Good Chinese Wife

by Susan Blumberg-Kason

  “We’ll get a car soon and none of this will matter. You’ve been waiting for the chance to learn to drive and own a car. Why don’t we look for a car first thing tomorrow?” My grandmother had generously promised to buy us a car, and Cai had seemed excited by the prospect of owning a new automobile, his own car, in America.

  He remained silent.

  “And once you get a job,” I said, trying to remain calm, “you’ll feel better about being here. I know there’s a great job just waiting for you.” I smiled when he looked at me, his eyes still red and puffy. Even though I tried to paint a bright picture, I knew, as I had back in New York when Cai perused the classifieds in the Chinese newspaper, that he wouldn’t find a decent job overnight. It would take time and patience and networking with other academics or musicians.

  Cai didn’t speak until after the train arrived. I needed for him to adjust to San Francisco soon. With no health insurance and no jobs, I didn’t want the added stress of Cai talking about leaving this all behind to move back to China. It reminded me of when my older brother, Danny, first left home and started running away from his school. My parents argued about him so much that I thought it might break our family apart. I craved stability at home and knew how to keep the peace. Just like back then, I silently vowed to do everything in my power to ensure Cai’s happiness in the United States. I hoped he’d feel more confident once we bought a car and figured out our way around the Bay Area.

  • • •

  As efficient as we were in buying furniture for our house, finding a car and a job for Cai was surprisingly (and thankfully) even easier. We entered the Honda dealership on Van Ness Avenue on our second morning in San Francisco and drove out with a new four-door, metallic green 1998 Civic that afternoon. To celebrate, we made our way to a Chinese restaurant in the Richmond district for an early dinner. Cai picked up a free Chinese paper in the entryway and carefully read the job ads while we waited for our food.

  “I can do this job.” He sounded as upbeat as he had when we’d purchased the car a few hours earlier.

  “What’s it for?”

  He read the brief job description for a city reporter in the Chinese-language World Journal, the same newspaper he’d read in New York on our first visit to the United States. The person in this position would cover events in city government, new initiatives in social services, and happenings in the Chinese community. The salary amounted to $20,000, and the benefits included health insurance, a 401(k) retirement plan, and paid vacation days. Although the salary was low, it sounded like the perfect introductory job for Cai.

  That night we decided to stroll around our new housing development. Outside, we met the woman who lived just east of us. She spoke Cantonese-accented Mandarin and introduced herself as Mrs. Chang. Like most people in our development, Mrs. Chang and her family had moved from Chinatown. She, her husband, and their daughter, Tiffany, shared the house with Mr. Chang’s parents. Originally from Guangdong province, the Changs had lived in the United States for more than ten years.

  “When are you due?” she asked me in almost perfect English.

  “Early July.” I patted my ever-expanding belly.

  “Where are you going to deliver?”

  “Probably San Francisco General. But if I find a job before then and get insurance, I might go to another hospital.”

  “My daughter, Tiffany, was born at General. We were very happy there.”

  I smiled. “That’s so good to know.”

  “Enjoy your walk.” She smiled kindly. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  The following week, I drove Cai to the newspaper’s office south of the city. I offered to wait in the car while he sat for his interview because I thought it would be good for Cai’s self-assurance if he handled it on his own. I also was confident that the manager would be drawn to Cai’s outgoing personality and academic background. There was no reason for him not to receive an offer, but if he didn’t, I feared he would grow even more cynical than he had in the subway station. Since then, his spirits had been higher, but that outburst on the platform had come from out of the blue so it could happen again without warning.

  Half an hour later, Cai appeared back in the parking lot with a grin that advertised his success well before he reached me. I screeched when Cai finally got to the car and told me the good news.

  “Did you ever think we would move to San Francisco, buy new furniture and a new car, and you would find a job all in a week?” I asked ecstatically. “And now we’ll have health insurance.”

  He looked away. “That doesn’t start until I’ve worked here six months.”

  “We’ll have had the baby by then.” I paused. “It’s okay. I’ll call the hospital to see about paying out of pocket. Something will work out. I’ll look for a job, too.” Near the end of my fifth month of pregnancy, I still held out hope of finding a job in the next month while I could hide my bulge.

  Cai didn’t reply. Coming from a country where the government provided everything—health care, education, housing, and retirement pensions—the concept of health insurance was foreign to him. He’d never received medical care in the United States and didn’t fully comprehend the many expenditures, insurance or no insurance. I couldn’t let Cai turn down the job and keep looking just because he wouldn’t be eligible for health insurance until the end of the summer, especially when it was something he seemed eager to pursue. I hadn’t bothered to ask him about promotion opportunities, and I suspected he didn’t mention them during the interview.

  I viewed this job as a way for Cai to integrate into San Francisco and into the Chinese community. Maybe he’d make a successful career out of it, or maybe it would provide him with the right connections to people involved with Chinese music. I would be the one to apply for any job that provided health insurance.

