by Lindsay Wong
Sleep-deprived and on autopilot, I had to dart around multiple hugging families shouting enthusiastically in Chinese. I maneuvered elbows, flailing arms, and Louis Vuitton bags just to swing my bulky suitcase off the rotating carousels.
“Excuse me!” I hollered, but no one seemed to hear me. I felt a little bit sad and pathetic. Just like the mismatched, orphaned shoe at a Nine West outlet. I always wondered what happened to those shoes. Do they get thrown out or sent back to the manufacturer?
I actually don’t even know where I’m supposed to go. Everyone is running toward someone or something. In fact, I notice that airplane passengers are running up to signs. But I don’t see one with my name on it. But then I also don’t read Chinese. Would my uncle make a sign for me? My dad also didn’t say if my uncle would bring my aunt and cousin with him. I feel quite left out. I just want to race up to an eager, smiling person holding up my name. I want to be claimed, like overseas luggage.
What I want is to feel normal, but also special at the same time, which is what my mom always says is “Iris’s biggest life problem.” My dad insists it’s my flower-heart and shitty Tiger curse. But I honestly don’t see it as a problem that my inner life goals do not align with theirs. Mine seem to be flexible. Mainly driven by my peers and advertisements on social media, while theirs are about being hardworking with the purpose of affording super-nice cars and vacations. I like all these things, but the difference between me and my parents is that they seem to find school and hard work ridiculously easy. Their brains never seem to malfunction. Their wet-eyed disappointment hurts because they think that I’m a four-star restaurant in Manhattan, when I’m really just a box of Kraft dinner.
I really don’t know how to be better than I already am.
With a sudden pang, I realize that I should be here with my parents. Even if they aren’t my real ones, they should be visiting Beijing with me. The fact that I’m alone in a strange country terrifies and paralyzes me.
I can’t help but take being sent to China personally.
Before I left, we tried to talk about my dad’s decision. In our family, usually Mom makes everyone’s executive life choices, but Dad kept insisting on the trip and booked my one-way plane ticket. He has never seemed so certain of anything. Each time I tried to nervously bring up failing high school, everyone just started trying not to cry-yell and talking hysterically about what was for dinner (Panda Express).
Needless to say, the whole not-talking about my impending banishment was a Level 10 national disaster.
Eventually, I realize that I’ve been wandering around the International Arrivals section in Terminal 3 for a while. My arms ache from pulling my rolling luggage, and my sneakers are squeezing the sides of my feet. I just want to lie on the ground and possibly sleep.
My dad assured me that my uncle would pick me up at the airport, but I realize that I don’t even know what my uncle looks like. Am I supposed to look for a younger version of my dad? Am I supposed to stand on the escalator and scream my Chinese name over and over again? (The only Chinese words I know.)
To be honest, I am not even sure I know how to properly pronounce my Chinese name. It was just something that I never asked my dad.
I try to turn on my iPhone to text my dad to ask him how to find my uncle and how to say my name again in Chinese, but it still isn’t working. Disgusting toilet. I read somewhere that you’re supposed to resuscitate a wet phone by soaking it in a tub of short-grain rice or baking it in the oven like a ginormous brownie. I’m not sure what the proper advice is. I don’t know where I’m supposed to find a giant sack of rice at the airport.
Finally, I lug my suitcase up an elevator and then perch near a faux-gold-topped temple with potted ferns and silk lamps. I’m so relieved when I spot a Starbucks, I practically start sob-crying with relief. I really need another cup of black coffee and maybe a tasty piece of frosted lemon cake to make me feel better after a long, horrible flight.
But that’s when I see it. Near the Starbucks, there is a mobile phone booth. They can probably fix my phone! Aren’t Apple products made in China? My iPhone and I were originally manufactured in China, and it’s like now we’re coming home. With renewed determination, I grab my suitcase and head over, elbow-jostling through a crowd of a senior-citizen tour group.
The young pimply dude at the counter greets me in Chinese: “Zǎo shang hǎo!”
