Falling Leaves Return to Their Roots

by Adeline Yen Mah

  ‘No, no. London is out! I’m not going back there!’ I thought about Karl, and felt a spasm of pain. I could never return to that again. ‘Besides, I’ll get nowhere. The cards are stacked against me. Chinese. Female. Racism and sexism are very much in evidence in England.’

  ‘So what else is new?’ Martin asked rhetorically. ‘Racism and sexism are everywhere, even in America.’

  ‘What was it really like, growing up in America?’

  ‘You mean what was it really like, growing up in white America with an Asian face?’

  He told me about going to school in Chinatown in New York and identifying only with white America. He hated Chinese school because he did not wish to be different from his white classmates. Gradually he realized that although he thought of himself as American he would always be a foreigner, a Chinese, to his white peers. Martin felt himself caught between two worlds. He became convinced that prejudice was inherent in human nature and was present in every society, including his own home. His parents objected strongly when he once dated a West Indian girl, calling her a see yu gui nui (soya-sauce female foreign devil). He finally concluded that compared to every other place, America was still the most tolerant and enlightened. He considered himself lucky to have been born in the USA.

  Martin was a history major at Columbia University before entering medical school. He divided Chinese emigration into three separate waves. Before the Opium War, the egress consisted of artisans, craftsmen and merchants who moved from southern coastal provinces into neighbouring countries such as Thailand, Vietnam, Malaya and the Philippines. For about seventy years after the Opium War, uneducated peasants (the destitute and the poor) poured into America hoping for a better life, until exclusionary laws curtailed their numbers. After the Second World War, affluent Chinese businessmen in Taiwan and Hong Kong started sending their offspring for university education abroad, especially to America. Recent immigration reforms in America facilitated this new wave of ‘intellectual immigration’. Often, these students ended up staying in America and never returning home.

  ‘I’ve got two guys from Taiwan renting rooms from me right now,’ Martin continued. ‘Neither of them plans to go back. One is a pathology resident, the other is an engineer. Since you’re not happy in Hong Kong, why don’t you come to America? A medical degree from London University is well thought of in New York. Come to think of it, a couple of profs on the faculty at NYU are English medical graduates.’

  A new vista suddenly opened before me. America! Mei Guo (Beautiful Country) ! I stood by the window and looked at the stormy devastation outside, half expecting to see a rainbow over the horizon. ‘Thank you for your generosity. You’ve cheered me up more than you’ll ever realize. Your words have filled me with optimism. Why, everything is possible!’

  ‘Listen, I’ll be going back to New York next week. I’ll help you find a job. Don’t look so anxious. You’ll have no problems at all.’

  When Martin left Tsan Yuk, it was already the end of July. My contract with Professor Chun was to end in three months. Desperate to leave Hong Kong, I applied to every hospital suggested by Martin. Most of the replies suggested a starting date of 1 July the following year. However, the Presbyterian Hospital in Philadelphia accepted me to begin a residency in obstetrics immediately. I later learned that they were anxious to have me because their residency positions had not been filled and they ran the risk of having their entire training programme cancelled. At that time in America, there was a doctor shortage.

  I immediately accepted the job offered. Pay was 450 US dollars per month besides board and lodging. There was just one problem. I did not have enough money to buy the airline ticket from Hong Kong to Philadelphia. I wondered if Father and Niang would consider making me a loan.

  During Sunday dinner, I summoned up enough courage to announce that I had decided to emigrate to America. This was greeted by absolute silence. Father knew that I was unhappy at Tsan Yuk. He was also aware of Professor McFadden’s standing offer to me at the Department of Internal Medicine. My American plan was new to them.

  I hinted at my lack of resources and wondered aloud whether banks would give me a loan to buy the airline ticket. Niang said, ‘Well, Adeline, you’ll never know until you apply, will you? And if the bank refuses, I suppose that’s just too bad, isn’t it?’ With that sort of response, I understood that my chances of getting a loan from them was zero.

  That night, I left early because I had an early surgery scheduled the next morning. Around midnight, Gregory telephoned. ‘They talked about you after you left.’