  “My first assignment is tomorrow.” Cai looked at me with anticipation. “Can you go with me? I’m afraid my English isn’t good enough.”

  “No problem. Do you have the address?”

  He showed me a piece of paper with the time and location of a lunch event at a new recycling plant. “I have to return to the office afterward and type the article on their computer. They said they’ll give me a digital camera tomorrow night to use in the future.”

  For the first time since we had arrived in San Francisco, Cai sounded enthusiastic. For now, I was happy to drive him to his assignments and interpret if he didn’t understand the English speakers. I could also take him to the newspaper building after his interviews so he could type and submit his articles. But as soon as I started interviewing and, with any hope, found my own job, Cai would have to work on his own. That meant he would need to learn to drive and to improve his English.

  We enjoyed the recycling luncheon and attended a press conference the following day at a Chinatown community center. On both occasions, I drove Cai to the newspaper office around three in the afternoon and returned when he phoned me after filing his articles.

  When he hadn’t called me by eight on his first night, I dialed the newspaper’s main number. Cai answered.

  “Cai? Is everything okay?”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called.” His voice sounded depleted of energy. “I’m still typing. The software is a little difficult. I’ll call you when I’m finished.”

  Of course. I should have realized Cai wasn’t proficient with computers. He’d written his dissertation by hand, as well as his books and articles. Either the universities or the publishers typeset his writing, but he himself never typed his work. I closed my eyes in the hope that he wouldn’t let this latest frustration dampen his feelings about the job and living in America.

  • • •

  Sitting at our kitchen table one weekend, I skimmed the newspaper before concentrating on the job ads. In the arts and entertainment section, a blurb leaped out at me. Concert, Chinatown, traditional Chinese instruments, Saturd
ay. I read the paragraph a couple of times, digesting each sentence. It sounded perfect for Cai, encompassing his interests and background in Chinese music. I brought the paper to Cai, who was in the living room watching the Chinese news on our new wide-screen television.

  Cai slowly read the English blurb and then shrugged, as if he didn’t understand why I’d bother him. During the month he’d been working at the World Journal, his spirits hadn’t improved, even after he’d received his driver’s license. To me, this concert was just what he needed: meeting other Chinese musicians, perhaps even learning about jobs in the Chinese music community and, at the very least, attending something familiar. Going to this concert had to beat pouting at home.

  Every night before Cai returned from the newspaper office, I lay in bed, unable to sleep until he pulled into the garage. And every night when I asked about work, he replied the same way—he didn’t know how long he could continue to work at the paper. Cai was burning out.

  “What about asking your boss if you could cover this concert for the paper? You could write an article about it. Then on the side you can ask these musicians about jobs.”

  “That’s a good idea.” His eyes sparkled with a ray of hope. “I’ll ask my boss tomorrow.”

  The following Saturday, Cai drove us to Chinatown and parked in the garage opposite the Holiday Inn. We entered the Chinese Culture Center in the hotel’s basement and found the small concert room. The conductor, a middle-aged Chinese woman, stood in front of a dozen musicians, wearing a simple, red, long-sleeved qípáo.

  Some of the music seemed familiar from CDs Cai had played in our Hong Kong dorm room. I even thought back to our early days together, when we practiced reading his Taoist music paper aloud. I recognized the two-string erhu, the table harp guzheng, and the round guitarlike pipa. After ten minutes, I saw that Cai’s eyes were closed and his hands were swaying slightly in front of himself, as though he were conducting the concert. We had found the right people for Cai to meet.

  At the end of the concert, I led Cai toward the conductor, but he didn’t speak. I figured he was just shy, so I introduced him, stressing his background at the Wuhan Conservatory of Music and, more recently, the Chinese University of Hong Kong. The conductor’s eyes lit up at the mention of Wuhan.

  “I studied at the Central Conservatory.” From my observations, Chinese conservatory alums seemed to have an affinity with one another, regardless of where they studied. “I’m Wang Yuhan.”

  I stood back as Cai and Yuhan spoke in Mandarin like they were old friends. I felt a thrill that I hadn’t experienced since we had arrived in San Francisco. Meeting Yuhan was even more momentous than purchasing furniture for our house in one day or buying a car. When Yuhan mentioned she needed a male emcee for a Chinese concert at the stately Herbst Theatre, I almost accepted before Cai did.

  On our way home, Cai and I rehashed his conversation with Yuhan. A few hours later, I drove him to the newspaper office so he could type his article and upload a few photos. Before he left the car, I touched his sleeve. “If you want to quit your job, maybe now is the time. You can focus on getting into the Chinese music community. Yuhan seems like a great contact.” Although I didn’t say it, I also thought she was the ticket to his happiness in the United States.

  “How will we pay our mortgage? How will we eat?”

  “I’ve been getting interviews and should find something soon.” Even if it took me a few more weeks to find a job, we had savings to pay the bills for several more months. And if worse came to worst, I could look for a job after the baby was born. My parents could probably lend us some money for a couple of months. I was willing to do anything so Cai would feel settled in San Francisco. For the next three days, Cai spoke on the phone with Yuhan before he left for work each afternoon.