“Hello,” I say politely. “I dropped my phone in the … sink … and I’m wondering if you can fix it.”
“Chinese?” he asks, looking very surprised.
“No, um, English only.”
“Why?” he asks.
I don’t know. That’s actually a good question. I never needed to learn Chinese in New Jersey. Practically everyone speaks perfect English.
“I’m American,” I say.
“Chinese,” he says, sounding confused.
“I’m from the United States,” I say again.
“No, you Chinese.” He points to my face, then back at his facial features. We look nothing alike!
“I’m Chinese American,” I say to the cashier.
“Chinese!” he insists, looking puzzled. “Why you not speak? What is your problem?”
“No problem,” I say, suddenly exhausted. “Can you please just fix my phone?”
He’s extremely confused about my ethnicity, but at least he tinkers with the ON button, and tries to plug it into his laptop. He presses another button and fiddles with more wires.
The screen remains dark.
Shit.
“No fix,” he declares, shaking his head.
Oh god, I can’t afford a brand-new iPhone. That’s a mega expense that I didn’t predict. It’s almost the same price as a round-trip ticket to Paris or Beijing. And I don’t think my parents will want to buy me another one, especially since I’ve wrecked the garage and their most expensive car.
“New cell phone,” he suggests, pointing at the rows of assorted boxes behind me. Never mind that I know nothing about cellular devices that aren’t smartphones. I feel lost without Siri.
“I’ll take one!” I finally say, desperate to have access to technology and Google Maps. But then I realize I don’t actually know my uncle’s phone number.
“How much is an all-inclusive long-distance plan?” I ask.
“Seven hundred eighty-eight yuan,” he says. I hand him my American Express card and then, to my dismay, it’s declined.
“Try again,” I beg, wondering why it isn’t working, and then I remember that I still haven’t paid the exorbitant bill, which is collecting interest. I fish around in my purse for Chinese money, and finally locate the envelope that my dad handed me from the bank. I sort through the various colored bank notes, but then I realize I also don’t know my parents’ phone numbers. I’ve always just relied on my contact list. I do know the area code of New Jersey, thankfully, but what are the four or eight numbers that come after that?
The only number I’ve memorized is Samira’s, but I’m not going to call her.
“You want phone?” the cashier says, watching me. He looks slightly uncomfortable. Distress seems to be radiating all over my features like I’m a giant Wi-Fi signal, and he’s picking up on it.
I don’t know which phone I want. I don’t know which long-distance plan. I don’t even know which number to call.
What would happen if I dialed 911 long-distance from the airport?
Just as I’m about to wail in frustration, someone taps me on the shoulder. I whirl around, expecting to have to argue with another impatient customer telling me to hurry up. But it’s an extremely tall man in an elaborate black-and-gold-striped driver’s uniform. He’s wearing a matching chauffeur cap like he’s from an old-fashioned movie. He’s also holding up a phone with what appears to be my photo.
Is this a prank on a reality television show?
Otherwise, why would a man dressed in what looks like a Disney World costume from Main Street, USA, of all places, want to talk to me
? Why would he even have my photo?
Of course I recognize myself instantly. I’m hugging my mom outside Six Flags Great Adventure and we’re laughing hysterically because my dad was too scared to go on the seven-story-high Cyborg thrill ride. He turned leprechaun-green and forced my mom to ride with me. In the photo, it’s windy and my hair, like a napkin, is stuck to my lip gloss. My mom looks genuinely happy, and for once, she’s not worried about me, my dad, or her work. A stab of overwhelming sadness hits me like nausea from binge-smoking weed and devouring nachos. I suddenly miss her.
I miss both of my parents.
I don’t know the time difference, but right now, my mom is probably running to work, thermos in hand, looking slightly flustered. And my dad would still be sleeping with his white noise machine set to Rushing Water, which honestly reminds me of a nonstop flushing toilet. Peter would be honking the horn to let me know that he had the engine running in the driveway. And instead of driving to school, we’d go for a long drive/smoke, missing first and second period.
