Black in China

by Vessup, Aaron A. ;

  My mother had clearly been crying, despite the hurried efforts of her worn hands to erase the tear tracks from her once-beautiful olive skin. I had never seen her like this before. I cautiously climbed on the bed and settled on the edge, laying at a respectful distance. During my later years as a High School senior, talking to my mother in the rare moments when the house was quiet and we were alone was prime-time for mutual honesty. There was no god talk or scripture spitting, just talk. I would stretch out and we both would do a stream of consciousness. This was relaxing but it was also risky. Things would be said. In these moments she did not behave like a robot and seemed like a real person.

  My mother and father were close partners for many years. She brought fifteen children into the world, sired by him. Talking to her in private might seem a natural extension of Mother-Son bonding, but it carried a risk. Sometimes things I said backfired. My father would come storming into my room and yank me off the top bunk-bed, or he would bide his time until he was in church. Standing behind the pulpit, he would unleash a searing torrent of verbiage, revealing that he knew the private thoughts I had shared with my mother.

  Deep in my heart I felt sorrow and sympathy with my mother. Hers was a hellish predicament. Looking at her constantly swelling stomach was enough to tell me where some of her anguish came from. She was pregnant again and again, caught between a rock and a hard place, hell and high water. She could not do anything or say anything about it beyond implying that she had no choice in the matter. Or, indeed, that it had to be God’s will.

  I reached across the king-sized bed and grabbed her left hand that lay on her side closest to me. She did not flinch away as she normally would have done. A hug or kiss from her would have been earth-shattering. In fact, my mother seemed to be in a daze. She appeared much smaller than in the past. Only a few years ago, there had been times when she had chased me around the house wildly swinging the cord of the clothes iron, her punishment weapon of choice. I had learned to grab the swinging cord and hang on, sometimes laughing, and sometimes my mother laughed too, as if the punishment routine was merely a game. We would laugh together, and her mood would change as she realized that maybe I really did not deserve to be whipped. But the family code of discipline for some reason ordained that I should be whipped daily. This was not how my other siblings were treated. Only me, the devil personified.

  My mother had gone through some difficult times. Her last pregnancy had been complicated when she had delivered twin girls. And now she was pregnant again, going into the second trimester.

  “What’s the matter, Mommy?”

  She lay silent on the bed gazing upward with a worried expression on her face then drew in a long breath and exhaled with a long, slow sigh.

  “Ohhh....you know... your father....”

  There was another long period of silence. The room was still and I held my breath. I could hear the clock ticking on their wooden bed stand.

  “You know… your father...”

  She repeated these words as if she was talking to herself, thinking to herself as if not talking to me or anyone else for that matter. Or was she praying? I was confused. Was I even supposed to be hearing what she was saying? But at that moment, she squeezed my hand with her strong fingers and held my hand tight. My heart swelled with affection. This was a first. She rarely, if ever, had given me a hug since I had been able to walk, as far back as I could remember. There had been too many pregnancies, too many kids, too much time spent in the kitchen working to please her vain hairstyling customers. Yet now, my mother was squeezing my hand as if we were friends. Yes, we were friends indeed, co-conspirators against the man of the house. The General. The Tyrant. The Dictator. The man we all feared as much, if not more, than God.

  “Mommy, I love you.”

  I said it. I said it as I squeezed her hand in return.

  “Mommy, you know I love you. What can I do?”

  There was again a long silence.

  “I love you Mommy, what do you want me to do?”

  “Your father....”

  For a brief moment, my mind went into a tail-spin. Did she want me to do something to my father? A lump filled my throat and squeezed it until I could scarcely breathe. Kill him? She had not said it, but I could only complete her incomplete sentence in that way. Kill my father...? What had he done to her? Had he hit her? I searched my mother’s face for tell-tale marks, evidence of physical abuse.

  “Mommy, did Daddy hit you?”

  “Do....your father... do...”

  My mind went full-tilt, thinking how I had progressed easily from killing chickens to four-legged irritants. But could I take on a much bigger job? Was I man enough? Had she finally grown tired of him?

  “Mommy do you really want me to do that...? Mommy, I love you.”

  “Boy what are you talking about? You remember those girls you saw on the street corner standing around? You said you loved them. What do you know about love?”

  She sat up abruptly and was looked directly at me, fully alert.

  “You do remember those girls don’t you? You told us that you loved them. How can you say this to me? I’m your mother!”

  I looked away. She was right, what did I know about love.

  The girls were colorfully-dressed prostitutes on the corner of Crenshaw Blvd in Los Angeles. I had seen these fancy girls, Black, Brown, White and Yellow, a rainbow of cultures and nationalities wearing large earrings, fine asses jutted out above shapely legs, their jaws rapidly smacking chewing gum. Our car had stopped at the lights, and two girls came closer to the car. One very pretty girl leaned toward the half-closed window on my mother’s side. She slowly ran her tongue across her shiny red lips and addressed my father.

  “Hey there, honey-man. You want to leave her and the kids and have a little fun? I know you’s got enough for some of us. We can surely brighten up your day.”

  Luckily the lights changed from red to green, my father gunned the engine as I looked back at the vanishing fantasies.

