by Ha Jin
“Forget it,” Sami huffed. “She’s old enough to be your mother. Didn’t you used to call her ‘Aunt’?”
“Come on, Sami, she’s only thirteen years older than I am.”
“You’ll never marry her. Why should you toy with her heart?”
“How do you know I’ll never marry her?”
“Because she cannot give you children.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll just have fun with her for a while, then dump her.”
“Don’t call me again.” I hung up, dazed at the thought of Eileen’s infertility.
Though upset by Sami, I believed she’d told me the truth. When we made love, Eileen had never mentioned contraceptives; I’d assumed she was on the pill. If I were to marry an infertile woman, it would devastate my parents. I’m their only son, and they expect me to carry on the family line.
Yet I couldn’t drive Eileen out of my mind. I longed to sleep with her in that king-size bed, deaf to the outside world. Never had I been so hopelessly in love. I phoned her once and grew short of breath. I said I missed her; she sighed and told me not to contact her again, at least not before Sami finished her college applications. “I just don’t want to disturb her at the moment.” She sounded resigned, but I could tell I was on her mind too. I reminded myself to be patient.
Unlike her mother, Sami was always in contact with me, continually calling me for advice on her applications. Her SAT scores weren’t high, so her chances for the Ivy League were slim. I advised her to apply to Penn and Cornell in addition to some colleges in New York City. Her ideal school was my alma mater, NYU, because she wanted to stay close to home to keep her mother company. One Saturday morning I ran into her in the public library, in a corner on the second floor, behind the book stacks. She wore knee-high suede boots and a red peacoat with enormous buttons, looking sturdy and thick but still girlish. Unconsciously her hand kept touching the single-paned window, leaving prints on it that immediately faded away. Outside, fluffy snowflakes drifted on the wind beneath patches of blue sky. As our conversation continued, Sami insinuated that I might have an eye on Eileen’s money. “Of course, lots of men are interested in women of means,” she said.
“Honest to God, I’ve no idea how rich your mother is,” I protested. “And I don’t care.”
“Well, I’m richer than her. I have a big trust fund.” She stared at me, her eyes a bit wide set. “You have to give up on screwing my mom—enough’s enough.”
“I love your mother, but I can’t understand why you’re so heartless.” Exasperated, I spun around and clattered down the stairs.
When I saw her again, I tried to be friendly because I realized I could not afford to make her my enemy. If I were to see Eileen again, I had to be accepted by both daughter and mother.
• • •
For weeks I worked hard on my thesis, sharpening the argument, smoothing out the rough spots, and preparing all the footnotes. I made myself busy to quench my miserable feelings. My professor praised what I’d written and said I could graduate before summer. The rapid progress bemused me, however, confronting me with decisions about what to do after graduation.
The days were getting longer. In late March, Sami began to receive letters from colleges. Penn turned her down, but unexpectedly Cornell accepted her. She came to my place, wild with joy, and hugged me tightly, saying that now her father must be pleased underground. In her excitement her cheeks grew ruddy, and even her hair seemed glossier. I rejoiced at the news myself, though for different reasons, and said a lot of good things about Cornell.
I called Eileen to give her my congratulations. She too was enraptured. “Without your help, Sami couldn’t possibly have gotten admitted by that school,” she said earnestly.
“You should urge her to go to Cornell,” I suggested. “It’s a great place. I know some alumni. They all loved it.”
“I know what’s on your mind, Dave.”
“I miss you, a lot.”
“I miss you too,” she sighed, “but we must be patient.”
A few days after that conversation I saw an ad in a local newspaper, The North American Tribune, for an editorial assistant position at Eileen’s press. It was a part-time job, twenty hours a week, offering “wages commensurate with experience.” This possibility set my mind spinning, and for a whole day I vibrated with hopes. I asked Avtar whether I should apply. Dunking a tea bag in his steaming cup, he said, “Man, if I were you, I’d go for the daughter.”
