In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson

by Bette Bao Lord

  At the steps of the house second from the corner, she stopped to straighten her coat and smooth her hair. In her moment of triumph, she must look her best. Holding the cigarettes with both hands like an offering to the gods, she marched up to the front door. Something made her look through the glass beside the wooden frame. There was the hall light. But where was the painted boat?

  She hurried to the street to see if indeed it was the second house from the corner. It was. Perhaps in her glory, she had not walked far enough. She ran to the next street, to another second house. Again, a hall light. But it was painted with a rose.

  She rushed across the street to the house facing. No light at all. Just a lamp on a table.

  Quickly Shirley retraced her steps. Her heart raced even faster than the patter of her shoes on the sidewalk. Now right. Now left. But the store had disappeared. There was just another house, like all the others.

  For a while, she ran here and there, up every set of steps looking for the boat. It was getting dark.

  Finally she was too tired to look anymore. She sat down on the curb. Perhaps someone would come to her rescue. But no one passed. She was alone. Her hands were stiff from the cold. Tears fell on the cellophane. She didn’t care.

  What had gone wrong? she asked herself. The directions were clear. Right, left, store. Right, right, home. Suddenly, she knew. She had gone to a second store and forgotten to start back from the first. Knowing did not help. She would never find the skinny man with the big red nose or the woman who read. She would never have another chance. What a fool she was! Nothing but a fool. Utterly ashamed, she hid her face in her arms.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Looking up, she saw Father. He offered his hand, but not a word of rebuke. Silently they walked, hand in hand. With each step she felt better. At the first corner, they met Mr. Tan. At the second, Mr. Hu. And so it went until all the guests had joined them. Not a one was unkind enough to mention why he was out roaming the streets.

  As they passed the cigarette store, Father began to sing. It was a marching song, one soldiers sang when they returned victorious from battle. Everyone joined in.

  Later Shirley wrote a letter to Fourth Cousin and boasted of how she had triumphed on her very first day in Brooklyn. Naturally, she did not mention the little mishap. Why worry the clan unnecessarily? She would never be lost again.

  March

  China’s Little Ambassador

  Nine o’clock sharp the very next morning, Shirley sat in the principal’s office at P.S. 8. Her mother and the schoolmistress were talking. Shirley didn’t understand a word. It was embarrassing. Why hadn’t she, too, studied the English course on the records that Father had sent? But it was too late now. She stopped trying to understand. Suddenly, Mother hissed, in Chinese. “Stop that or else!”

  Shirley snapped her head down. She had been staring at the stranger. But she could not keep her eyes from rolling up again. There was something more foreign about the principal than about any other foreigner she had seen so far. What was it? It was not the blue eyes. Many others had them too. It was not the high nose. All foreign noses were higher than Chinese ones. It was not the blue hair. Hair came in all colors in America.

  Yes, of course, naturally. The woman had no eyelashes. Other foreigners grew hair all over them, more than six Chinese together. This woman had none. Her skin was as bare as the Happy Buddha’s belly, except for the neat rows of stiff curls that hugged her head.

  She had no eyebrows, even. They were penciled on, and looked just like the character for man, . And every time she tilted her head, her hair moved all in one piece like a hat.

  “Shirley.”

  Mother was trying to get her attention. “Tell the principal how old you are.”

  Shirley put up ten fingers.

  While the principal filled out a form, mother argued excitedly. But why? Shirley had given the correct answer. She counted just to make sure. On the day she was born, she was one year old. And two months later, upon the new year, she was two. That was the Year of the Rabbit. Then came the Dragon, Snake, Horse, Sheep, Monkey, Rooster, Dog and now it was the year of the Boar, making ten. Proof she was ten.

  Mother shook her head. Apparently, she had lost the argument. She announced in Chinese, “Shirley, you will enter fifth grade.”

  “Fifth? But, Mother, I don’t speak English. And besides, I only completed three grades in Chungking.”

  “I know. But the principal has explained that in America everyone is assigned according to age. Ten years old means fifth grade. And we must observe the American rules, mustn’t we?”

