An Ocean Apart, a World Away

by Lensey Namioka

  Y.C., the other boy, was more solidly built than L.H. and did not seem to have any digestive problems. He ate heartily, so heartily that Loretta snatched the omelet dish out of his reach. “Hey, the rest of us have to have some too, you know!” she said, and she was only half joking.

  We all ate well, even L.H. We didn’t leave a single scrap of food at the end of the meal. Back home this would have been bad manners. Mother had taught me that we were supposed to leave a portion of every dish for the servants, even the best dish—especially the best dish.

  But there were no servants here. If I wanted to be accepted by the others and continue eating Chinese meals like this one, I had better learn to do what our servants did: I had to wash vegetables and slice meat, stir-fry them together, and boil rice. I would even have to wash dishes and scour pots. I had a sudden vision of my friend Ailin doing all of that.

  As we ate, I learned a few things about the others. L.H.’s father had been a tutor for a wealthy family in Wuxi, a beautiful city not too far from Nanjing. His father had given L.H. a thorough grounding in the Chinese classics and had intended that his son become a scholar like himself. But L.H. had seen Halley’s comet appear in 1910, when he was seven years old. He had never forgotten that remarkable sight, and when he later learned more about comets, he developed a strong interest in astronomy. That was his major at Cornell.

  “I still remember the first time I peered through a telescope here and saw the rings of Saturn!” he said. I could hear the passion in his voice. He had found a subject he really loved.

  Loretta’s family was originally from Canton, but they had moved to Shanghai after the revolution in 1911. Her father, like mine, had traveled in Europe and spoke several languages. “I’ve no idea where I picked up my interest in biology,” she said. “Maybe it was after my father returned home from Switzerland with a sprig of edelweiss.”

  “Did any of your professors tell you that a science like biology is not a proper study for the female mentality?” I asked.

  Loretta laughed. “How did you know?”

  “That’s what my advisor told me,” I said. “But I took a physics course anyway. It’s turning out to be really hard, and I’m almost sorry I took it.”

  L.H. looked alarmed. “Are you thinking of dropping it and taking something easier?”

  “No, I hate to admit defeat,” I said. “I’m going to stick with it no matter what.”

  Y.C. wanted to be an engineer. (I wondered if his advisor had told him that the shape of his skull was wrong for studying engineering.) Y.C. wanted to work on building railroads, which was also his father’s career. The railroads in China had been built largely with the help of the British, although Germans and Belgians were responsible for certain stretches. But Y.C.’s father wanted him to study American railroads. After all, America was a huge country, like China, and there had to be efficient ways here of constructing railroads for long-distance travel.

  Celia was from Sichuan, famous for its peppery food. Maybe that was where she got her peppery temper. In spite of her remarks about my wealthy family, Celia’s own family was far from poor, I discovered. Her father was an antiques dealer. Both Loretta and Celia had learned to cook in Ithaca. Like me, neither one had had any experience at all before coming to America.

  I went back to my rooming house feeling more hopeful than I had since arriving in Ithaca. The food left me full but not stupefied, the way I usually felt after one of Mrs. Harte’s heavy meals of meat and potatoes. The best treat of all was finding companionship at last.

  A week later, I was invited again. Since I couldn’t contribute to the cooking, I brought along a big bag of apples, which were very good in Ithaca. They were crisp and sweet, better than any I had eaten in Nanjing.

  But even the apples couldn’t make up for the fact that I was a guest—a guest not invited by the two girls who had done the cooking. Celia was openly disgruntled at seeing me, while Loretta was merely tolerant.

  During dinner Celia began to talk about her major, which was English literature. “I’m going to be a writer,” she announced. “I want to join all those writers who are turning away from Classical Chinese and adopting the language of the common people instead. This is the most important development in the history of Chinese literature!”