  My heart sank. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They said that they had tried their best to help you in Hong Kong. Since this isn’t good enough, you’re henceforth entirely on your own. They don’t care where you go from this point. London, New York, Tokyo, Philadelphia; it’s all the same to them. But don’t think you’re going to get a free ticket from them, because you’re not.’

  We were both silent for awhile. ‘Well, thanks, Gregory,’ I finally said. ‘I’ll think of a way.’

  After Gregory’s call, I could not sleep. I started to cry and thought how mean they were to begrudge me the price of a plane ticket to Philadelphia when it was nothing to them. Not to express any regrets at my leaving Hong Kong. Not to say a few kind words such as ‘We’ll miss you’ or ‘Write to us often, will you?’ My imminent departure was of no concern except for the possible burden of an airline ticket.

  I got up from my bed, put on my scrub clothes and went to the hospital library. It was deserted. I told myself, ‘Feeling sorry for yourself and crying isn’t going to get you an airline ticket.’

  I sat down and wrote a long letter to the secretary of the Medical Education Department at the Presbyterian Hospital in Philadelphia.

  I confessed to this stranger my sad story. I was single, female and Chinese. All my life I had dreamt of starting a practice in Hong Kong close to my father. When I finally returned home after eleven years, I found nothing but disenchantment. I had decided to emigrate to America and had accepted a job offer from the Presbyterian Hospital.

  I then told her that I did not have any money for the airline ticket and wondered if I could borrow the sum against my future earnings. ‘I don’t know your origin or background,’ I wrote, ‘but perhaps someone once reached out a hand to help you achieve your American dream. I’m humbly asking you to do this for me now.’

  The Presbyterian Hospital did not fail me. Within two weeks, I had a reply. Apparently my request was not unusual. They had a policy at the hospital of advancing travel expenses to medical doctors from overseas who had passed the ECFMG, a special examination for foreign medical graduates. The cost of the airline ticket plus interest was deducted in monthly instalments from their pay. A standardized form was enclosed for my signature.

  There was also a handwritten note from the secretary of the Medical Education Department. ‘I was touched by your letter. I just want you to know that our home will always be open to you should you need help when you come to Philadelphia.’

  This was my introduction to an American stranger. She was kinder to me than my parents.

  I left Hong Kong soon afterwards. Gregory and James came to the airport to see me off. Niang went to her usual bridge game. While Gregory was parking the car, James quietly slipped a crisp, twenty dollar bill into my handbag. His gesture moved me to tears because I knew it was a sum he could not afford.

  Half an hour before departure, Father rushed in to say goodbye. We gathered at the gate for take-off and all shook hands when the time came to board. I wanted to tell Father that I had tried my best to please him but the words would not come. After a painful pause, Father finally said, ‘Well, you’re truly on your own now. Pi ma dan qiang (One horse, single spear: meaning that I was engaged in single handed combat against life). Let’s see what you can achieve.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Jia Ji Shui Ji

  Marry a Chicken, Follow a Chicken

  Mar
tin came to meet me at the airport. In order to save money, I had purchased the cheapest available ticket, which bought me a journey that took almost forty-eight hours. On the plane I had been too nervous to sleep and now longed for nothing else as Martin drove from La Guardia to Queens against the headlights of on-rushing traffic. My eyelids drooped as he spoke animatedly about introducing me to his friends, going bowling or even dancing. Soon I was fast asleep.

  He had to shake me awake when we arrived at his three-storeyed terraced house in a quiet, suburban neighbourhood. Inside the dimly lit living-room I noted drowsily that the vinyl sofas and plastic coffee table were neat and tidy. A light shone from the adjacent kitchen where someone was shuffling pots and pans.

  Martin ruffled my hair after carrying my two suitcases into the house. ‘Welcome to America, sleepy head!’ he exclaimed cheerfully. ‘This is where I hang out. What do you think of it?’

  Someone coughed behind us. I turned and saw a tall, graceful young man with a crew cut. Tired as I was, I registered that he was startlingly handsome. He came striding forward, his right hand outstretched. ‘Hi, I’m Byron Bai-lun Soon. I live here Martin’s house.’ He spoke with a heavy northern Chinese accent.

