by Eddie Huang
After an hour or so, our skin started to prune, so we walked around. Toward the back of the hot springs was a lounging area where Dena saw the first white people she’d seen since landing in Chengdu the day before.
“It’s only been one day but it’s kind of weird to see white people again.”
“I know. I mean, not just ’cause you’re white, but it felt weird to see you at the airport yesterday.”
“I know, panda! It scared me. But it’s natural. And we always sink right back in.”
“It’s bugged out, though. I think about you every day, but I just felt disconnected when I saw you.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“No. We good, ma.” I kissed her.
—
We looked at these two big-boned European women speaking what seemed to be Dutch as they lay on cots by the herbal salt pool. Everything seemed normal until one of the women started to tilt her pelvis back and forth at a medium pace a few inches off the cot. Her entire body lay stiff except her buttocks and pelvis poppin’ sporadically like a subwoofer.
“Oh my god….”
“What?”
“That woman is doing her Kegel exercises by the herbal salt pool.”
“That is so ill.”
“Stop looking!”
“How can I stop? There’s a middle-aged Dutch lady working her vag out by the herbal salt pool. This is some unicorn shit.”
“White people are so weird,” she said.
Eventually, the excitement of watching this old woman do Kegel exercises wore off. We went back to the showers, changed, and waited for Fish to arrive. Of course, Fish showed up with food in hand.
“Eddie! Dena! I want you to try. Leshan famous smoked duck!”
“Word. I love duck.”
“Me, too! I’ve never had it smoked.”
“This one not just smoked but also braised in lu wei, so will be familiar to Eddie,” said Fish, who never forgot my Taiwanese palate.
Over the next few hours, Fish showed us restaurants like Open Smile, known for its chili-braised peel ’n’ eat local shrimp, glutinous-rice-stuffed dates, and dry-wok-tossed river fish. He took us to a bar his friend owned, then drove us toward Emei Shan.
“Eddie, I know you are going to bring Dena here tomorrow, but it is very cool at night, too. We can walk around and check it out. You will not have enough time to see all of it tomorrow anyway.”
“OK, cool.”
We walked around the entrance to Emei Shan, where there was a relief sculpture of Puxian.
“Dena, this is Puxian. He is Buddha’s eldest son!” said Fish.
“Buddha had kids?”
“Yes! This is the oldest, and Emei Shan is under his protection.”
“What does he do?”
“Eddie, I will tell you in Chinese, but please tell Dena for me, OK?” said Fish. “Puxian’s role is to help all of us reach enlightenment. He doesn’t do it for you, but he brings out the best in all of us and gives us the help we need to be the best versions of ourselves. He also teaches us that to reach enlightenment we need to put others and the world before ourselves before we can save ourselves.”
I told Dena what Fish said.
“That’s really cool,” she said.
I didn’t think it fully registered with Dena. It felt like she was just humoring me with all this Chinese mumbo jumbo, so I spoke to Fish.
“Fish….Do you believe all this stuff? Puxian and Emei Shan and how he looks after us?”
“Hmmm, this is a personal question. I am not sure, Eddie, but I respect Puxian. I revere Emei Shan. But if you ask me if I ‘believe’ it, I am not sure. This is a tough thing for me to answer.”
“What about being ‘Chinese’? Do you believe in being ‘Chinese’? Is it even a thing to be ‘Chinese’?”
“Eddie, this REALLY confuses me. I don’t understand what you are asking me.”
“What I’m saying is this. I don’t think there is such a thing as ‘race.’ Like, people made it up. But, I like being Chinese, you know? If you weren’t Chinese, do you think it would matter?”
“I am Chinese. I don’t know anything else, Eddie. But what’s wrong? Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Because, Fish, I’m not sure. I’m just not sure. What if Dena and I get married and we have kids and they don’t want to be Chinese? What if she doesn’t want to be Chinese? Then what do I do? Do I just let my kids grow up to speak English and eat McRibs? I’d still love them, but it’d just be sad if they didn’t want to be Chinese.”
“I don’t know this McRib, but Eddie, you are born in America. I’m sure your parents worried, too, that going to America you may not want to be Chinese, but look at you! You found an American girl you love, you bring her back to China, you show her your homeland and you do your best to teach her the things you know. You want to be Chinese, right?”
“Yes! Of course. Even though I think a lot of things about race are bullshit, it means a lot to me. The language, the food, the way we do things, it reflects five thousand years of existence! It’s not everything, because we still have to write our story, but I don’t want kids with orange hair wearing shoes inside!”
“Eddie, calm down. Big deal, orange hair, right?”
“No, you’re right, I’m just being funny. I don’t care if they have orange hair or like orange chicken, but I don’t want them to be cut off from our history. I don’t want them to forget our beginning.”
“Ahhh, Eddie. They will know. If you love it this much, I’m sure they will, too. Let me ask you, why do you like being Chinese so much?”
It wasn’t that I liked it, exactly.
“It’s not just that I like it. I owe it, Fish. It gave too much for me to ever deny it.”
This is my face.
This is my place.
This is my beginning.