I seriously regret Peter. But mostly, I regret being the kid that my parents were so horrified by, and so utterly disappointed in, that they had to ship me, like an overnight parcel, in economy class to a foreign country.
How do I make my parents forgive me for such a colossal mistake?
How do I make myself forgive them for sending me to a non-English-speaking country?
Most of all, how do I even forgive myself when all I feel is a gigantic Jolly Rancher of shame and resentment stuck in my throat? Honestly, why can’t three-way forgiveness be as easy as picking a set meal from a Japanese restaurant menu? I never have any trouble choosing Bento Box B with one brown rice California roll, a side of crunchy edamame beans, and sixteen pieces of fresh salmon sashimi.
Blinking, I force myself back into reality.
The man in the driver’s outfit proceeds to show me more photos of me as a child. I nod eagerly. I’m actually supercute. In one of them, I’m dressed as a black-and-orange tiger for Halloween, posing with my dad, who is dressed as a Super Mario Brother. There are more Christmas, cruise, and beach vacation photos. I’m being shown an Oscar-worthy photo montage of my life!
“Uncle?” I ask excitedly. I did not know my uncle was a professional driver. I wonder if he owns his own limo company or if he is responsible for regularly dispatching a fleet of luxury cars. I wonder if he’ll chauffeur me around Beijing first-class, or better yet, if he’ll let me drive my own convertible.
Imagine speeding down the exotic countryside of China with my own luxury sports car.
Then I realize that I don’t actually know my uncle’s name, and due to the frantic packing for this trip, my father forgot to tell me. My dad and I have just been calling him “Uncle.” Of course, I never bothered to ask.
“Thank you for picking me up, Uncle!” I babble.
Enthusiastically I attempt to hug him, but he steps sideways. I try to hug him again, but this time, he literally long-jumps backward. My uncle looks like he’s been electroshocked. Confused, I stare up at him. I decide to try one more time. Family is always worth trying to overcome social awkwardness. After all, like no-fee checking accounts and Visa cards, aren’t they supposed to forgive you?
But the man in the fancy costume shakes his head and says something long and explanatory in Chinese. He bows twice. Am I supposed to bow back? He continues talking. It’s like I’m watching Star Wars without any of the subtitles. My dad loves the franchise and makes my mom and me watch it with him, even though I don’t understand what’s going on. When I fail to respond in a familiar but foreign language that I don’t know how to speak, the man impatiently tries again.
I glance at the cashier, who asks the man a question in Star Wars–like Chinese. They speak for a long time, gesturing at the photos.
“He pick you up,” the cashier translates, looking suddenly impressed. “You are Wang Weijun?”
“Yes!” I say, instant relief bubbling inside me, as if I’ve just taken a swig of Pepto-Bismol to combat nausea. “That’s my Chinese name! I’m Wang Weijun. Uncle, I’m your niece. My name is Iris Wang. I’m from America.”
I can’t stop babbling because I’m so relieved.
I’m finally saved. I won’t have to stay in the airport until my parents discover that I’m missing and call the US Embassy and the Chinese police, which could take ages. It could literally be a week before anyone finds me in this messy, swarming crowd. By that time, I could be extinct. That’s probably what happened to the dinosaurs. First, a broken promise by a beloved family member, and then they were kept waiting.
All I can think about right now is changing out of my day-old airplane clothes and relaxing with Netflix and a Diet Coke and a humongous bag of salt-and-vinegar chips.
“He say your uncle gave him picture,” the cashier continues. “He drive you to meet him.”
“That’s great!” I exclaim. Then I add, a teensy bit embarrassed, “Can you please ask him what my uncle’s name is, and where he’ll be taking me?”
12
Ruby
The chauffeur ushers me into the back of a gorgeous black Porsche with tinted windows. Soon we’re creeping at turtle speed through a winding highway and then we are somehow in the fast, pulsing circle that is Beijing. There’s so much thick smog, concrete, and traffic. It’s like sneaking into a two-star nightclub in New Jersey. You can’t even see the person who wants to make out with you. Instantly my sinuses clog up. I cough ten times. I was expecting a modern and ultra-high-tech city like Paris or New York City.