  Shirley nodded obediently. But she could not help thinking that only Shirley had to go to school, and only Shirley would be in trouble if she failed.

  Mother stood up to leave. She took Shirley by the hand. “Remember, my daughter, you may be the only Chinese these Americans will ever meet. Do your best. Be extra good. Upon your shoulders rests the reputation of all Chinese.”

  All five hundred million? Shirley wondered.

  “You are China’s little ambassador.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Shirley squared her shoulders and tried to feel worthy of this great honor. At the same time she wished she could leave with Mother.

  Alone, the schoolmistress and Shirley looked at each other. Suddenly the principal shut one eye, the right one, then opened it again.

  Was this another foreign custom, like shaking hands? It must be proper if a principal does it, Shirley thought. She ought to return the gesture, but she didn’t know how. So she shut and opened both eyes. Twice.

  This brought a warm laugh.

  The principal then led her to class. The room was large, with windows up to the ceiling. Row after row of students, each one unlike the next. Some faces were white, like clean plates; other black like ebony. Some were in-between shades. A few were spotted all over. One boy was as big around as a water jar. Several others were as thin as chopsticks. No one wore a uniform of blue, like hers. There were sweaters with animals on them, shirts with stripes and shirts with squares, dresses in colors as varied as Grand-grand Uncle’s paints. Three girls even wore earrings.

  While Shirley looked about, the principal had been making a speech. Suddenly it ended with “Shirley Temple Wong.” The class stood up and waved.

  Amitabha! They were all so tall. Even Water Jar was a head taller than she. For a fleeting moment she wondered if Mother would consider buying an ambassador a pair of high-heeled shoes.

  “Hi, Shirley!” The class shouted.

  Shirley bowed deeply. Then, taking a guess, she replied, “Hi!”

  The teacher introduced herself and showed the new pupil to a front-row seat. Shirley liked her right away, although she had a most difficult name, Mrs. Rappaport. She was a tiny woman with dainty bones and fiery red hair brushed skyward. Shirley thought that in her previous life she must have been a bird, a cardinal perhaps. Yet she commanded respect, for no student talked out of turn. Or was it the long mean pole that hung on the wall behind the desk that commanded respect? It dwarfed the bamboo cane the teacher in Chungking had used to punish Four Hands whenever he stole a trifle from another.

  Throughout the lessons, Shirley leaned forward, barely touching her seat, to catch the meaning, but the words sounded like gurgling water. Now and then, when Mrs. Rappaport looked her way, she opened and shut her eyes as the principal had done, to show friendship.

  At lunchtime, Shirley went with the class to the school cafeteria, but before she could pick up a tray, several boys and girls waved for her to follow them. They were smiling, so she went along. They snuck back to the classroom to pick up coats, then hurried out the door and across the school yard to a nearby store. Shirley was certain they should not be there, but what choice did she have? These were now her friends.

  One by one they gave their lunch money to the store owner, whom they called “Mr. P.” In return, he gave each a bottle of orange-colored water, bread twice the size of an ear of corn oozing with meatba
lls, peppers, onions, and hot red gravy, and a large piece of brown paper to lay on the icy sidewalk and sit upon. While they ate, everyone except Shirley played marbles or cards and traded bottle caps and pictures of men swinging a stick or wearing one huge glove. It was the best lunch Shirley had ever had.

  And there was more. After lunch, each of them was allowed to select one item from those displayed under the glass counter. There were paper strips dotted with red and yellow sugar tacks, chocolate soldiers in blue tin foil, boxes of raisins and nuts, envelopes of chips, cookies as big as pancakes, candy elephants, lollipops in every color, a wax collection of red lips, white teeth, pink ears and curly black mustaches. Shirley was the last to make up her mind. She chose a hand, filled with juice. It looked better than it tasted, but she did not mind. Tomorrow she could choose again.