That evening Sami called: both NYU and Sarah Lawrence had rejected her. Quietly elated, I urged her again about Cornell. “Just imagine how that would delight your father,” I said.
Two days later, I went to Everyman Press early in the morning. None of its employees had arrived yet, and Eileen was there alone. She was surprised to see me, but composed herself immediately and led me into her office. The walls were lined with slanted shelves, mostly loaded with books and brochures. She poured a cup of coffee for me. A sad smile crossed her face, which was a bit gaunt then, her chin pointed. “Hazelnut,” she said. “And cream and sugar. Sorry there’s no honey.”
“This will do fine.” I was moved that she remembered I liked hazelnut coffee with honey and cream. I told her of my interest in the job. “I’ll be a good helper to you,” I assured her. “Who knows, someday I may even become a big editor.”
She gazed at me, her mouth parted a bit, her bottom lip slightly thicker than the top. Then she closed her mouth and her face turned calm again. “It’s too late, Dave,” she said.
“What do you mean? The job is filled?”
“No, we’re still looking for someone, but I cannot let you work here.”
“Why? I’m not qualified?”
“No, not because of that. Sami was just accepted to Queens College. She’s going there.”
“You mean she gave up Cornell?”
“Yes. She’s afraid I’ll be lonely without her. I tried my best to persuade her to go, but she wants to stay home.”
“How can you be sure that’s her only reason?”
“She and I had a long talk last night. We both have feelings for you, but we promised each other that neither of us would see you again.”
“I see.”
“Don’t be mad at me, Dave. I cherish the time you spent with me and will always remember you fondly. I know that for a woman my age, I may never meet another man as good as you. But Sami just made a big sacrifice for me, and I mustn’t let her down again. No matter how much I love you.”
“She’s lucky to have you for a mother,” I muttered.
Tears welled in my eyes, and I scrambled to the door. I didn’t want her to see my face. I hurried away on the street, aware of her eyes fixed on my back. It had begun drizzling, and a fine rain swirled in the air, soaking the leafing branches and my hair. I was more touched than wretched.
Children as Enemies
OUR GRANDCHILDREN HATE US. The boy and the girl, ages eleven and nine, are just a pair of selfish, sloppy brats and have no respect for old people. Their animosity toward us originated at the moment their names were changed, about three months ago.
One evening the boy complained that his schoolmates couldn’t pronounce his name, so he must change it. “Lots of them call me ‘Chicken,’” he said. “I want a regular name like anyone else.” His name was Qigan Xi, pronounced “cheegan hsee,” which could be difficult for non-Chinese to manage.
“I wanna change mine too,” his sister, Hua, jumped in. “Nobody can say it right and some call me ‘Wow.’” She bunched her lips, her face puffed with baby fat.
Before their parents could respond, my wife put in, “You should teach them how to pronounce your names.”
“They always laugh about my silly name, Qigan,” the boy said. “If I didn’t come from China, I’d say ‘Chicken’ too.”
I told both kids, “You ought to be careful about changing your names. We decided on them only after consulting a reputable fortune-teller.”
“Phew, who believes in that crap?” the boy muttered.
Our son intervened, saying to his children, “Let me think about this, okay?”
Our daughter-in-law, thin-eyed Mandi, broke in. “They should have American names. Down the road there’ll be lots of trouble if their names remain unpronounceable. We should’ve changed them long ago.”
Gubin, our son, seemed to agree, though he wouldn’t say it in our presence.
My wife and I were unhappy about that, but we didn’t make a serious effort to stop them, so Mandi and Gubin went about looking for suitable names for the children. It was easy in the girl’s case. They picked “Flora” for her, since her name, Hua, means “flower.” But it was not easy to find a name for the boy. English names are simple in meaning, mostly already empty of their original senses. Qigan means “amazing bravery.” Where can you find an English name that combines the import and the resonance of that? When I pointed out the difficulty, the boy blustered, “I don’t want a weird and complicated name. I just need a regular name, like Charlie or Larry or Johnny.”
