“Do you waive the right to have a representative of any kind—friend, relative, or lawyer—present during your testimony?” The interpreter repeated the question asked by the examiner.
I was never offered that kindness, Mei Ling thought, but said out loud, “Yes.”
The interpreter asked, “Are there any persons in the United States besides your husband who may have seen you in China and know that you bear the relationship claimed by each of you?”
“No,” Mei Ling replied.
“How old are you?”
Eighteen flashed in her mind. “Twenty years old.”
“Do you intend to live here permanently if admitted?” he asked.
Mei Ling considered her answer. She hadn’t yet stepped foot in America and she was expected to commit to it for her life—and her children. She looked at the inspector; his face was blank. Did he want a Chinese woman here permanently?
Hoping it was the answer he wanted to hear, she said, “Yes.”
“Can you read and write?”
Yes, I’m an educated woman! Mei Ling replied, “No.”
“Have you ever been excluded and deported or arrested and deported from the USA?”
Mei Ling was offended by the question but only said, “No.”
Continuing with the insults, the interpreter asked, “Have you or either of your parents ever been inmates of an institution for the insane?”
Mei Ling looked directly at him and firmly stated, “No.”
Looking satisfyingly uncomfortable, the interpreter asked, “Do you believe in the practice of polygamy?”
“No.”
With a small shrug, as if to say that he was sorry, the interpreter asked, “Are you an anarchist?”
“No,” she stated, glad for these offensive but easy-to-answer questions.
The interrogation continued with Mei Ling answering slowly and carefully, doing her best to recall the specific information from the book as the questions grew more detailed. After an hour or so, the door was opened by a young Chinese man. The current interpreter stood up and left without saying a word. The new man sat in the chair he left vacant.
The new translator asked, “Did you understand the previous interpreter?”
Mei Ling was surprised to be asked this again but simply answered, “Yes.”
“How large is your husband’s village where you have resided since your marriage?”
Mei Ling recalled the page and confidently answered, “A little over a hundred houses.”
“In what direction does the village face?”
Mei Ling considered the question. She thought of the drawing of the village and answered, “West.”
“How many houses in your row?”
“Ten houses,” Mei Ling replied, keeping out the question in her voice.
“Counting from the head, where is your house?”
Mei Ling pictured the drawing and counted in her mind. She double-checked from the other direction. “Fifth house, ninth row, or from the north it’s the fifth house, third row.”
The inspector slid two pieces of paper and a graphite pencil across the table.
The translator said, “On one piece of paper draw a diagram of your home, labeling all rooms, and on the other paper draw the village, labeling the buildings, fields, and burial grounds.”
Mei Ling’s hand shook as she picked up the pencil. She adjusted her fingers to grip it as if she were uncomfortable holding a writing instrument. Slowly, aware that all eyes were on her, she drew what she recalled from the book. She started to label the buildings but remembered just in time that her false self couldn’t write.
She said the name of each room and the translator wrote what she said in English. When she was finished, the inspector nodded but didn’t give anything away by his expression. He asked another question in English.
The Chinese man interpreted, “Is the cooking stove in the kitchen portable or built in?”
A firecracker of fear exploded in Mei Ling’s chest. That information wasn’t in the book.
She made up an answer: “Portable.”
The White woman typed in her answer without pausing. Mei Ling looked for assurance from the two men across from her, but neither affirmed or denied the credibility of her reply.
They asked more questions about the house: the number and position of the windows, information about who slept where, and construction techniques. After another grueling hour the inspector closed the folder and said something.
“We are through for this day,” the Chinese man repeated with a nod.
Exhausted and ready for a rest, Mei Ling exhaled in relief. If they went on much longer she would make greater mistakes.
When she returned to the barracks, Siew was in the midst of regaling Bo with a story. He grinned up at Mei Ling and patted her leg when she joined them on the small bunk. A sweet, poignant relief washed over Mei Ling.
Gratitude for Siew welled up in her. The girl’s bright spirit had made their time on the island bearable. Leaving Siew behind was going to be heart-wrenching for Bo and for her, and it would be made all the more painful because Mei Ling had no assurance of the girl’s well-being.
To calm her anxious mind, Mei Ling pulled out the statue of Quan Yin. She placed her on the end of the bed and did some awkward but soothing kowtows. She focused her breath, inhaling love and exhaling peace. Then she did a loving kindness meditation for the girl. May Siew be safe from all harm. May Siew be free from all suffering. May Siew know joy. And then as her grandmother had taught her to do with anyone she felt angry with, she did the same for the interrogator: May he be safe from all harm. May he be free from all suffering. May he know joy. She took a final breath and opened her eyes.
Siew was standing by the bed staring at Mei Ling, her intense brown eyes welling up with tears. She blinked them back.
Siew whispered, “My Mah-ma used to do that.” She looked down, hiding her intense emotions. Mei Ling’s throat welled up in empathy, but she let the silence be. She touched the young girl’s arm. Siew looked up. “She said she would show me, but she never did.”
“I’m sure she would have. You were just so young . . .” Mei Ling’s voice caught.
“Will you teach me?” Siew implored.