I am Taiwanese. I am Chinese. I am American. This history isn’t mine to control. It’s mine to give.
Fish spoke. “Eddie, for someone like me to meet huaren*9 like you, it is special to see you come home and appreciate our culture. For many of us, we are not sure if you will like it. You have a face like ours, but we are different, you and me. Very different, and we get worried, too, that you will not understand us or look down on us because America is big brother.”
“Fish, I’m little brother over there, too….Don’t forget it.”
He marinated on it for a second, but I wasn’t finished.
“I have to ask you one more question, Fish. What do you think makes us Chinese?”
“I can answer this for you, Xiao Ming! There is an old saying: ‘Li yi zhi bang.’ A country based on manners, values, and way of treating people. We are proud of our manners. We are proud of our values. That is China!”
I was right all along! It was about taking your shoes off inside, pouring tea for your elders, paying respect to your grandparents, and asking if you’ve eaten upon meeting. Not just those specific mannerisms and actions, but the underlying intention. The idea that these things represent a feeling, a connection, a humanity…a way to love.
But then another thought popped into my head. OK, many thoughts popped into my head: the drivers screaming down six-lane roads in the rain with no regard for the people pushing rickshaws through the road with makeshift sandals on, the guy who drove the moped through the hallway at Hakka Homes, the bus driver who almost left me with skid marks in my drawers in the bathroom. Was this the Chinese way?
“Fish, let me ask you, though….Do you think China is behaving well?”
“No way! Man, us real Chinese have forgotten who we are. Everything is developing too fast, and we have lost our way. To be honest, we’re gonna have to depend on you Chinese people….”
“What Chinese people?”
“You and Dena Chinese people, that’s who! You are Chinese! So will Dena! Don’t forget it.”
—
I had lost track of Dena.
“Dena! Where’d you go?”
“My bad. I was talking to Fish. What have you been doing?”
“This mountain is awesome. I took photos of all the art, the signs, and information so that I can send it to my mom. I think she’d really like it.”
She broke out her phone and flipped through all the photos, perfectly taken, perfectly framed, some with filters and others brightened.
“If Dena like this, we can go to back side! There is a temple you can see at night.”
We got back in the car, drove to the temple right in front of two giant double red doors. Dena got out of the car and started walking toward the entrance, and it hit me.
“Fish….Unlock your trunk.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I need to get the ring, and it is in the trunk.”
“Oh! Oh god! Right now? Right now? We do this right now?”
“Yeah, let’s go to the car but act normal.”
“OK, OK, I act normal. How do I act normal? Eddie! You are supposed to do this tomorrow, when I’m not around. How do I act normal? You tell me how to act normal!”
“What is Fish freaking out about?” asked Dena from twenty feet away.
“Nothing. Nothing, we just gotta get something in the trunk.”
“Fish….Calm down, man. Just open the trunk.”
“OK! OK! Trunk…trunk…trunk, open! Open!”
I found my backpack, looked down at my Jumpman slides, tugged at the Redskins jersey on my chest, and thought to myself.
It was meant to be. Chanclas, Redskins, my mother’s ring, these are a few of my favorite things. I took a deep breath, turned toward Dena, black box in hand, and walked over. My heart was jumpin’ out the gym, my legs felt like ai yu jelly, and everything in my body told me to turn around, but I didn’t.
I told every fearful, ignorant, insecure bone in my body to shut the fuck up and ride or die with me.
It was time.
Halfway to Dena, about eight feet away, she turned. There was horror on her face. She saw the box in my hand, but I didn’t stop. I just kept on moving, found my spot about a foot in front of her and assumed the position on one knee.
“Dena, I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love someone, and although I’m scared, although I’m nervous, I’m figuring out in this moment how to love…so bear with me.
“You’ve been ready for me, and you’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a best friend, and I just didn’t know. I didn’t know because I didn’t like myself. There were things I wanted to change, and there were things I was afraid you’d see, but until I peeled it all back and let you see, I couldn’t know. I couldn’t know that you really loved ME.
“The shitty me.
“The stupid me.
“The Chinese me.
“The worst fiber-eating diarrhea-on-the-bus parts of me, but you do. You love me, and I never, ever thought anyone but my mom could love me, but you do. And….”
“Eddie, shut up! Just shut up! You’re making no sense!”
“What?”
“Just ask me, dummy! Just ask me!”
“What? Will you marry me?”
“YES!”
“Yes, like, Ask you to marry me, or yes, like, You’ll marry me?”
“YES! I WILL MARRY YOU! YES! Oh my god, you were just talking nonsense forever, and I couldn’t understand anything and my heart was racing and I was just like ‘I have to let him finish, but he is making no sense right now!’ I’m sorry I cut you off, boo, but I had to. You aren’t making any sense today….”
I picked her up. I might have grabbed some ass. And I kissed her.
“I know. I’ve been a mess waiting for you.”
She rubbed her nose against mine, put her arms over my shoulders and scrunched her face.
“It’s OK, Panda….I’m here.”
—
The next day, we woke up in Leshan.
I was clear-eyed and happy….But there was trepidation to my vibe.
