and then nodded. They exchanged more words. The officer bent down and quickly wrote something on the page. They waved at each other as they parted. The translator returned to me.
“
Ni tai jin zhang la!
” she said to me in Chinese.
I understood. It meant “You’re too nervous!” But what did she mean?
She repeated the phrase, and I heard “You’re too nervous” again.
I begged her to explain, for I was too disoriented to understand.
“This means we have decided to let you go,” she smiled.
“Do you mean I get to go to Chicago? Is that what you just said? Am I understanding you correctly? Do you mean that there will be no deportation for me?”
She nodded. “No deportation, Miss Min. Congratulations.”
I choked with joy. I locked my arms with my hands so that I wouldn’t throw myself at the floor to kowtow to the lady.
I asked her what had happened. The translator let me know that she had found a clause in my papers that my school had a plan to place me in an intensive language program at the University of Illinois if upon arrival my English was found to be insufficient. I would be given six months to bring my English up to level and pass an entrance test. If I failed to improve, the school was responsible for reporting me to immigration, which meant my deportation.
Six months! I had only asked for three!
{ Chapter 6 }
I had never met my cousin, my aunt’s son. I was told by my aunt that he would pick me up from the airport in Chicago. I held the paper with his name on it above my head as I exited the terminal. We met but were unable to communicate. I spoke Mandarin and he Cantonese. He was kind enough to allow me to temporarily stay at his student apartment. I promised my aunt that I’d leave as soon as possible.
The foreign-student adviser at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was upset. I had lied about my “language skills” on the application form. In the “Please describe the level of your English” section, I had marked “Excellent.” I confessed that I was guilty, and that I was willing to accept the punishment.
I was sent to the intensive tutorial class held at the University of Illinois Circle Campus. The program cost five hundred dollars. I already felt the weight of my debt and regretted having to borrow more from my aunt. It was painful for me to pay for the university’s dormitory. I would have preferred to live on the streets.
I was given a tour of the school and the city of Chicago. I tried to read the street signs and memorize bus numbers and routes. But all I could hear was the soundtrack of a Chinese opera as I bent my head back to admire the Sears Tower.
When asked what type of roommate I’d prefer, I had replied, “Anyone who speaks English, and who doesn’t mind my silence.”
This was how I met Takisha, my first American friend.
The dorm room was way too luxurious for me. My first thought after entering the room was: I need to look elsewhere for a cheaper place to live.
Chicago’s winter was brutal, but the room was heated. It had a window facing a tree. The hallway was freshly painted, and the sharedbathrooms were spacious. That hot water was available twenty-four hours a day was incredible. I felt like a princess, because for the first time in my life I would get to sleep on a mattress. Each roommate had her own desk and closet. I was tormented by the amount I was paying for this. I found myself checking out the garbage Dumpster every time I walked by. I didn’t need a mattress. I’d be fine sleeping on concrete.
I heard laughter and a loud knock on the door followed by the sound of a key turning. The door opened and a dark-skinned person entered.
An African freedom fighter
, I thought. Takisha looked exactly like the girl I grew up seeing on a Communist propaganda poster calling for the Proletarians of the World to Unite.
Takisha enthralled me. She was a breathing sculpture with chocolate-colored skin and large, fig-shaped eyes. She had a wide
“
Ni tai jin zhang la!
” she said to me in Chinese.
I understood. It meant “You’re too nervous!” But what did she mean?
She repeated the phrase, and I heard “You’re too nervous” again.
I begged her to explain, for I was too disoriented to understand.
“This means we have decided to let you go,” she smiled.
“Do you mean I get to go to Chicago? Is that what you just said? Am I understanding you correctly? Do you mean that there will be no deportation for me?”
She nodded. “No deportation, Miss Min. Congratulations.”
I choked with joy. I locked my arms with my hands so that I wouldn’t throw myself at the floor to kowtow to the lady.
I asked her what had happened. The translator let me know that she had found a clause in my papers that my school had a plan to place me in an intensive language program at the University of Illinois if upon arrival my English was found to be insufficient. I would be given six months to bring my English up to level and pass an entrance test. If I failed to improve, the school was responsible for reporting me to immigration, which meant my deportation.
Six months! I had only asked for three!
{ Chapter 6 }
I had never met my cousin, my aunt’s son. I was told by my aunt that he would pick me up from the airport in Chicago. I held the paper with his name on it above my head as I exited the terminal. We met but were unable to communicate. I spoke Mandarin and he Cantonese. He was kind enough to allow me to temporarily stay at his student apartment. I promised my aunt that I’d leave as soon as possible.
The foreign-student adviser at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was upset. I had lied about my “language skills” on the application form. In the “Please describe the level of your English” section, I had marked “Excellent.” I confessed that I was guilty, and that I was willing to accept the punishment.
I was sent to the intensive tutorial class held at the University of Illinois Circle Campus. The program cost five hundred dollars. I already felt the weight of my debt and regretted having to borrow more from my aunt. It was painful for me to pay for the university’s dormitory. I would have preferred to live on the streets.
I was given a tour of the school and the city of Chicago. I tried to read the street signs and memorize bus numbers and routes. But all I could hear was the soundtrack of a Chinese opera as I bent my head back to admire the Sears Tower.
When asked what type of roommate I’d prefer, I had replied, “Anyone who speaks English, and who doesn’t mind my silence.”
This was how I met Takisha, my first American friend.
The dorm room was way too luxurious for me. My first thought after entering the room was: I need to look elsewhere for a cheaper place to live.
Chicago’s winter was brutal, but the room was heated. It had a window facing a tree. The hallway was freshly painted, and the sharedbathrooms were spacious. That hot water was available twenty-four hours a day was incredible. I felt like a princess, because for the first time in my life I would get to sleep on a mattress. Each roommate had her own desk and closet. I was tormented by the amount I was paying for this. I found myself checking out the garbage Dumpster every time I walked by. I didn’t need a mattress. I’d be fine sleeping on concrete.
I heard laughter and a loud knock on the door followed by the sound of a key turning. The door opened and a dark-skinned person entered.
An African freedom fighter
, I thought. Takisha looked exactly like the girl I grew up seeing on a Communist propaganda poster calling for the Proletarians of the World to Unite.
Takisha enthralled me. She was a breathing sculpture with chocolate-colored skin and large, fig-shaped eyes. She had a wide
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