by Anchee Min
Before Christmas, I saw an 80-percent-off sign at Woolworth’s in downtown Chicago. I went in and bought seven pairs of orange cotton socks with pumpkin designs for only a dollar. What good luck, I thought. I also bought a set of sweaters and pants with bat designs and the same orange color for only $1.50. I spent another dollar for a hat and matching mittens. I wondered why everything was orange. I wondered why nobody else was taking advantage of the bargain.
The next day I arrived at school wearing my new outfit. The orange-colored sweater; the pants, hat, and mittens. People smiled at me and said, “Halloween again?” I noticed that it wasn’t just one person who said this to me. Almost everyone did.
“What’s Halloween?” I asked.
The back-to-back cafeteria sofas shook violently. By now I knew that the place was a favorite for lovers.
Witnessing these activities only made me feel lonelier. What I had missed in my youth had never really hit me until now. I felt sad and sorry for myself. I had never dated boys when I was these girls’ age.
I was the flower that had missed its blossoming season, and this affected the way I thought of myself. I attracted, it seemed, only the crooked melons and rotten peaches. It wasn’t that I was holding out for a prince. A few times I was asked out by seemingly nice American men, even professors, only to discover that they were “married but in a terrible relationship.” Since drugs and alcohol were not problems in China, I had no idea what “alcoholic” meant until I was approached by one—a Prince Charming on the surface, but who couldn’t recognize me the next day.
Other times I received odd comments after the date, such as “You are more American than an American woman,” or “Aren’t you glad that you don’t have bound feet?”
One man said to me, “Would you like to go dutch, or would you like to take care of the entire bill?”
I blinked and believed that the translator inside my head had tricked me.
“Seriously, I wouldn’t mind,” the man continued. “I can totally understand that you’re from Communist China and would prefer to hold … how do you phrase it? You know the Mao quotation? Something about ‘half the sky’?”
I dated one Asian man for six months. He was a gentleman who enjoyed taking care of his lady. I waited for him to let me know if we were going somewhere. He finally decided that America didn’t suit him. He was returning to Taiwan because he couldn’t find a job after earning a master’s degree in architecture. His visa had expired. The man didn’t know what to say to me. Both of us knew that this would be the last time we would see each other. As a farewell I said to him, “Thanks for stocking beef patties and chocolate ice cream in my refrigerator.”
Although I understood that life was not art, I yearned for passion. I was shocked by a tall, blond, handsome student named George who kissed me without warning.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” he sang.
“What’s Valentine’s Day?” I pushed him away. He said that he was delighted to be the first one to educate me about Valentine’s Day. I also adored Justin, who came to sit by me while I tended the gallery. He was a shy boy who had just turned eighteen. After his fourth visit, I decided to tell him my age.
I will never forget the shock on his face when I told him that I was ten years his senior.
“Wow!” he jumped out of his seat. “That’s … something!”
Justin never visited again. Although I remained composed, my self-confidence crumbled.
On my way to the subway station there was a video store owned by an old Korean couple. They also owned a dry cleaners next door. I had been renting movies from the husband ever since I purchased a used video player to help me learn English. I had discovered that watching movies was the most effective way to deal with my loneliness while improving my English. I asked the Korean owner if by any chance he carried movies made in mainland China.
The man shook his head. “No, bee don’t carry movies from Communist China. However, bee carry something else that might interest you—let bee check.” He paused, looked around, and then pulled me to the side. “You student?”
I nodded.
“You live by yourself? You homesick?” he asked. “Bee can help.”
I told him that I was, yes, alone. Completely alone.
“Bee ha-boo something poor you. I see you, walk by, you, e-bri-day. Come, here.” He led me through the racks of his video displays to an enclosed space where there was a curtain by the entrance and a sign that read ADULT ONLY.
I was not sure if I had heard him right. He had said “Free free.” I wondered if he meant “Feel free.” He eased me in and then pulled the curtain behind.