  I had heard about this movement to write in the vernacular, that is, the language used in daily life. Until the twentieth century, serious literature in China had all been written in Classical Chinese, which required years of study to understand. After the revolution, there was a movement to write in everyday language understood by the common people. Father was an enthusiastic supporter of this movement and told us that great English writers, such as Dickens, wanted everyone to understand their works. But Eldest Brother and Second Brother thought the movement would debase literature. They felt that all serious writing had to be done in Classical Chinese, understood only by the elite few.

  “You’re right: Good writing should be accessible to all the people,” I said to Celia. “I’ve always loved popular novels written in the vernacular, such as Dream of the Red Chamber and Journey to the West. They’re easy to understand, and they’re really enjoyable.”

  Celia looked deeply offended. “I’m not talking about popular novels! I intend to write serious literature, not something intended to be enjoyable or easily understood!”

  “I thought you said you wanted everyone to understand,” I protested.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand!” snapped Celia. “Our movement uses the language of the common people, but that doesn’t mean we expect all the common people to understand our work!”

  “Then why not stick to Classical Chinese, if you don’t want to be understood?” I asked. I wasn’t being sarcastic. I really wanted to know.

  Celia gave a huge sigh. “I give up! It’s hopeless trying to explain things to you!”

  I gave up too. It was hopeless trying to win Celia’s goodwill. “Well, then you must really love Beowulf,” I said. “That’s pretty hard to understand, although it turned out to be more enjoyable than I expected. I love the fight scenes with the monster.”

  “Fight scenes!” cried Celia. “Is that all you care about? I suppose you’ll tell me next that you enjoy martial arts!”

  The mention of martial arts brought up an image of Baoshu, and I felt a terrible ache in my chest. I shut my eyes against tears that threatened to well up.

  “Celia, you mustn’t be so hard on Sheila,” L.H. said gently. “Not everyone shares your taste in literature.”

  Far from soothing Celia’s feelings, L.H.’s comment made her even angrier. I left soon afterward. I didn’t expect to be invited again in the near future. And I wasn’t.

  The weather became much colder, and the nights longer. In her last letter, Ailin had mentioned the wonderful warm weather in San Francisco.

  Dear Yanyan,

  It must be getting colder in Ithaca. Here in San Francisco, it’s as warm as September in Nanjing. How about visiting us? I’d love to see you again.

  Ailin

  Dear Ailin,

  I want to see you, too. But I don’t see how I can find time to cross all the way to the West Coast. I have so much schoolwork to do that I haven’t even visited places such as Taughannock Falls, Watkins Glen, and other nearby scenic spots.

  Maybe at a later time, we can get together.

  Yanyan

  The cold weather made me think of Baoshu. As I looked at the bare tree branches outside Mrs. Harte’s house, I pictured myself galloping with him across the Manchurian plains. At times like these, I tormented myself with thoughts of “What if . . . What if. . . .”

  Eating Sunday dinner with the Pettigrew family helped ease my loneliness and isolation. The two teenaged boys treated me like a member of the family. They enjoyed teasing me when my English became too bizarre.

  Mr. Pettigrew asked me about my schoolwork. “I really have to struggle in my physics course,” I told him, “but if I pull my guts tog
ether, I think I can pass it.”

  Hearing pull my guts together, the two boys burst out laughing so hard that they almost fell off their chairs.

  One Sunday dinner at the Pettigrews was less pleasant, however. That night they had some other guests, a Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop, also faculty members at Cornell. Before going into the dining room, the guests sat in the living room and drank something called sherry, which was a bit like a rice wine. I passed around a dish of nuts. The boys usually did that, but they were at a friend’s house that evening.

  Mrs. Winthrop spilled a little of her drink on the low table in front of her. She turned to me. “Get me a cloth to wipe it up,” she ordered.

  I was a little startled by Mrs. Winthrop’s curt tone. Was that her normal way of speaking?

  A little later, I found out the reason for her manner toward me. When Mrs. Pettigrew came out of the kitchen and started to chat with the guests, Mrs. Winthrop said, “I’m so glad you finally broke down and decided to hire yourself some help, Mabel.” She glanced at me and added, “Chinese girls can work very hard, but is her English adequate? Can she understand you well enough to follow orders?”