That I wouldn’t allow. Names are a matter of fortune and fate—that’s why fortune-tellers can divine the vicissitudes of people’s lives by reading the orders and numbers of the strokes in the characters of their names. No one should change his name randomly.
Mandi went to the public library and checked out a book on baby names. She perused the small volume and came up with “Matty” as a choice. She explained, “‘Matty’ is short for ‘Mathilde,’ which is from Old German and means ‘powerful in battle,’ very close to ‘Qigan’ in meaning. Besides, the sound echoes ‘mighty’ in English.”
“It doesn’t sound right,” I said. In the back of my mind I couldn’t reconcile “Matty” with “Xi,” our family name.
“I like it,” the boy crowed.
He seemed determined to contradict me, so I said no more. I wished my son had rejected the choice, but Gubin didn’t make a peep, just sitting in the rocking chair and drinking iced tea. The matter was settled. The boy went to school and told his teacher he had a new name—Matty.
For a week he seemed happy, but his satisfaction was short-lived. One evening he told his parents, “Matty is a girl’s name, my friend Carl told me.”
“Impossible,” his mother said.
“Of course it’s true. I asked around, and people all said it sounded girlish.”
My wife, drying her hands on her apron, suggested to our son, “Why don’t you look it up?”
The book on baby names was not returned yet, so Gubin looked it up and saw “f. or m.” beside the name. Evidently Mandi hadn’t seen that it could be both female and male. Her negligence or ignorance outraged the boy all the more.
What should we do? The eleven-year-old turned tearful, blaming his mother for giving him a name with an ambiguous gender.
Finally my son slapped his knee and said, “I have an idea. ‘Matty’ can also come from ‘Matt.’ Why not drop the letter ‘y’ and call yourself Matt?”
The boy brightened up and said he liked that, but I objected. “Look, this book says ‘Matt’ is a diminutive of ‘Matthew.’ It’s nowhere close to the sense of ‘amazing bravery.’”
“Who gives a damn about that!” the boy spat out. “I’m gonna call myself Matt.”
Wordless, I felt my face tightening. I got up and went out to smoke a pipe on the balcony. My wife followed me, saying, “My old man, don’t take to heart what our grandson said. He’s just confused and desperate. Come back in and eat.”
“After this pipe,” I said.
“Don’t be long.” She stepped back into the apartment, her small shoulders more stooped than before.
Below me, automobiles were gliding past on the wet street like colored whales. If only we hadn’t sold everything in Dalian City and come here to join our son’s family. Gubin is our only child, so we’d thought it would be good to stay with him. Now I wish we hadn’t moved. At our ages—my wife is sixty-three and I’m sixty-seven—and at this time it’s hard to adjust to life here. In America it feels as if the older you are, the more inferior you grow.
Both my wife and I understood we shouldn’t meddle with our grandchildren’s lives, but sometimes I simply couldn’t help offering them a bit of advice. She believed it was our daughter-in-law who had spoiled the kids and made them despise us. I don’t think Mandi is that mean, though beyond question she is an indulgent mother. Flora and Matt look down on everything Chinese except for some food they like. They hated to go to the weekend school to learn to read and write the characters. Matt announced, “I’ve no need for that crap.”
I would have to force down my temper whenever I heard him say that. Their parents managed to make them attend the weekend school, though Matt and Flora had quit inscribing the characters. They went there only to learn how to paint with a brush, taking lessons from an old artist from Taiwan. The girl, sensitive by nature and delicate in health, might have had some talent for arts, but the boy was good at nothing but daydreaming. I just couldn’t help imagining that he might end up a guttersnipe. He wouldn’t draw bamboos or goldfish or landscapes with a brush; instead, he produced merely bands and lines of ink on paper, calling them abstract paintings. He experimented with the shades of the ink as if it were watercolors. Sometimes he did that at home too. Seeing his chubby face and narrow eyes as he worked in dead earnest, I wanted to laugh. He once showed a piece with some vertical lines of ink on it to an art teacher at his school. To my horror, the woman praised it, saying the lines suggested a rainfall or waterfall, and that if you observed them horizontally, they would bring to mind layers of clouds or some sort of landscape.