Something had changed. It was good change, it was a change we both wanted, but still it was change and I don’t think either of us had fully processed what happened, or what was still happening. Luckily, we were alone, just Dena and I, all brand-new walking down Leshan to find breakfast.
Neither of us could sleep in. We were excited to be together.
—
Everything Hakka Heather told me about the heavens beaming down directly to Sichuan rang true. The world looked different. It was as if Moses parted the smog for one day and we could see all the way back to the beginning of time. Before the institution of marriage, before the right to procreate, it was just Original Man and Original Boo walking down a mountain looking for breakfast.
That day, the universe allowed me to pull back the curtain on the past and touch what I believe everything in life is about: how we love.
Dena and I held hands, we soaked up the sun, but we didn’t talk much. Everything had already been said. Looking down Leshan, I realized that I’d lived my last day as an autonomous sovereign state. From this day forward, we were a union: both parts of the whole.
Every store on the road down Leshan was once a garage or still a garage but also a store. Above the garages were homes. Together, they were a neighborhood. Some stores sold spare parts, others outdated electronics, but most still had their gates down. Dena and I were so eager to see the rest of our lives, we didn’t realize it was 8 A.M. We took a right turn at the foot of the mountain and saw people shuffling around. Gates went up, rice cookers started giving off steam, and everyone began presenting their wares. About twenty minutes later, we settled on the first food stall that was open: just a woman, her daughter, pig’s feet, spicy cow intestines, pork belly, and meatballs.
“What do you think?” I asked Dena.
“Looks good.” She smiled.
We sat down on folding stools and ordered one of each. It arrived immediately at exactly 140 degrees.*10
I looked at Dena, I ate the food, and I finally let it happen. I was accepted.
—
The movie should have ended there. Second-generation Taiwanese-Chinese-American man meets third-generation Italian-Irish American in N.Y., falls in love, brings her back on the mothership, asks her to marry him, and they consummate the decision over pig’s feet and spicy cow intestines. Mayor De Blasio rises from his seat in the Ziegfeld Theatre at the premiere declaring that multiculturalism and affordable housing are alive and well in N.Y. President Xi Jinping watches it simultaneously in Chengdu and forgives Marco Polo for all his transgressions, states that Dena Fusco is more beautiful than Julia Roberts ever was, and exclaims that this movie shits all over Eat, Pray, Love. He immediately announces plans for a bootleg Tibetan version of our story called Eat, Fuck, Yak Meatballs that promotes the Chinese Dream. At least that’s what should have happened.
—
Eighteen months later, we broke up.
But I remember Leshan. That day love obliterated me. Everything I knew about life and family were shattered and replaced. I embraced it all. We were love, we were family, we might have even been Chinese. All that time, my fears—about identity and family and love—were misplaced. It isn’t acceptance that extinguishes us, instead, it awakens us. And even if the love doesn’t last, acceptance gives us new beginnings.
—
A few days later, we rode to the airport together. She lay on my lap tired from the trip. Luckily, she didn’t miss anything. There were no idyllic images of farmers in the paddies or kids chasing free-range chickens. No visions of strong communist women with wheat thrown over their shoulders, just good old government housing, power lines, and construction everywhere you looked.
I took a break from the world outside my window and looked at this cab driver’s medallion. According to the official license, he’d been driving for what seemed like twenty-some years. In the photo was the face of what looked like a young Stephen Chow on the up and up, pre–Kun
g Fu Hustle. Curious if it was him, I had to ask.
“Sifu! How long have you been driving?”
“Just like the paper says! I started August eighth, 1998.”
“That’s a lucky day! Good fortune with all those eights.”
“Yeah, right! I’m so tired of driving. Those cot damn eights brought me fifteen long years of driving. But the longer I drive, the lazier I get. I used to drive twenty-four-hour days three to four days a week, now only sixteen hours four days a week, but still….All I do is drive.”
I think to myself that even sixteen-hour shifts for fifteen years sounds insane.
“Sixteen? Am I hearing you right, sixteen?”
“Yes! Sixteen. Some of my friends drive twenty-four still and take every other day off, but then you’re guaranteed to get sick. They all have illnesses, but we still try to drive as much as we can every day, ’cause no matter what, you have to pay three hundred fifty RMB to the boss. We make sixty to seventy RMB an hour with a break for lunch and a break for dinner.”
I did the math in my head quickly, 65 times 14 minus 350 equaled 560. Then 560 multiplied by the exchange rate I pulled up on Google equaled…
“Wa sai! You only make ninety U.S. dollars every day.”
“You’re telling me. Tough shit out here.”
I look back at his photo from 1998. I was starting eleventh grade when this dude started driving twenty-four-hour days making probably less than $90 a day. I think about what I wanted to be when I was seventeen and then what he wanted for himself in 1998. He was smiling in his photo, not a cheesy smile, but g’d up like Stephen Chow ice grill’d. I wonder if he has kids.
“Sifu, sorry to pry, but do you have kids?”
“No problem. I like talking to you. Sometimes you go hours without talking to anyone in these cars. It gets depressing, man, but yeah, I got a kid. Fifteen years old. Testing for high school this year.”