My cheeks burned. I was shocked by the display of videos of wild images of coupling in every manner and position. I felt terrible and glad at the same time. I left the store and returned to my room. I found that I could think of nothing else. I counted my money, hoping that I could afford to rent an adult video.
The old Korean man welcomed me back with a knowing smile. He pointed his chin toward the adult video section and mouthed a “feel free.” I was embarrassed. The man’s grandson was doing his homework by the checkout counter. The old man called for his wife from the dry cleaning. She came and took away the boy. The man led me to the section and closed the curtain.
This must be how a mouse felt after it had fallen into a rice jar. I picked out the film that seemed most romantic. I quickly exited. The old man kept his head down as he took my three dollars. He put the video in a plastic bag and said, “Bring it back before six o’clock tomorrow.”
I watched the video with the volume off.
For the first time I discovered masturbation. I was thrilled that I could comfort myself. I closed my eyes and imagined being caressed by a man. It felt good not to beg anyone for affection. My anxiety eased. The craving became bearable.
I visited the video store on my loneliest nights during Thanksgiving and Christmas. I wanted desperately to call China just to hear my family’s voices. The Korean man was pleased with the business. I became devoted to one video titled Sex Education, which was more artfully done than the others. I first selected it because it was less graphic and it was longer in length. The seductresses in the film left their silk scarves on as they peeled off the rest of their clothes. The sex scenes were less mechanical. The other videos reminded me of plumbers trying to get through a clog.
The Korean man wanted to sell me the Sex Education tape at a discounted price. “You good customer,” he said. “Bee make you a deal. Twenty-pipe dollars.”
“I can’t afford twenty-five dollars,” I said.
“You’ll get your money worth in a long run,” the man said. “Look, it has been the only video you rent. You like it, don’t you? Why spend more money on renting when you can own the tape? Seven more times, you make your money back. You don’t have to visit my store again. I know how embarrassed you are every time. Like I said, you good customer. I no cheating you.”
I asked why he was willing to part with the video. He smiled and told me that Sex Education was the least popular video in the store. “You’re the only one who rents it. I honest with you. Other customers think it too slow. No action. Too boring. They want juicy stuff! Lots of action. Okay, how about twenty dollars? My last offer. I lose money. You take it or leave it!”
As I paid the twenty dollars, I thought that I could use the video for the rest of my life.
{ Chapter 13 }
Many students from mainland China worked in local Chinese restaurants in addition to their campus jobs. It was their way to earn tuition. I begged my roommate, Wen Li, who worked as a waitress at a Chinese restaurant in a Chicago suburb, to keep an eye out for me if there was an opening. I asked Wen Li to bring me a menu from her restaurant. I memorized the thirty-five dishes on the menu in English. I had been rejected by every Chinese restaurant in downtown Chicago and knew that I must impress.
The night a waitress quit, Wen Li called. She told me that her boss was looking for an immediate
replacement because the restaurant was in the middle of catering a large corporate party. I put down what I was doing and took a train to the restaurant. I met the owner for an on-the-spot interview. Mrs. Soong was a Taiwanese Chinese lady in her forties. She had short hair and a moon-shaped face. She stood by the entrance of the restaurant and greeted her customers as she interviewed me. I kept hearing her say, “Happy Sex-giving!” or, “Sex for coming!”
I told Mrs. Soong that although I had no previous experience in waitressing, I had memorized her menu. I recited her thirty-five dishes the same way I had once recited Mao’s quotations. Mrs. Soong was so impressed that she forgot to say, “Happy Sex-giving!”
I was given three days to try out. I followed Wen Li as an apprentice and was hired after the third day, although Mrs. Soong offered zero salary. I would earn only from tips. Now I was a full-time student and juggling five jobs at the same time. Besides waitressing, I continued fabric painting, although with a different boss. I continued to work as an attendant at the school’s film-equipment booth, admission office, and student gallery.