What a crock was that! I complained to Gubin in private and urged him to pressure the children to study serious subjects, such as science, classics, geography, history, grammar, and penmanship. If Matt really couldn’t handle those, in the future he should consider learning how to repair cars and machines or how to cook like a chef. Auto mechanics make good money here—I know a fellow at a garage who can’t speak any English but pulls in twenty-four dollars an hour, plus a generous bonus at the end of the year. I made it clear to my son that a few tricks in “art” would never get his kids anywhere in life, so they’d better stop dabbling with a brush. Gubin said Matt and Flora were still young and we shouldn’t push them too hard, but he agreed to talk to them. Unlike Gubin, Mandi aligned herself with the children, saying we ought to let them develop freely as individuals, not strait-jacket them as they would back in China. My wife and I were unhappy about our daughter-in-law’s position. Whenever we criticized her, our grandchildren would mock us or yell at us in defense of their mother.
I have serious reservations about elementary education in the United States. Teachers don’t force their pupils to work as hard as they can. Matt had learned both multiplication and division in the third grade, but two months ago I asked him to calculate how much seventy-four percent of $1,586 was, and he had no clue how to do it. I handed him a calculator and said, “Use this.” Even so, he didn’t know he could just multiply the amount by 0.74.
“Didn’t you learn multiplication and division?” I asked him.
“I did, but that was last year.”
“Still, you should know how to do it.”
“We haven’t practiced division and multiplication this year, so I’m not familiar with them anymore.” He offered that as an excuse. There was no way I could make him understand that once you learned something, you were supposed to master it and make it part of yourself. That’s why we say knowledge is wealth. You can get richer and richer by accumulating it within.
The teachers here don’t assign the pupils any real homework. Instead they give them a lot of projects, some of which seem no more than woolgathering, and tend to inflate the kids’ egos. My son had to help his children with the projects, which were more like homework for the parents. Some of the topics were impossible even for adults to tackle, such as “What is culture and how is it created?” “Mak
e your argument for or against the Iraq War,” “How does the color line divide U.S. society?” and “Do you think global trade is necessary? Why?” My son had to do research online and in the public library to get the information needed for discussing those topics. Admittedly, they could broaden the pupils’ minds and give them more confidence, but at their tender age they are not supposed to think like a politician or a scholar. They should be made to follow rules; that is, to become responsible citizens first.
Whenever I asked Flora how she was ranked in her class, she’d shrug and say, “I dunno.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” I suspected she must be well below the average, though she couldn’t be lower than her brother.
“Ms. Gillen doesn’t rank us is all,” came her answer.
If that was true, I was even more disappointed with the schools. How could they make their students competitive in this global economy if they didn’t instill in them the sense of getting ahead of others and becoming the very best? No wonder many Asian parents viewed the public schools in Flushing unfavorably. In my honest opinion, elementary education here tends to lead children astray.
Five weeks ago, Matt declared at dinner that he must change his last name, because a substitute teacher that morning had mispronounced “Xi” as “Eleven.” That put the whole class in stitches, and some students even made fun of the boy afterward, calling him “Matt Eleven.” Flora chimed in, “Yeah, I want a different last name too. My friend Reta just had her family name changed to Wu. Some people couldn’t pronounce ‘Ng’ and called her ‘Reta No Good.’”
Their parents broke out laughing, but I couldn’t see why that was funny. My wife said to the girl, “You’ll have your husband’s last name when you grow up and get married.”
“I don’t want no man!” the girl shot back.
“We both must have a new last name,” the boy insisted.
I burst out, “You can’t do that. Your last name belongs to the family, and you can’t cut yourselves off from your ancestors.”