Never mind what I expected.
Because through the fancy car, it’s like watching a commercial for humidifiers on high-definition TV!
I’m sure that everything would look different if I were watching the city through the back of my parents’ boring Volkswagen.
I just knew that all my positive thinking would pay off! The universe is rewarding me for all my good deeds. For instance, I even found a clear bottle of extra-strong liquor in the back of the car, and I have been helping myself.
This is the first day of my brand-new life. Uncle Dai is the name of my dad’s half brother, and this man, Mr. Chen, is supposed to take me to my uncle. That’s all I got from the cell phone clerk, who looked disappointed when I ended up not buying anything. I felt kind of bad for him and gave him a wad of yuan. He looked so shocked that I think I might have accidentally given him a lot of money. I’m not entirely sure how many yuan is worth a dollar, even though my mom explained it. I’m supposed to multiply or divide everything into American dollar signs, except I forgot what the equation is.
What I love about traveling to foreign countries is that the fun, colorful money and coins don’t feel real. It’s like playing an interactive game of Monopoly. When you go shopping, it’s not like you are actually spending real money. In fact, foreign money is the opposite of American money. You see, American dollars are all one color and incredibly no-nonsense-looking, which discourages you from doing any serious spending at all. That’s why I only ever use my American Express card, which is made out of shiny red plastic. Money should look friendly and fun, otherwise there could be serious repercussions for the economy.
My uncle Dai must be excessively generous with his company car. My parents are comfortable suburbanites, but they’d never send a chauffeur to pick me up at the airport. If they couldn’t make it, they’d just tell me to hop on public transit.
Eventually, we stop in front of a hotel. Not just any hotel, but the Shangri-La. I gasp involuntarily. It’s the same chain, almost exactly like the one from my Paris trip planning! The Shangri-La is a four-star hotel with luxury suites and several penthouses for rent. The only reason that I know all this is I actually spent a ton of time imagining what it would be like to spend a romantic vacation in one of their deluxe honeymoon rooms.
Why would my uncle want to meet me here?
Maybe Mr. Chen needs to pick up another passenger? This is possibly an elite ride-share, which
actually makes sense. But as I wait for another passenger to climb in, Mr. Chen opens the back door. It turns out we’re actually stopping in front of the Shangri-La. Maybe Mr. Chen needs to use the bathroom? But he takes my luggage, and I’m ushered inside the lobby and greeted enthusiastically by many hotel staff, and then someone else efficiently wheels my bag into the elevator.
Everyone is looking very excited to see me. As if I’m a famous celebrity or well-loved toy poodle. I can’t actually tell what category they think I belong to.
What is going on?!!! Why aren’t we stopping at a conference floor? Does my uncle work in hospitality?
A horrible thought passes through my mind. Is this a case of actual mistaken identity? I just know it is when I’m led into a penthouse on the sixty-sixth floor.
I inhale.
I blink.
The suite is immaculate, with beige lacelike wallpaper and gold leafy embroidery everywhere. It’s like I’ve wandered into the living room of Versailles or a Disney movie. Imagine a crash pad of a medium-deal celebrity or a really old person who has spent their entire life aspiring to be French royalty.
Impressed, I can’t help but let out a tiny squeal when I see the focal point of the room is a ginormous Beauty and the Beast chandelier. It’s made of millions of sweeping pink and white Swarovski-looking crystals, like cherry blossoms on an origami glass tree. The chandelier is literally the size of my parents’ wrecked Mercedes-Benz.
I suddenly understand what my AP English Literature teacher meant by symbolism. The chandelier is hanging above me, just like a shimmery metaphor of my life, practically within arm’s reach!
There’s even a spiraling glass staircase that reminds me of a sculpture of Cinderella’s shoe, which leads outside to a rooftop terrace. I feel like I’m inside a movie. I race up the stairs, almost slipping, and push open the balcony doors. The sun in Beijing is bright and light and the sky is glittery with dense fog. I cough and sneeze for at least six minutes. My allergies are flaring up.