  But when she was back in her seat, waiting for Mrs. Rappaport to enter the classroom, Shirley’s knees shook. What if the teacher found out about her escapade? There would go her ambassadorship. She would be shamed. Her parents would lose face. All five hundred million Chinese would suffer. Round and round in her stomach the meatballs tumbled like pebbles.

  Then Mrs. Rappaport came in. She did not look pleased. Shirley flinched when the teacher went straight to the long mean pole. For the first time her heart went out to Four Hands. She shut her eyes and prayed to the Goddess of Mercy. Oh Kwan Yin, please don’t let me cry! She waited, listening for Mrs. Rappaport’s footsteps to become louder and louder. They did not. Finally curiosity overcame fear and she looked up. Mrs. Rappaport was using the pole to open a window!

  The lessons continued. During arithmetic, Shirley raised her hand. She went to the blackboard and wrote the correct answer. Mrs. Rappaport rewarded her with a big smile. Shirley opened and shut her eyes to show her pleasure. Soon, she was dreaming about candy elephants and cookies the size of pancakes.

  Then school was over. As Shirley was putting on her coat, Mrs. Rappaport handed her a letter, obviously to be given to her parents. Fear returned. Round and round, this time like rocks.

  She barely greeted her mother at the door.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You look sick.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Perhaps it was something you ate at lunch?”

  “No,” she said much too quickly. “Nothing at all to do with lunch.”

  “What then?”

  “The job of ambassador is harder than I thought.”

  At bedtime, Shirley could no longer put off giving up the letter. Trembling, she handed it to Father. She imagined herself on a boat back to China.

  He read it aloud to Mother. Then they both turned to her, a most quizzical look on their faces.

  “Your teacher suggests we take you to a doctor. She thinks there is something wrong with your eyes.”

  April

  A Hungry Ghost

  Day by day, week by week, little by little Shirley shrank until she was no more. It was the only explanation. Why else did the class, which had welcomed her so warmly at first, ignore her so now? True, she could only speak a few words at a time, and most often no one could even guess at the meaning of those. True, she was a coward. Those who broke the rules to go to Mr. P’s no longer bothered with her. True, she was stupid. Too stupid to know the difference between a wink and a tic until Father explained.

  But still—didn’t they know how lonely she felt?

  It was spring now, but Shirley, hunched in her coat, walked as if there were still snow on the ground. Carefully she sidestepped the boys who played basketball, the girls who roller-skated, the groups who seemed to laugh or whisper whenever she passed. She dreaded the distance across the school yard. It was endless and full of traps. If a loose ball rolled by, should she catch it? If a girl fell, should she help her up? If someone glanced her way, should she wave? This afternoon, as every afternoon, she pretended to have somewhere to go, and hurried on. But she had nowhere to go but home.

  At Mr. P’s she slowed down. The pennies in her pocket jingled to be spent. But the usual crowd was pressed nose to nose at the counter, and she hurried on.

  With no one to talk to, she mumbled to herself. “Buffalo . . . stink, stank, stuck . . . liberty . . . slave . . . Mississippi Liver.” She tried to string these new words with the old ones in sentences, but she had no more success than a blind man threading beads.

  Ahead was a gang playing stoop ball, blocking her way. She waited for a quiet moment, when she could pass. This game was different from the others. This one she knew how to play. It was just like “Trap the Birdie,” except instead of throwing up feathers stuck inside the hole of a coin, the player bounced a ball against the step and called out a mystery number. The one assigned that number had to catch the ball to win a point for his team.

  Suddenly a ball flew overhead and the crowd was running toward her. She ducked inside the delicatessen next door for safety. It smelled strangely, as if packed with dirty damp socks, which upon closer inspection she recognized as cheese and fish. Not the silvery catches that swam and somersaulted in the wooden basins that lined the market at the foot of the Mountain of Ten Thousand Steps. Dead fish. So long dead that Cook would probably not even throw them out to the cats. Slivers of gray fish pickled in white glue, smoked fish with yellow eyes that bulged, raw red fish without heads or tails.

  The owner spoke up.

  Pointing to a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, Shirley handed him the pennies.