  “Wow!”

  “What are you saying ‘wow’ about? Who do you think you are, mister man?”

  My father had a stern look on his face. My mother was also seemed agitated.

  “The nerve! Did you hear that? NO respect at all, and I’m sitting right here! Lord! Lord! Lord! Thank you, Jesus, for saving me! Hallelujah! Somebody would surely be dead! Surely be dead!”

  There was a moment’s silence and only the low sound of radio music could be heard as we drove on. Then my older brother spoiled things with one of his typical troubling questions.

  “Mommy? Daddy? Do you know any of those girls? Who should be dead?”

  My older brother, now curious, was leaning forward to the front seat behind my father. My father glanced back for a quick second, jerky-like.

  “Shut your mouth!”

  “Are they your friends?” I repeated the questions. “Mommy, who should be dead? They are pretty. Doesn’t God say we shall love everybody? I love them. I mean I love the short one who stayed on the sidewalk. She was smiling at me.”

  This was a spectacular event. Why shouldn’t I love them? I was excited and could not hide my enthusiasm. I was surely experiencing love. My older brother had already slumped back on the seat, making an ugly face at me.

  “Boy, didn’t you hear me the first time? I said shut up!”

  A swift hand followed by a thud was enough to silence both of us.

  “Now there. You satisfied? You think you understand English now? I don’t want to hear anything else about those girls. They all should be home with their families. Got no business out here insulting a man and his family. That’s not right. Somebody should give them a good whipping.”

  So I had said that I loved those girls and my mother had never forgotten.

  “Listen to me, honey. I would like for you to do just one thing for me. Just do whatever you
r father tells you to do. Be obedient. Do what he says. That will make me the happiest mother on earth. You understand me? Just obey your father. This is what I have been doing, and I know the lord honors this. Only this. Obedience. Never forget that.”

  “Yes Mommy. I won’t forget.”

  It was the only thing I could say.

  I also remember that the car radio had been on and when some singers launched happily into a tune singing “Why do fools fall in love?” my father hurriedly punched at the buttons to change the station. We rode for a long time in silence.

  29

  Home Routines and New Transitions

  Sounds awake me each morning around 8am, if I have not already been dragged up earlier by the ghosts of the past. If awake earlier, I note the mounting cacophony, reaching up to my twenty-second floor two-bedroom apartment, the windows of which survey the murky smog curtain over Beijing. On the floor below, somebody is chopping on a woodblock, mincing meat or peppers into bits. The rhythmic chop-chop-chop-chop, pause chop-chop-chop-chop reminds me of my days in Guatemala when the morning greeting sounds included the slap-slap-slap-slap of hands patting wet flour balls into tortilla bread for frying pans. Soon my neighbor below will turn on his radio. Once out of bed, I also turn on my favorite FM 87.4 China music station playing top 100 international tunes. All is well.

  In China, I am never far away from smells of cooking and dirt. For defense from the smells of oil or grease seeping through from the street vendors and restaurants floors below and the general air pollution, I usually have my windows sealed shut, toilet room exhaust fan running non-stop, and the air filter in my living room modulated with red and blue lights signaling a safe breathing zone. A short burst of cars honking and bus horns blaring passes and then it’s pretty quiet apart from the occasional dog bark until the jack-hammers start their pounding or drills whine as some nearby construction site resumes work.

  I have stopped being a Shop-a-holic. At my last clothing count about two years ago, I had more than ten pairs of black slacks, ten pairs of brown slacks, twelve pairs of jeans, at least twenty assorted sweaters, eight leather vests, twenty jackets (four custom-made), ten custom-designed suits, twenty-five long-sleeve dress shirts, and over fifty short-sleeve shirts. Eight pairs of sports shoes, six of boots and eight of dress shoes (three custom-made). Once every few weeks I pack up unwanted movie disks and old clothes to set them downstairs near a dumpster. I know somebody must appreciate that this foreigner is paring down. But it still seems I have made hardly a dent in closet space. But sixty-five unique hand-crafted tea-pots and counting seem destined to escape being trashed. I am not going to throw those away.

  There are many survival strategies I have adopted for living abroad. One of the most important has been to always know and accept who you are and where you are. That’s my motto. Make the best of it, whether in a small boxy room or palatial surroundings. It’s an attitude that comes from within. See yourself as you want others to see you and keep clear, doable goals in mind. Small challenges that give me a sense of purpose and help days become easier and circumstances more controllable.

  Making sure that I know my basic directions is crucial. North-south major landmarks, east-west major landmarks. Periodically studying a city map helps me maintain an overview. I mark points in my mind, and then test myself by taking one or two blocks north, or south, traveling by foot in a small rectangle, sniffing out the details of my immediate vicinity. If it is a long-term stay I may use my bike to make the rectangular exercise longer. Restaurants, hotels, shops with office supplies, materials for repairs, parks, spas and sporting centers, etc. I like to know what is around me.

  As time goes on, branching out for extended bus or subway rides in new directions, becomes a part of my routine. Finding new malls, cinemas, art zones and galleries adds to my comfort level. Getting lost in a Chinese city and finding my way out without needing to resort to a taxi gives me great satisfaction. I love the challenge of the unfamiliar. I now know my way around Beijing, the bus numbers, bus routes and subway lines.