Mei Ling bit her lip and nodded. “Yes. I will.”
That night Mei Ling repeated the instruction to Siew that her mother and grandmother taught her. Bow low. Surrender to the ancestors, give them your troubles. Ask for equanimity for yourself, seek to be calm in all that you do. Bless others, especially those who make you angry. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“Thank you,” Siew said when they were finished. She had an intense look in her eye like she wanted to say something but was fearful.
Mei Ling looked at her and nodded, encouraging her wordlessly.
Looking uncharacteristically shy, Siew stared at the bedding and spoke so quietly that Mei Ling barely heard her: “I wish you were my new Mah-ma.”
Mei Ling’s heart wrenched. Before she could get out a reply, Siew leaped off the bed and joined Bo playing on the ground.
Mei Ling studied the girl, glad she didn’t have to respond. It was a touching and sweet plea—and impossible. Siew had a family she belonged with. Besides, Mei Ling’s life wasn’t settled: she was still becoming accustomed to being a mother to Bo, she had this spirit inside her to protect, and she had yet to learn if her husband was trustworthy.
But she was certain that no matter how unlikely and impractical, if it was offered to her, she would gladly take on the responsibility for Siew.
CHAPTER 12
Angel Island
June 1923
Mei Ling waited to be called back later that day, but no one came for her that afternoon. Each morning or afternoon she expected to hear her name, but three days passed and no one had come for her. A walk with a guard was a welcome distraction from the pain of waiting. They walked up the hill, heading into the large oak trees and low scrub. Angel Island was very dry and brow
n compared to the hills behind her village.
Revulsion swelled in her throat as they passed the hospital with the opportunistic doctor. She pushed her contempt away, determined to enjoy this moment of comparative freedom. Bo and Siew skipped ahead just a bit, cresting the hill before she did. When she reached them her breath caught at the stunning view of the water shimmering in the sunlight. Land rose up on the other side of the bay. Siew pointed to the tower in the distance, the Campanile at the university in Berkeley.
“That’s where you are going to live soon!” she explained to Bo, certainty and excitement in her young voice. She must have remembered June’s promise that they were going there someday, only turning it into home.
Mei Ling’s heart sank. She didn’t want to crush their hopes, but she didn’t wish to have them believe a falsehood.
She took a middle ground. “We hope to visit someday, but no one lives there. It’s only a clock. A very large clock.”
The children seemed satisfied with her explanation and trotted on again. She followed along with just a few other women. Bo and Siew were the only children. Mei Ling didn’t bother to make any conversation—she didn’t need to become attached to anyone else. Her heart couldn’t hold any more loss.
They walked around until the tall Tribune Tower in Oakland came into sight. Mei Ling sent out a silent greeting to June, who had mentioned that she often walked past it. The guard forced them to turn back before her future home came into view—San Francisco, where she hoped Kai Li was waiting for them.
Mei Ling drew strength and faith from a made-up image of her new home in San Francisco. She fashioned it after her house in Guangzhou, including a garden where she pictured the peony and chrysanthemum stalks blooming under her tender care, bringing beauty into a harmonious life. In her imagination she was a well-dressed wife of a merchant living in a warm and modern building with her two children and devoted husband. Perhaps Siew would live near enough that they could visit regularly—the children acting as cousins to one another in a land without clan. Her faith in a better future gave her the strength to keep her spirits up despite the dreary conditions she was currently in.
Weeks passed before a guard called her name from the doorway. Her heart sped up immediately. She could be landed or deported this very afternoon. One would mean leaving Siew; the other might mean leaving both children. She took a deep breath to calm herself, pinched her arm to chase away the sadness, and patted the children goodbye.
The guard gestured to the children, pointed at the door, and said, “--’- -- ---- -- ----.”
Mei Ling pointed at Bo and Siew, and then pointed at the door, repeating his mime that the children should go with them. The guard nodded.
“You can come too,” Mei Ling said, keeping her tone light.
“Come on, Bo!” Siew took his little hand. The children looked delighted at the prospect.
The guard’s hand shot out, stopping Siew at the doorway. “--- ---. ---- the ---.”
Siew’s face, and Mei Ling’s heart, fell.
“I’m sorry. We’ll be back soon,” Mei Ling said, but then caught herself. “Maybe not soon, but we will be back.”
Siew blinked back tears, turned around, and walked slowly to the bunk, her hunched shoulders showing her hurt.
Mei Ling was torn, but she wasn’t given time to explain or comfort. She was forced to immediately abandon the girl to keep up with the guard as he quickly walked away.
He led her to the same small room with the metal table. Eyes from three unfamiliar faces watched them take a seat on the other side. Bo had his own chair, but he could barely see over the table.
The inspector spoke in English and the translator said, “The inspector has familiarized himself with your case. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Mei Ling replied.
“Do you understand that you are still under oath?” the man asked.
Mei Ling answered, “Yes.”
“Your son is too young to take an oath, but we still need to ask him questions,” the Chinese man said.
“Yes,” Mei Ling answered though it wasn’t a question.
“How old are you?” the man asked Bo.
Bo stared at the man.
“Does he speak?” the man asked.