  She waited by the door for the ball to fly in the opposite direction. When the coast was clear, she started to run across the sidewalk. Just then a voice asked, “Want to play?”

  It belonged to Joseph, who sat behind her in class. His hair was always slicked down and scientifically parted in the middle. His belly protruded just enough for his hands to rest comfortably upon it. His face was pure white, as if his mother had powdered her baby on the wrong end. But to Shirley, at this moment, he was the handsomest boy in all of Brooklyn.

  “Please,” she said. “Please.”

  The other players groaned, but did nothing to stop Joseph from whispering in her ear. “You are number eight on my team.”

  She nodded eagerly, then bowed to all the players.

  They groaned again.

  The next number called was hers. She ran after the ball, bumping teammates along the way, only to let it slip through her fingers. It didn’t matter. She was on a team!

  Her happiness did not last. No sooner had she learned to smack the ball smartly on the steps, angling it right or left, than the other players revolted. Nobody wanted the Chinese on his team. For whenever she yelled out a mystery number, it was no mystery at all. It was always “one,” or “true,” or “tree.” No surprise. Always “one,” or “true,” or “tree.” In the excitement of hurling the ball, she couldn’t remember how to say the higher numbers, especially after she had missed every ball when the other team called “eight.” Pretty soon they were calling “eight” almost every time. Her team was losing. It was all her fault.

  Finally, Joseph approached her with an outstretched hand. She shrugged, gave up the ball, and stood apart again, to watch.

  She laughed along when someone missed. She cheered along when someone scored. Always a second too late, a second too long. Yet none of the gang noticed. They seemed not to see her at all. She ought to go home, she thought. Mother had learned to make delicious cupcakes. But she did not move. She stood by instead, like a hungry ghost. Finally one player left. Shirley followed a few steps behind her, pretending to kick a castaway can whenever the American turned to glance her way.

  At home, she locked herself in the bathroom. Tiptoe on the toilet seat, she peered into the mirror, trying to blow bubbles with her Juicy Fruit gum. Even the first graders blew bubbles as big as a full moon. Hers were no bigger than a button. Jaws aching, she tried again and again. She had to do something right. Had to.

  “Our daughter’s not herself,” she heard Mother say to Father
when she thought Shirley was asleep.

  “She’ll be fine again soon,” Father said. “Even the finest engine has a few knocks at first.”

  But I’m not an engine, she thought. Engines don’t cry. Engines don’t need friends to talk to, to play with, to share. Reaching out, she tried to pretend Fourth Cousin was there.

  The next day everyone was assigned a poem to recite. Shirley was not. She decided to learn one anyway. Over and over she played the new record Father had bought for her, imitating each sound until she was certain she could repeat a stanza. Then, locking herself in the bathroom, she practiced before the mirror. She gestured to the right. She gestured to the left. Not exactly certain of the meaning of the words, she dared not elaborate more. Her father, who spoke English well and tutored her, could have explained them all, but Shirley wanted her efforts to be a complete surprise. Wait until they hear, she told herself. Just wait.

  In class, she was disappointed when Mrs. Rappaport did not call for volunteers, but asked each student to recite in turn by seats. Down the first row. Up the second. At last it was Joseph’s turn, and she was next. Sidling to the edge of her seat, she waited, so sure of her success that she was not even nervous. Joseph’s poem seemed very long. Would it never end so she could shine?

  Before he had even sat down, she popped up. Everyone murmured, wondering at the Chinese ambassador.

  Shirley waited for complete silence. Then, clearing her throat, she began.

  At once, they were giggling. Even Mrs. Rappaport. There was nothing to do but gesture to the right and gesture to the left, exactly as she had practiced, only faster and faster, until finally the stanza was done.

  Now everyone was laughing openly. Shirley pretended to share their merriment, but tears welled in her throat and she could only manage a weak smile. What had gone wrong? Had she done something stupid again? She wanted to run, but her feet would not obey. The laughter continued. Soon she stood like a forlorn scarecrow under the pelting rain.