  Martin draped his arm possessively around my shoulder as he introduced me. Instinctively, I moved away and sat down wearily on the couch.

  ‘Now that you’re safely here,’ Martin said, ‘let’s all three have a beer before I take you out to dinner.’

  ‘Not me,’ Byron answered, ‘Chinese girls don’t drink beer. What she needs is nice cup boiling water on cold night like this. Then big bowl noodles with lots of peppery meat sauce. I fix right this minute.’

  ‘Hot water!’ Martin exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. ‘She’s not an old lady from Chinatown like my mother! What she needs is an ice-cold beer. She doesn’t want any noodles. I just told you we’re going out to dinner.’

  Soon I had a cup of hot water and a cold beer placed in front of me, alternately sipping both.

  Martin took me to a local Japanese restaurant, even though the idea of Byron’s noodles and then a soft pillow were more appealing. I went through the motions of eating a few tempura shrimp while Martin enthused about New York. By then I was practically sleepwalking. Finally he took the hint and we returned to his house where he showed me my room. Like a zombie I agreed to be ready at nine in the morning so that I could visit his medical school where he had Saturday grand rounds.

  Next morning, I slept through the ringing of my alarm clock and Martin’s hammering on my door. Bright sunlight streamed through the curtains when I woke with a start at one. I knew that I had let Martin down. Hurriedly I dressed and stumbled downstairs. In the living-room, I found Byron by himself, quietly reading an engineering textbook.

  ‘I was wondering when you would come down,’ Byron said, smiling. He was dressed in a new white shirt and royal blue pullover. In the light of day, he looked even more dazzling. Now that we were alone, he spoke to me in fluent Mandarin, obviously more comfortable in his native tongue. Sheepishly he handed me a note that Martin had left on the coffee table. In a faintly accusatory tone, Martin had scribbled, ‘Tried to wake you without success. Almost broke my hand but to no avail. You must be really bushed! I’ll be home around five thirty. See you then. Let’s go bowling tonight!’

  ‘I’m glad you overslept,’ Byron announced. ‘Now I have you all to myself for a few hours. Shall we have lunch? It’s all ready.’ We sat at the kitchen table and ate the noodles with peppery meat sauce that Byron had prepared. He was born in 1938 in Hunan Province where his father was a general in the Kuomintang army. After the Communist takeover, his parents separated. His mother remained in China with a younger sister, while his father escaped to Hong Kong with Byron and Arnold, his older brother. The two boys completed middle school in Hong Kong before attending Taiwan University. After graduation they both travelled to America for post-graduate study. Arnold married his college sweetheart and was studying for a Ph.D. in mathematics at the University of Pennsylvania. Byron had an evening job at an engineering firm and was working towards a master’s degree at Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute. He already had a green card and wished to become an American citizen. He had been renting a room from Martin for nine months.

  ‘I thought about you all last night,’ Byron confessed. ‘When I read Martin’s note, I decided to cut my classes. This is going to be my lucky day! My day in the sun with you. Alone!’ His eyes glistened with tears. He took my hand. ‘I never felt this way about anyone before. Tell me, do I stand a chance?’

  I was astonished. I blinked my eyes and he was still there: the handsome hero of all the Kung Fu novels pledging his devotion. I did not withdraw my hand and, as the afternoon wore on, became increasingly captivated by him. Finally he stood up to go. Gently caressing my hair, he said, ‘This is the happiest day of my life. I have a prediction to make. Before 1964 is over, you are going to be my wife.’

  That night I found on my pillow a letter from Byron, written in Chinese. It was short but beautifully phrased, peppered with quotations from the T’ang poetry I had told him I loved. I scribbled the time of my planned departure on the back of the envelope and slipped it under his door as instructed.

  In the morning the three of us took a taxi together to Pennsylvania station with Martin and Byron openly competing for my favours. Martin became increasingly exasperated. I was flattered but it was an awkward situation and I felt relieved when at last my train left for Philadelphia.

  I married Byron in City Hall, New York City, just six weeks after my arrival in America, and before the end of 1964 as he had predicted. Martin asked Byron to move out immediately because his parents forbade him to rent to married couples. Neither of us ever spoke to or saw Martin again. In a rare reflective moment shortly after the ceremony, I calculated that the time Byron and I had spent alone together was less than ten hours.