  “I can’t live this way,” he said on the fourth night around 1:00 a.m. “It’s not good for the family.”

  “Cai, you don’t have to justify it. If you kept your newspaper job, how would you be able to handle more work in the music community? I really think this concert with Yuhan could lead to more contacts.”

  He smiled softly. “Thank you for your support. I’ll quit the paper tomorrow.”

  Cai could finally do something in his field. And he wouldn’t come home every night from the newspaper office past midnight. Of course, I didn’t know that midnight would soon seem quite early for his nightly returns.

  Chapter 29

  At Home in America

  The Silver Avenue Family Health Center stood at the end of the San Bruno business district near our house. The clinic was housed in a shabby cement box of a building that would have fit perfectly in the middle of China. I started receiving prenatal care at this outpost of the San Francisco Department of Public Health soon after we moved to California.

  I arrived at the clinic for my monthly checkup and sat on a tattered floral sofa until a nurse’s aide led me past the waiting room doors to an open corridor where she took my blood pressure and weight. She marked these down in my chart and led me to a private room. Several minutes later, a registered nurse knocked on the door. I would see this nurse and others like her for all my appointments until I went into labor.

  “When the time comes for you to deliver,” the nurse said, “you’ll go to San Francisco General and will be attended by residents at UCSF. I suggest you and your husband take a tour and a class at the hospital. They’re held every month.”

  Without jobs, neither Cai nor I had health insurance. My mother had made some phone calls before we left Hong Kong to see about purchasing insurance in California. But because I was pregnant, I had a preexisting condition that even private insurance policies would not cover. I felt lucky that the San Francisco Department of Public Health would allow me to receive prenatal care. They charged according to each patient’s salary. Since I had no salary, I didn’t have to pay. I still held out hope that I would find a job that provided immediate health-care insurance before I was due to deliver in early July.

  At my April appointment, I finished with the registered nurse and moved on to a cubicle where I met with a lactation consultant and a social worker. These services were included in my free health care. When the Silver Avenue social worker reviewed the financial documents I had brought as requested on my first visit, she announced I could receive WIC, the social program to provide food and nutrition education to low-income women, infants, and children.

  I looked at her askance. “But we own a house and a car, and our bank account isn’t exactly—”

  “Your assets don’t matter. You and your husband don’t have an income, so you qualify.”

  I wasn’t ashamed to receive free health care, and now public assistance in the form of free food coupons, but I felt unworthy of it because we possessed all those assets. Shouldn’t someone in more need use the coupons?

  When I arrived home, Cai had other ideas. “You should take it,” he said. “We got free food in China all the time when I was young. It’s a waste if you don’t use it.”

  “I guess you’re right. The coupons are already written out to me.”

  Later that week, I phoned San Francisco General to sign up for a one-day prenatal class at the hospital that Saturday. We joined a dozen other couples, visiting the labor and delivery areas and meeting with a prenatal nurse who showed a frighteningly graphic video of several women giving birth. I had to turn my head at one point and noticed Cai doing the same. The nurse also talked to us about breast-feeding and cloth versus paper diapers. At the end of the class, she passed out vouchers for a ten-dollar infant car seat we could pick up in a storeroom down the hall.

  Since Cai and I had spent the day talking about childbirth, when we returned home that afternoon I mustered up the courage to ask Cai about a bris for our baby boy. Even though my family wasn’t observant, we adhered to basic Jewish traditions, including circumcising baby boys in a brit milah ceremony. Most
males in China weren’t circumcised, so this custom was new to Cai both as a medical procedure and as a religious custom. I was certain he would reject my idea right away.

  “In the Jewish tradition, baby boys have a circumcision ceremony.” Careful not to preach, I explained the tradition and why Jewish people subscribe to it.

  “Do you want that for our baby?” he asked genially.

  “It would make my dad very happy.”

  “That’s fine with me. I respect old traditions. If only people in China cared about traditional Chinese culture—”

  As Cai delved into the moral decline of the mainland Chinese, I happily wondered why I had ever hesitated to broach this subject with him.

  • • •

  Later that month, I found a job ad in the newspaper for an editorial assistant in the UCSF development office. The position requirements included a few years of copyediting and experience working at a university. I figured the benefits at UCSF, a state university, would be fairly comprehensive.

  “It only pays $30,000?” Cai asked when I returned home.

  “Yes, but the benefits are good. We could get health insurance right away.”

  “I know, but $30,000 isn’t much.”

  It’s a lot more than you were making at the newspaper, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t pick a fight with Cai. He was still going through an adjustment period and I wanted to remain sensitive to that. It couldn’t be easy for Cai, and every time I pictured the tables turned, I felt thankful we weren’t living in China. I would do my best to help Cai acclimate to the United States, even if it meant holding my tongue. So I said, “I’ll get my foot in the door and then look for a better job in a year.”