  “I can muster up enough English to follow orders and mop up your spilled drink,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew turned crimson, and Mrs. Winthrop’s jaw dropped almost to the floor. “It’s my fault, Gloria,” Mr. Pettigrew said to Mrs. Winthrop. “I should have introduced you. Sheila isn’t our maid. She’s a student at Cornell, and we like to invite her over for Sunday dinners.”

  The dinner was not a great success. I fought down a temptation to show off my command of English by quoting Beowulf. I didn’t think it would be appreciated.

  By the time I returned to Mrs. Harte’s and prepared for bed that night, I was finally cool enough to think about Mrs. Winthrop’s mistake without anger—at least without red-hot fury. She was no worse than the man in the laundry who thought all Chinks worked at laundering.

  Besides, I had no right to be offended because Mrs. Winthrop had mistaken me for a maid. Back home in China, we employed maids ourselves. Furthermore, Ailin had had to work as a nanny and was now working as a cook and probably a waitress, too. Ailin might look delicate, but even without any training in the martial arts, she was strong. Since I prided myself on my courage, I had to ignore slights from people like Mrs. Winthrop and the physics teaching assistant. I had to pull my guts together and be as strong as Ailin.

  Autumn passed all too quickly. One night rain mixed with sleet fell, and by the next morning the streets were coated with ice. Climbing up to the university was like struggling up a glass mountain, but going back down was the really treacherous part. Just as I thought I had made it safely back to Mrs. Harte’s house, my foot slipped and I landed heavily on my bottom.

  “Let me help you up,” said a voice. I had been concentrating so hard on keeping my footing, I hadn’t noticed that L.H. had been walking behind me. He reached down to offer his hand but then slipped himself and landed right next to me. We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  Although I hadn’t been eating dinner with the Chinese students, I did see L.H. regularly in my physics class. We had gradually worked our way closer to each other, and by now we were sitting only one row apart. It was possible that some of the other students had noticed us and were deliberately making things easier.

  We finally struggled back to our feet, and by carefully sliding and skidding, managed to make it to my front door. I turned to say good-bye to L.H. and noticed a couple of yellowish bruises on his cheek. “You’ve had a fall already,” I said.

  He looked away. “Well, not exactly.”

  He didn’t say anything else and seemed uncomfortable about the subject, so I didn’t press him. They were old bruises, I decided, since they had already turned yellow.

  After that, I often found L.H. walking back with me from the university. Sometimes we didn’t go directly back to Mrs. Harte’s house but took a longer route by way of Cascadilla Gorge. It was one of L.H.’s favorite places in Ithaca, and he always paused there to admire the scenery before moving on.

  We talked about the physics course, which I still found fiendishly hard. “I’m beginning to be really sorry I took the course,” I said. “I’ve discovered that it involves using calculus, which I’m just beginning to study in my math course.”

  “Why did you take it, then?” he asked curiously. “Most students take the course in their second year, after they’ve had a year of freshman math.”

  Why did I take it? It was a good question. I decided to answer honestly. “The advisor was ordering me to do this and do that—take home economics, English, and so on—so I decided to take something totally unexpected.”

  He said nothing. I began to feel a little foolish. “I know it was a silly reason for choosing a course. That just proves how childish I was!”

  Then I saw that he was grinning. “But I like your reason for taking the course: doing something totally unexpected!”

  So far, I’d found that people became annoyed, even angry, when you did something unexpected. They wanted you to conform to their idea of what you should be. Chinese were expected to be experts at laundry, girls were expected to do exquisite embroidery, and Westerners with big noses were not expected to be able to speak Chinese. People liked you to be predictable because it made them feel safer.

  It was very refreshing to find that L.H. actually approved of someone doing the unexpected. Not only did he enjoy the unexpected, he was fascinated by the unknown, by the distant stars. He was adventurous— not physically, but mentally. I had never met anyone like him before. If I weren’t careful, I might grow to like this boy—like him too much. Suddenly I wondered if Baoshu liked people who did the unexpected.

