Inside, my loneliness was burning me down to ashes.
My brother was seeing another girl. His bus-conductor fiancée had deserted him for another man because my brother couldn’t get a room of his own. My mother found a letter under my brother’s pillow to someone named Little Lily. He wrote, “Let’s meet in People’s Park tonight at seven.” My mother was excited when she showed me the letter. She asked me whether I knew Little Lily and whether she was a nice girl.
I said that I didn’t know the girl. Maybe she was the nurse at the hospital who tended my brother when he became sick over his breakup with the bus conductor. In any case, whether the girl was nice or not was not important, I told my mother. The important thing was my brother had to have a room in order to keep this relationship.
“Why have kids if you have no place for them at home?” I said to my mother angrily and immediately regretted what I had said. Mother didn’t say anything. She lowered her head and walked out of the room. Her feelings were hurt. But how was I to stop myself from being miserable?
* * *
M y brother made me feel hopelessly old. He was thirty-four and could wait no longer. He tried not to speak to me. He beat me with his silence. Every day. Every night. I cried, but without tears. There was nothing interesting in my life except my English class, except Katherine and her music.
I looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom we shared with neighbors. Let the neighbors’ kids pee in their pants, I thought to myself, and locked the door. I remembered something my grandfather once told me. He said our great philosopher Chuang-Tsu taught us that a perfect man uses his mind like a mirror. It grasps nothing; it refuses nothing. It receives but does not keep. My grandfather was trying to guide me toward the Great Void. But I felt like I was born with a defective brain. I was incapable of being a perfect mirror. I kept what life showed me. I saw myself aging in my own mirror. I was aging faster than I was prepared for. How could I make things happen for me before it was too late? Do people in America live differently? Katherine looked cheerful. She must be at peace with herself. How did she do that? She had a healthy, unclouded smile, an interest in other people. Was she treated nicelyin America? Why did she come here? What was it about China that attracted people like her?
Chinese Women in the Eighties.
I thought of the title of Katherine’s future book. What was there to write about? Our shame? What if my brother decided to marry Little Lily before the new year? He would take her home and get married in my bedroom. Where would I go?
* * *
K atherine gave the class a tip about dressing. She said if you have nothing to wear, wear black. The following Monday every one of us was wearing black. Black blouses, black pants, black shoes, black socks. It was ridiculous, the whole class, as if we’d dyed our clothes black over the weekend. At first we tried not to show our embarrassment. We tried to pretend that it was just a coincidence.
I said to Lion Head that I had to wear black because I had a funeral to attend. Lion Head said he had to wear his black suit because it was his grandmother’s wish. He said that it was made of good fabric, and it had been sitting in the suitcase for so long the moths were beginning to eat it.
We were fine until Katherine stepped into the room. She opened her mouth halfway and then began to laugh. She laughed and laughed and bent to the floor. She said, “You guys really have a great sense of humor.”
We laughed with her. She was in a bright red cotton dress. She said red went well with black. She took out a camera and said she wanted a picture of us. Lion Head offered to be the photographer. He placed Katherine in the middle. Katherine put her arms up in the air. Lion Head stood on top of the lecture table and aimed the camera at us. “You look like a giant black flower with
My brother was seeing another girl. His bus-conductor fiancée had deserted him for another man because my brother couldn’t get a room of his own. My mother found a letter under my brother’s pillow to someone named Little Lily. He wrote, “Let’s meet in People’s Park tonight at seven.” My mother was excited when she showed me the letter. She asked me whether I knew Little Lily and whether she was a nice girl.
I said that I didn’t know the girl. Maybe she was the nurse at the hospital who tended my brother when he became sick over his breakup with the bus conductor. In any case, whether the girl was nice or not was not important, I told my mother. The important thing was my brother had to have a room in order to keep this relationship.
“Why have kids if you have no place for them at home?” I said to my mother angrily and immediately regretted what I had said. Mother didn’t say anything. She lowered her head and walked out of the room. Her feelings were hurt. But how was I to stop myself from being miserable?
* * *
M y brother made me feel hopelessly old. He was thirty-four and could wait no longer. He tried not to speak to me. He beat me with his silence. Every day. Every night. I cried, but without tears. There was nothing interesting in my life except my English class, except Katherine and her music.
I looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom we shared with neighbors. Let the neighbors’ kids pee in their pants, I thought to myself, and locked the door. I remembered something my grandfather once told me. He said our great philosopher Chuang-Tsu taught us that a perfect man uses his mind like a mirror. It grasps nothing; it refuses nothing. It receives but does not keep. My grandfather was trying to guide me toward the Great Void. But I felt like I was born with a defective brain. I was incapable of being a perfect mirror. I kept what life showed me. I saw myself aging in my own mirror. I was aging faster than I was prepared for. How could I make things happen for me before it was too late? Do people in America live differently? Katherine looked cheerful. She must be at peace with herself. How did she do that? She had a healthy, unclouded smile, an interest in other people. Was she treated nicelyin America? Why did she come here? What was it about China that attracted people like her?
Chinese Women in the Eighties.
I thought of the title of Katherine’s future book. What was there to write about? Our shame? What if my brother decided to marry Little Lily before the new year? He would take her home and get married in my bedroom. Where would I go?
* * *
K atherine gave the class a tip about dressing. She said if you have nothing to wear, wear black. The following Monday every one of us was wearing black. Black blouses, black pants, black shoes, black socks. It was ridiculous, the whole class, as if we’d dyed our clothes black over the weekend. At first we tried not to show our embarrassment. We tried to pretend that it was just a coincidence.
I said to Lion Head that I had to wear black because I had a funeral to attend. Lion Head said he had to wear his black suit because it was his grandmother’s wish. He said that it was made of good fabric, and it had been sitting in the suitcase for so long the moths were beginning to eat it.
We were fine until Katherine stepped into the room. She opened her mouth halfway and then began to laugh. She laughed and laughed and bent to the floor. She said, “You guys really have a great sense of humor.”
We laughed with her. She was in a bright red cotton dress. She said red went well with black. She took out a camera and said she wanted a picture of us. Lion Head offered to be the photographer. He placed Katherine in the middle. Katherine put her arms up in the air. Lion Head stood on top of the lecture table and aimed the camera at us. “You look like a giant black flower with
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