  To Father and Niang, I sent a telegram informing them of my marriage. A month later, I received a letter of congratulation from them, enclosing a 600-dollar cheque as their wedding present.

  I rationalized my marriage by telling myself that most arranged marriages in China would have started out the same way. After all, every marriage is a gamble and living together with anybody must involve daily compromises.

  My contract with Presbyterian was for seven months until June 1965. In order to commute to see Byron at weekends, I went further into debt and bought a second-hand Volkswagen.

  Two weeks after the wedding, while doing his laundry, I found, in one of his trouser pockets, a letter from Chase Manhattan Bank cancelling his account because it was overdrawn.

  When I telephoned him at the engineering firm where he claimed he worked, I was informed that he only came in occasionally on a part-time basis. A call later came from someone speaking with a rough-hewn Cantonese accent. It became clear from the caller’s message that Byron’s main occupation was that of a waiter in a Chinese restaurant.

  Somewhat alarmed, I decided to confront him. We had gone to see the movie My Fair Lady in Queens. While we waited for the film to begin I spoke of my hurt at discovering that he had not been entirely truthful.

  ‘There is nothing to discuss,’ he scowled. ‘Besides, I married you, didn’t I? What else do you want?’

  ‘I want to understand you, just as I hope you’ll try and understand me.’

  ‘I don’t feel like talking right now. I want to watch the movie and have a good time.’

  ‘Can we talk after the movie?’

  ‘No! I want you to understand that when I say no I mean no. There’s nothing further to discuss.’

  ‘What’s this, a dictatorship? Are we husband and wife or master and slave? Why can’t we talk things over in a calm and logical way?’

  ‘ Jia ji shui ji, jia gou shui gou (Marry a chicken, follow a chicken; marry a dog, follow a dog).’

  ‘What rubbish!’ I exclaimed, adding sarcastically, ‘Is this what you have absorbed from your extensive perusal of
the great Chinese classics? Has your passion for T’ang poetry been distilled down to this profound bit of wisdom?’

  In the dim light I sensed his rising fury. Without a word, he rose and walked out.

  In his haste, he had left his winter coat and gloves on the seat. I started to worry about him wandering the freezing streets of New York dressed only in a pullover and thin polyester trousers. I blamed myself for those cutting remarks. I was disappointed to discover that my husband’s reading was confined to newspapers and engineering textbooks. But his pretended love of T’ang poetry was no more than a desire to impress the girl he loved.

  The movie flickered on and on. I dared not leave for fear he might return and not find me. When it ended I filed out with everyone else, half expecting to find him waiting in the lobby. He was not there. Snow lay in drifts around the unfamiliar streets. I hailed a cab back to his apartment for which I had no key. It was after eleven. Byron was not yet home. I huddled in the doorway like a homeless bag lady, terrified that some drunk would spot me and pounce in the darkness.

  ‘Marry a chicken, follow a chicken. Marry a dog, follow a dog.’ Perhaps I should humour him and play the submissive Chinese wife. The alternative would be a complete break, a divorce. I brushed that aside. I could never admit my failure to Father and Niang. I made up my mind to save my marriage, whatever the cost.

  Byron finally returned at around two in the morning, surly and glum. He had gone to the Chinese restaurant where he normally worked, ordered a big meal, then helped out until closing. He headed straight for the bathroom without a word while I prepared some noodles in the kitchen. When the food was ready I placed it in two bowls and called him. He was fast asleep, looking angelic. I ate both bowls by myself.

  Next morning Byron behaved as if nothing had happened. Elated, he showed me a letter from his immigration lawyer stating that his chances of getting a green card were ‘highly probable’, forgetting that at our first meeting he had told me he already possessed a green card. I bit my tongue and said nothing. We sat around drinking coffee, eating doughnuts and reading the Sunday edition of the New York Times. He was looking for a permanent engineering position with a big company in the sunbelt. On the back page of the paper we came across a full-page announcement: ‘Engineers! Come to glorious Southern California where the sun shines everyday! Come and work for Douglas Aircraft in Long Beach! We need you.’