng realized she was too old to be clinging to her mother. It was cozy but life, she knew, wouldn’t tolerate if from her much longer.
“Are you on?” her mother asked.
“I’m on,” said Xiaofeng.
The Vespa jerked them both as it began its assault on the streets of Xinbei City, a suburb of Taipei. Xiaofeng’s mother steered the scooter with a heightened awareness, conscious of her daughter’s safety and her own. The scooter moved more slowly with the added weight of a half-grown woman, but it was weighted at the back giving it more balance around turns. Xiaofeng’s presence on her mother’s scooter reflected her presence in her mother’s life. She had slowed her mother down in life, but made her more serious about her decisions, giving them added weight. And like the ride home they were together.
The apartment was in the Wenshan District of Taipei on a street that wasn’t bustling but busy. The lack of seclusion made the area relatively cheap to live. Xiaofeng’s neck turned in a 45˚ angle as they passed a new 7-Eleven convenience store—one of fifteen that dotted the way across the East China Sea in 1980. Taiwan would receive a dozen more of the Japanese stores by year end. Xiaofeng’s deep brown eyes reflected the orange, red and green of the 7-Eleven sign, until the light of the new store faded in the background. The Vespa kept its speed until the engine calmed quickly like a child downing from a tantrum. The scooter came to a tranquil stop in front of a row of its peers. Xiaofeng planted her right foot firmly on the ground and held her satchel bag to her right thigh, before lifting her left leg over the back of the scooter while bracing on the seat cushion. Xiaofeng’s mother snapped the Vespa’s key to the right and the engine went silent. Xiaofeng rolled her red helmet off her head, as her mother slid the key out of the ignition. While still straddling the scooter, she used her legs to paddle the sleepy scooter into an open space between two Honda scooters, both black. Both young women, senior and junior, made a V-line toward the front door of the building. Neither woman said a word. It was all routine. Xiaofeng held the scooter helmet as her mother produced the key that would get them in the building.
The building was five floors of pale pink stretcher bond brick. The first floor was reserved for retail space. An elderly couple had opened a washateria on the first floor, five years earlier. Tenants from the building and surrounding ones kept the machines spinning and the money flowing. As Xiaofeng’s mother unlocked the solid wooden door, she thought she would have to visit the washateria soon, for her daughter and herself. Xiaofeng and her mother had to climb one flight of stairs—out of four—to the second floor. The second floor was the first floor of residential units and the only floor without balconies. All other floors had steel cage balconies, with green plastic canopies, adding space for potted plants. The balconies also warehoused external air-conditioning units. The lack of a balcony meant the second floor didn’t have air-conditioning units. Mr. Zhou, the building landlord, reasoned that an external air-conditioning unit on the second floor was an invitation to a thief. He explained once the air-conditioning unit was stolen, he would be forced to buy another one and he didn’t have so much money. Having no balcony and no air-conditioning unit made Xiaofeng and her mother feel like campers more than tenants. However, in the sixteen years that Mr. Zhou owned the building, the second floor stayed fully occupied much more often than the other three floors.
Mr. Zhou was a natural businessman. Years of owning the building had shown him how much money he could save by not having to upgrade and repair air-conditioning units. On the second floor, he passed the savings on to his renters. Renting a second floor apartment was just 275 Taiwan Dollars a month, compared with 550 on the top floor. Through the years, Mr. Zhou also realized that cheap renters didn’t complain as much as the ones who paid more but demanded more. Not only did second-floor renters save him money, they saved him headaches so he tried to provide for them as much as he could. He convinced his friends, Mr. & Mrs. Cui, to open the washateria on the first floor. The Cuis were in their 70’s but Mr. Zhou pointed out the machines were self-service. The Cuis would only have to come by when the weekend was over to collect money from the machines, sweep the floor and clean the front window. They did this for a year and a half, before their daughter and her family took over the cleaning duties for a 30% stake in the weekly cash haul. The situation worked out well for everyone: the tenants; the Cuis and Mr. Zhou. Mr. Zhou was a talent at business. Unfortunately, Xiaofeng’s mother was not. The idea of owning something, to have residual income to provide for herself and her daughter, had never occurred to her. But she could spot a good deal when she saw one.
She realized earning tips in US Dollars, which in 1979 could be exchanged for New Taiwan Dollars at a rate of 1 to 35.90, would be a windfall. She also saw the advantage of her husband’s departure. She had never divorced the man nor had he returned asking for a divorce. He simply left. Being a public servant, he was easy to find so she kept tabs on him. Being the wife of a Communist Party Member, but not actually being with him was a double-edged sword and she could skate on both edges. When Xiaofeng’s mother decided to leave Mainland China for Taiwan, she had to apply for a passport and exit visa to leave the country. When she listed her husband’s name and rank as a Deputy Regional Economic Minister on her application, her visa and passport were all but guaranteed. There was another hurdle. She had to apply for an entry visa to move to Taiwan. To get an entry visa from the Taiwanes
e Economic and Cultural Representation Office in Shenyang, she first had to present a Mainland exit visa so the Taiwanese wouldn’t waste the effort on an entry visa. Exit visa in hand, she was allowed to start the application process for a tourist visa to Taiwan. Xiaofeng’s mother had always been an appropriate woman; it was out of character for her to lie on an application form. She wrote down that she was married and that her husband’s occupation was as a member of the Communist Party. She also made clear that she was only applying for a visa for herself and her daughter. Because her husband would stay behind, the application had the appearance of someone visiting Taiwan, with intent to return to the Mainland. The opposite was true.