  My morning wake-up ritual involves turning on the radio to popular international rock music. Coffee. Always. Entering the house means immediately turning on the television set with no volume so I can throw an occasional eye at whatever sporting event may be on. Evening tea. Always. Over the years, my stash of assorted teas has grown. This is my approach for making myself feel At Home. Giving TLC to my growing plant collection.

  My routine now is no different from how I behaved for years living in the United States. It makes me feel good to be able to show Beijing taxi drivers short-cuts for reaching my destination, especially when traffic is bad. There is no shock being a foreigner when you are familiar with your surroundings.

  I remember, back in Chicago before I came to China, being tattooed, feeling the tattoo gun digging its sharp needle into my arms, drawing a design and characters that I had chosen—ancient symbols from another world. I questioned myself: Was this a crazy thing to do? I was preparing to leave the USA and move to China and this tattoo session was an essential part of the transition. I wanted to have these Chinese words that I could not read permanently etched on my body.

  Awash in the resonating, thoughtful music being played in the tattoo parlor, I addressed for the first time the basic question of my identity, of whether I wanted in the end to be a Black Chinaman.

  And once in China, I found ways to relate very easily. My being a Black American ultimately made no difference. Music was a common-ground, but I also found other characteristics that tied us together. From a psychological perspective, the Chinese have long been the under-dogs, a mysterious Third World oddity viewed as being in need of so-called Western civilizing. As a proverbial second-class citizen, I can unconditionally relate to having to fight against social inequities and erroneous perceptions.

  30

  Chinese Bridges and Walls

  It was deep into the hot summer, yet her words hit me like a sudden shower of iced water. I caught my breath with a shiver. We were having coffee at the Red Cuppa, a coffee shop in Beijing. More comfortable and less crowded than Starbucks. I was attempting to share the wide range of topics that had been touched on in my recent English Corner volunteer meetings at the Golden Years English Salon. I really enjoyed the people who took part, ranging through middle school and university students, chauffeurs, teachers, managers and retired seniors. The oldest man had just celebrated his eighty-eighth birthday and another was seventy-nine years old. Both of these Chinese men had travelled abroad to many countries, and their English was excellent.

  “Why don’t you just forget about all that negative stuff that has happened in the USA?” said my friend Liza. “That’s all in the past. You are in China and do not have to think about race or racism. Forget about it. Don’t you know it’s all over now? This is a brand new day!”

  She was much younger than I, and really had no clue about the implications of it all. Perhaps I could be a little less selfish, but this attitude of avoidance was a mind-set essentially saying, close your eyes and soothe your mind, bad things will eventually go away. Many Americans react in the same way. Avoidance is quite natural. Like so many other people, Chinese and Westerners, she simply did not want to think about the elephant in the room.

  But on a trip to Shanghai, I had a surprise. A little Chinese boy of three or four years of age impulsively broke away from his parents as they were leaving the hotel’s breakfast dining area and headed straight to where I was seated with his arms outstretched and gave me a hug. I hugged him back and kissed his head. Smiling, he ran back to his parents as they kept saying “Thank you! Thank you!” with a hint of embarrassment. Their exit procession continued, mother holding an infant, father pushing a baby stroller and the little boy running to rejoin the caravan, grabbing his grandfather’s hand. With a final wave and shouts of “goodbye,” they were gone. I remained delighted and shocked. The kid clearly was fr
om a loving family, there was no fear in his young eyes. He was being raised to embrace the world.

  That episode brought back memories of Chinese friends in other provinces whose kids also exhibited a similar positive socializing trait. Their parents told them I was their “Uncle”, and the kids had no problem accepting the obvious difference in my appearance. Young parents lead the way in building bridging between cultures and ethnic groups. It is indeed a beautiful heartwarming experience when complete strangers are able to instantly connect. This is the promising future that I see in China.

  There seems to remain, however, a disconnect between young Chinese and their past. I have asked many Chinese students and teachers if they have ever talked to their grandparents about their experiences. Most say they have not, and some indicate that topics regarding the past in China are forbidden areas. Many elderly people are reluctant to disclose their past, still locked in paranoia about unknown repercussions. The past is best forgotten. A Chinese teacher responded to my enthusiasm regarding the treasure-trove of stories represented by the Chinese Elderly by saying: “We have no need to look back. It is the future of China that concerns us most.”

  “But don’t you think there are more stories like those written by the Nobel Literature prize winner Mo Yan?” I countered. “Surely, many Chinese seniors have personal experiences that would be fascinating to hear.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I have not read much of his work. I prefer more modern writers.”

  At first, I was surprised that most Chinese had not read any of Mo Yan’s works. But a similar blindness, or aversion to the past, is also found among today’s Western youth. Most have never heard of Stokely Carmichael, H. Rap Brown, Angela Davis or Eldridge Cleaver. The media talks of Nelson Mandela, but few know about the heroism of Toussaint L’ouverture. Even the Black community know virtually nothing about the “Black Codes” and other systemic controls that were maintained long after the Civil War ended.