It was a battle to get to the restaurant exactly at 5:15 P.M. My class ended at four P.M. Ten minutes before four P.M., I eased toward the door. When the professor turned his back, I snuck out and ran through downtown Chicago and toward Union Station. I needed to catch the 4:05 train to Libertyville. The train arrived in Libertyville at five P.M., and I ran to the restaurant. Once I arrived, I rushed to the ladies’ room to put on my makeup and apron.
Wen Li told me that Mrs. Soong used to be the principal of an elementary school in Taiwan. It was in her nature to give orders and criticize. Mrs. Soong walked around her restaurant with both hands locked behind her back like a general inspecting her troops. She would sense immediately if any of us failed to do her job properly. Before Mrs. Soong became an owner, she had worked as a waitress and a bartender herself.
“Creating return customers is the goal!” she reminded us daily. Mrs. Soong pointed at her watch and said that I was five minutes late. “Did I tell you five fifteen sharp? Don’t bother to come if you intend to be late again.”
I solved the problem by applying makeup and changing on the train.
“No gasping when you enter my restaurant!” Mrs. Soong said the moment I pushed open the door. “You are scaring away my customers! No moving lips either! No chewing, absolutely! It’s not my problem that you haven’t eaten all day!”
There were four waitresses working in the restaurant at the same time. Although we worked the same hours, the tips we earned were drastically different. While I made $25 in tips per night, Sing-Sing, a waitress from Taiwan, could earn $150; the big-breasted American girl, JoAnn, earned about $100; and Wen Li between $50 and $75. JoAnn believed the problem was my bra. “You need a super-padded bra to show off your assets! Customers like that.” JoAnn flaunted her cleavage. “That’s how you get return customers.”
I discovered that my low earnings had nothing to do with my “assets.” Mrs. Soong was pulling the strings. She brought high-tipping costumers to Sing-Sing and JoAnn’s tables, while low-tipping folks went to Wen Li and me. One group of regular Filipino costumers never tipped more than two dollars, even for a fifteen-person table. Mrs. Soong always led the same Filipino costumers to my table.
Mrs. Soong was straightforward about what she was doing. “You folks were ill educated by the Communists!” she said to Wen Li and me. “You need to be taught how to properly treat a customer. The American way. You poor things, capitalism is such a new concept to you, isn’t it? Communism has turned you into wooden hens who don’t know how to behave in front of Western customers!”
Mrs. Soong explained that the reason she let Sing-Sing earn more was that Sing-Sing had come from her hometown. Mrs. Soong praised the way Sing-Sing charmed her customers. “She speaks fluent English, and she cracks jokes!” Wen Li and I tried our best to impress Mrs. Soong, but she was unmoved. While Sing-Sing took her breaks, we were ordered to clean soy sauce bottles, peel pea pods, and help the busboy clean the floor and set up tables and chairs.
I didn’t think Mrs. Soong was being unfair. I believed that I should earn her respect through my performance. The trouble was that earning such low pay was not worth my time and energy. By the time I subtracted the ten-dollar round-trip train fare from the twenty-five dollars of tips, I made only fifteen dollars per night.
I hung on. I learned to smile to customers and became expert at wrapping the stuffed mu-shu pancakes. I began to earn better tips with new customers whom Mrs. Soong hadn’t yet sorted as high- or low-tipping people. When I worked the lunch shift during the summer, Mrs. Soong observed me. She would call me a wooden hen if she thought that I talked “too little” to customers. But when I started to chat with customers, she accused me of being a chatterbox. If I walked fast, Mrs. Soong would “whisper” loudly behind me, “Is my house on fire?” When I slowed down, she would hiss, “I didn’t hire you to be lazy!”
I didn’t mind Mrs. Soong’s attitude and bluntness. I never knew exactly the reason why my bosses back in China punished me. With Mrs. Soong, it was up to me to adjust myself and improve. I was happy with my relationship with Mrs. Soong, although I knew that I was being exploited. By American standards, Mrs. Soong owed me minimum wage. Yet who was I to demand such rights? Mrs. Soong was the hand that fed me.
