you.”
“When you’re done,” Z.G. adds, “could you bring a thermos of boiled water and a bowl to my room?”
I want to remind him that this is the New Society and that Kumei is not his servant, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
I grab my toiletry bag and follow Kumei back through the compound, out the front gate, and down a path to a water trough. I look at the trough, then at Kumei. She makes the motions for washing her face. Well, okay, she must know what she’s doing, so I dip my toothbrush in the trough and brush my teeth. She joins me when I splash some of the water on my face. I didn’t pack a towel when I left Los Angeles, so I follow Kumei’s example by wiping off the excess water with my forearms and letting the heat of the night dry the rest.
When we return to the compound, I grab Kumei’s elbow. “You were also going to show me the place to do my private business?”
She escorts me back to my room and points to something that looks like the butter churn one of my elementary school teachers once brought to class to teach us about pioneer days. It’s wooden, about eighteen inches high, wider at the bottom than at the top, and closed by a lid. I’m going to have to use that thing? Are you kidding me?
Seeing the look on my face, Kumei asks, “Don’t you have these in Shanghai?” I don’t know if they have them in Shanghai or not, but I shake my head. Kumei giggles again. “This is your nightstool. You open the top, sit down, and do your business.” She pauses, then adds, “Don’t forget to close the top when you’re done or you’ll have a bad smell and lots of flies!”
This information doesn’t exactly thrill me, and it causes me to realize that when I left home I didn’t bring toilet paper, let alone supplies for what my mother and aunt have always called the visit from the little red sister. Now what am I going to do?
Kumei says good night, and I close the door to my room. I sit on the edge of the bed—hard wood covered with feather padding and a quilt—still trying to absorb everything. I want China to be perfect and my time here to be rewarding, but a lot of what I’ve seen today is either very primitive or kind of scary. I take a breath to steady myself and then look around. The single window is just an opening covered by another carved screen. Darkness is falling fast now, and the cicadas are making a real racket. A small oil lamp sits on the table, but I don’t have matches to light it. Even if I did, I didn’t bring anything to read. The walls feel close. The heat is unbelievable. I stare at the nightstool. In my mind I thought I was ready to rough it, but I’m just not ready to use that contraption. I hear Z.G. moving in the central room and go out to join him.
“So how was your day?” Z.G. asks.
His question puts me on the spot. I want to fit in, but I don’t look like I belong and I’m pretty sure I don’t act like I do either. I want Z.G to like me, but I realize I’m a surprise and an unexpected burden to him. More than anything, I want to love China, but everything is just so strange.
“It’s all I imagined but better,” I say, trying to answer in a way he’ll like. How can I explain this to him? I’m far removed from the comforts I grew up with, but this is just what Joe and I talked about with the other kids in Chicago. “My mother and aunt always said you can’t know luxury until you’re deprived of it. They lost a lot when they left China, but I’ve never understood their feelings. Who needs luxury when you have purpose, goodness, and passion?”
“You aren’t actually living this life,” Z.G. points out, catching me on my false enthusiasm. “You don’t know what it’s like day after day.”
“That’s true, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to be here,” I counter, feeling sensitive to my new father. “And I think the people are happy we’re here too.” I pause and then amend my statement. “That you’re here. They’re
“When you’re done,” Z.G. adds, “could you bring a thermos of boiled water and a bowl to my room?”
I want to remind him that this is the New Society and that Kumei is not his servant, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
I grab my toiletry bag and follow Kumei back through the compound, out the front gate, and down a path to a water trough. I look at the trough, then at Kumei. She makes the motions for washing her face. Well, okay, she must know what she’s doing, so I dip my toothbrush in the trough and brush my teeth. She joins me when I splash some of the water on my face. I didn’t pack a towel when I left Los Angeles, so I follow Kumei’s example by wiping off the excess water with my forearms and letting the heat of the night dry the rest.
When we return to the compound, I grab Kumei’s elbow. “You were also going to show me the place to do my private business?”
She escorts me back to my room and points to something that looks like the butter churn one of my elementary school teachers once brought to class to teach us about pioneer days. It’s wooden, about eighteen inches high, wider at the bottom than at the top, and closed by a lid. I’m going to have to use that thing? Are you kidding me?
Seeing the look on my face, Kumei asks, “Don’t you have these in Shanghai?” I don’t know if they have them in Shanghai or not, but I shake my head. Kumei giggles again. “This is your nightstool. You open the top, sit down, and do your business.” She pauses, then adds, “Don’t forget to close the top when you’re done or you’ll have a bad smell and lots of flies!”
This information doesn’t exactly thrill me, and it causes me to realize that when I left home I didn’t bring toilet paper, let alone supplies for what my mother and aunt have always called the visit from the little red sister. Now what am I going to do?
Kumei says good night, and I close the door to my room. I sit on the edge of the bed—hard wood covered with feather padding and a quilt—still trying to absorb everything. I want China to be perfect and my time here to be rewarding, but a lot of what I’ve seen today is either very primitive or kind of scary. I take a breath to steady myself and then look around. The single window is just an opening covered by another carved screen. Darkness is falling fast now, and the cicadas are making a real racket. A small oil lamp sits on the table, but I don’t have matches to light it. Even if I did, I didn’t bring anything to read. The walls feel close. The heat is unbelievable. I stare at the nightstool. In my mind I thought I was ready to rough it, but I’m just not ready to use that contraption. I hear Z.G. moving in the central room and go out to join him.
“So how was your day?” Z.G. asks.
His question puts me on the spot. I want to fit in, but I don’t look like I belong and I’m pretty sure I don’t act like I do either. I want Z.G to like me, but I realize I’m a surprise and an unexpected burden to him. More than anything, I want to love China, but everything is just so strange.
“It’s all I imagined but better,” I say, trying to answer in a way he’ll like. How can I explain this to him? I’m far removed from the comforts I grew up with, but this is just what Joe and I talked about with the other kids in Chicago. “My mother and aunt always said you can’t know luxury until you’re deprived of it. They lost a lot when they left China, but I’ve never understood their feelings. Who needs luxury when you have purpose, goodness, and passion?”
“You aren’t actually living this life,” Z.G. points out, catching me on my false enthusiasm. “You don’t know what it’s like day after day.”
“That’s true, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to be here,” I counter, feeling sensitive to my new father. “And I think the people are happy we’re here too.” I pause and then amend my statement. “That you’re here. They’re
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