  Once, when L.H. and I were walking together, I noticed that he looked more sallow than usual. He gave a little burp and winced. “Sorry, a touch of indigestion.”

  I remembered something Eldest Brother had learned from his martial arts teacher and had passed on to me: Avoid any kind of strenuous exercise after eating heavily. “Did you eat a particularly heavy lunch today?” I asked L.H.

  He grimaced. “How did you guess? It was one of my landlady’s thick stews.”

  “Well, you should always avoid exercise after a heavy meal like that,” I told him. “And I consider climbing up to the campus heavy exercise.”

  “Yes, doctor,” he said meekly, and smiled. But he began to look thoughtful.

  A couple of weeks later, I noticed that L.H. was looking less gaunt than before. “Has your digestion improved?” I asked. “You seem to have better color, and you’ve gained weight.”

  “Yes, Doctor Zhang, I’m eating better,” he said with a grin. “I took your advice about not eating too much before strenuous exercise, and it seems to work!”

  I was absurdly pleased. Of course I enjoyed being addressed as Doctor Zhang, even though he had said it as a joke. What I enjoyed even more was that my advice had really helped his digestion. When I had first decided to become a doctor, I was intrigued by the various ways you could treat people. I was fascinated by germs and how they affected the healing of wounds. Now it gave me a wonderful feeling to know that by studying medicine, I could really help people become healthier. It made me more determined than ever to become a doctor.

  As the days grew shorter, it would be dark by the time I started walking back from the university. I wanted to be independent, but I felt safer on the days when L.H. walked back with me. I wondered if Celia knew about the time we were spending together.

  One evening, L.H. walked with me as far as Mrs. Harte’s house, and when I had gone up the steps to the front porch, I heard voices behind me. I turned around and saw that L.H. was talking to a group of three boys. They were all very big, almost twice his size.

  “It won’t take you more than a couple of minutes!” one of them said. He sounded angry.

  “I can’t do it,” said L.H. “It’s dishon
est.”

  “Dirty Chink!” said another boy. “Let’s give him a lesson he won’t forget!”

  I heard the sound of a blow. L.H. was bent over, holding his head.

  Suddenly I found myself rushing down the steps. Eldest Brother’s words came back to me: “A half turn, lean forward, and kick back at the same time.”

  I kicked. It was a good kick, and even with Chinese cloth shoes it would have connected painfully. Delivered with my heavy leather shoes, the impact sent the boy whooping and gasping for air.

  The other two boys stood frozen in surprise. Not only was my attack unexpected, I was so much shorter than they were that they didn’t see me until it was too late.

  I aimed another kick at a second boy, but it didn’t land quite so satisfactorily. Nevertheless it also connected.

  “Now you’re three against two, instead of three against one!” I shouted at them. “How do you like that, you bullies?”

  I had a loud voice, as my mother kept telling me. My shouts brought Mrs. Harte out to the front porch, where she was joined by Sibyl. The three boys, still somewhat dazed, looked around and decided to take off.

  I went over to L.H., who had a new bruise on his face in addition to the older, yellow ones. “I suppose those boys were the ones who caused your other bruises?” I asked.

  He nodded. Then he looked at me in wonder. “You’re a martial arts expert!”

  “No, I’m not,” I muttered. “I’m just a beginner. At the moment I feel more like a singer in a second-rate Chinese opera. I’ll break out into a falsetto aria next.”

  Sibyl came down the steps. “Come on, Sheila, let’s get this boy inside and put some ice on that cheek.”

  The use of ice to reduce swelling was new to me, and I resolved to find out why that worked. Mrs. Harte’s icebox contained a huge hunk of ice, delivered once a day to keep the food cold. Sibyl chipped a piece off, wrapped it in a towel, and gave it to L.H., who held it against his cheek.