One day a couple of customers left without paying the bill. By the time I ran to the parking lot, they were gone. As a punishment, Mrs. Soong made me pay. It took every penny I earned that day. A week later, while I was busy wrapping pancakes, Wen Li told me that the customer I had just served had left without tipping. It was a nice elderly couple. I didn’t know what to do. I only knew that I was not supposed to chase after customers for a tip.
To my surprise, Mrs. Soong decided to intervene. In her high-collared burgundy-and-pink Chinese dress, she went after the customers. Smiling like a blossoming flower, she asked the elderly couple, “Did you have a good time dining at my restaurant?”
“Absolutely,” the couple responded. “The best meal we ever had, as a matter of fact!”
“Then would you please kindly let me know the reason you left no tip so that I can tell my waitress to improve her service?”
“Oh, no, we are terribly sorry!” The couple had forgotten the tip. They apologized and offered it.
One lunchtime, Mrs. Soong took care of a credit card bill. When she noticed that a customer left me a five-dollar tip over a six-dollar dish, she was upset. “The customer could have ordered another dish!” she said. “I hope you didn’t try to hit on him, or did you?”
Thanksgiving day, we had almost no costumers. At the end of the day, I had earned negative-ten dollars due to the train fare. I felt sorrier for Mrs. Soong. She stood in front of her restaurant window and stared into the snow. All day long she was silent. Her lips pursed tightly. She must have been thinking of the money she would lose on preparing the meat, vegetables, rice, and soup on top of her rent and the salaries to the chef and his assistants.
My head nodded during art history class in the auditorium. I was so tired that when the slides came on and the professor began his monologue, I began to doze off. I put Chinese Tiger Balm on my eyelids, hoping that the discomfort would help me stay awake. The lecture was on the Mesopotamian region three thousand years ago. My English could barely grasp the basics of what was being said.
I failed the midterm in art history. I went to the teacher’s assistant and asked for help. We negotiated a deal. As long as I could spell the name of the artist and remember the date the piece was created and its title, he would give me a passing score. And if I wrote a paragraph on the significance of the piece, I would earn an even higher grade. To make it easier for me, the assistant exempted the first name of the artist. He would let me pass with “Picasso” instead of “Pablo Picasso.”
On the train to Libertyville, I recited each slide’s name, date, title, and significance. I wasn’t aware that I was becoming sick. I had been ignorin
g my exhaustion. I told myself that I didn’t have time to be sick. Yet my body revolted. I felt weak and was short of breath. A few times I passed out in elevators and once almost threw up in class. “Are you pregnant?” the professor asked.
I tried to keep up with my schoolwork and my various jobs. When I felt truly awful, I rested my head on my arms. No quitting, I kept telling myself.
One day I coughed blood. My immediate thought was, I could harm the customers if I have tuberculosis! I phoned Mrs. Soong to explain why I had to quit.
I made a doctor’s appointment at a family health center in Chicago. Although I had student health insurance, my copay was 20 percent, which was still a huge amount to me.
Dr. Dutch was the one who received me. He was a gentle-looking white man. He told me that my condition was so grave that I needed to be hospitalized immediately. He told me that he had already contacted Saint Joseph Hospital, and that they were expecting me. He asked if I was with someone who could drive me to the hospital. I told him that I had nobody. “I’ll take the subway.”
“No,” Dr. Dutch insisted. “You could collapse.” He glanced at his watch and then asked me to wait. It was five P.M. He said that he would be off work in half an hour and would give me a ride to the hospital.
Two strong male nurses showed up the moment Dr. Dutch dropped me off at the hospital entrance. I was led to an isolation room where a heavyset black lady stood guard at the door. As far as I understood, I was to be tested for possible viruses.
The night in the hospital was long. I learned that it would cost me thirty-three dollars a day to watch TV in the room. I couldn’t help but think that I earned only twenty-five dollars a day. The next morning I was put through a white tube. It made me feel like I was living in a science fiction movie.