Mei Ling didn’t know how to answer that question. Bo hardly stopped talking when he was with Siew, but she doubted he would be forthcoming to this stranger. She wasn’t going to encourage Bo to answer the man, because his answers might throw suspicion on their case. The little boy might claim Siew was his sister or mention his first Mah-ma. She just shook her head.
Then she remembered to say out loud, “No.”
The interpreter spoke to the interrogator: “-- -- ----.”
The interrogator shook his head and clicked his tongue. He asked the reporter, “-- ---- -- --- ------?”
“-- -- ----,” she replied.
Anger burned in Mei Ling’s cheeks. The specifics of what they were saying were lost to her, but the contempt and judgmental tones in their voices were pinpricks to her pride. She wanted to scream in Bo’s defense; he was a little boy who’d lost so much. Who were they to judge him, or her?
The inspector asked a question in English and the interpreter turned back to Mei Ling, switching back to a neutrally respectful tone, as if she hadn’t been able to understand that they were laughing at her and her son.
“Your husband says the stove in the kitchen is built in, which contradicts your testimony. What do you have to say about that?”
Mei Ling had answered wrong! She was going to be sent back. Her Dragon sent a flood of energy radiating out from her sternum. She’d sacrificed too much to lose everything now because of the status of a kitchen appliance.
“My husband spends no time in the kitchen,” she replied, indignation hiding the fear in her voice. “How can you possibly expect him to know about our stove? It appears to be built in, but it’s a deception. Only a ruse to make it appear something it’s not.”
She heard the click of the machine as the woman typed her answer. The inspector cleared his throat but gave no indication if he believed her reply. The questioning continued for hours on much of the same line as the previous interview. In fact many questions were repeated from before. She’d be bored if she weren’t anxious about the outcome.
They ignored Bo, and eventually he put his head down on the table. She was afraid they would chastise him, so she gently took his arms and led him to lie down on her lap for a rest. He resisted at first, but then gave in to her tug.
Bo was still asleep when they stopped questioning her. The inspector stood up and left with her file in his hand. The silence of the room grew increasingly unsettling. Mei Ling listened to the waves hitting the shore and the occasional cry of a seabird. The White man returned after twenty minutes or so. He wrote something himself in the file and spoke out loud. The woman typed.
The inspector slid a piece of paper, covered in English writing, to her side of the table.
“Make your mark here,” the translator commanded.
Mei Ling’s fingers shook as she picked up the pen. She started to write her own name, but quickly caught her mistake and wrote a shaky X on the black line. The man snatched the paper back and carelessly put it in “her” file.
“You are done,” the translator said and stood with a slight bow. “Good luck.”
The good luck felt ominous. Confusion swirled inside Mei Ling’s head and heart, but the translator was gone before she could ask about her status. She rose, lifting a sleeping Bo into her arms, bowed her respect, and left. If she was being deported, she wasn’t going to let them see her despair.
No one was waiting to escort her back upstairs to the women’s barracks. She’d have to make her way back by herself. She pleaded to Quan Yin, Grant me equanimity for whatever is to come. She felt the weight of Bo’s life as she carried his heavy body up the cold concrete stairs. Two months ago she was afraid of the burden of caring for him. Now she was terrifie
d at the thought of being forced away from this dear boy.
Mei Ling sank onto the lower bunk. Bo, half asleep, crawled over to Siew on the adjacent bed. Siew cuddled him close, and he closed his eyes once again. Was he dreaming again or just dozing? Mei Ling stared at the window; the bright blue of the broken-up sky shone through the metal mesh, the constant reminder of her imprisonment. The fog had burned away while she was in that small room. It looked to be a beautiful day for those with the freedom to enjoy it.
Overwhelmed with the futility of her situation, she lay down. Siew reached a hand out and gave Mei Ling’s arm a sweet pat. She sensed that Mei Ling was disturbed. Mei Ling smiled at the girl she’d be losing when they sent her back to China.
China. The thought of returning filled her with shame and dread. She and the baby would be a burden that her parents had thought they were free from. She wouldn’t return to the village; instead she would make a life in Hong Kong. She’d look for a position as a servant.
Her heart started to race. She needed to carry out her plan for Bo and for Siew. She wanted to get the children to San Francisco, to Kai Li and Suk Suk, before they sent her away.
She sat up, got out her paper, and started a letter for Deaconess Maurer to deliver to Kai Li, not caring if they learned that she was literate. She had little to lose now.
Before she’d made a mark a guard arrived at the door. All eyes turned to him.
In Chinese he yelled, “Dai Fow: Law Bo Low, Wong Lew She, Jui Lum Shee. Chinn Bo.”
Dai Fow. First City! She was on the list of people being landed.
She rushed to the guard. Pointing to her chest, she asked, “Dai Fow? Wong Lew She?”
The man nodded.
“Chinn Bo?” She pointed at Bo.
The man nodded.
“Siew?” Mei Ling practically begged.
The man tightened his lips in empathy, but he shook his head. Mei Ling closed her eyes tight, suppressing the urge to argue with the guard. She took a breath to calm her Dragon. And then nodded. The man held up both of his hands. In English he said, “--- -------.”
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