by Jean Kwok
My specialty in the finishing process was the bagging. This was the most physically demanding job, but I learned to do it fast. There was a tall black metal rack with an enormous roll of plastic garment bags at the top. You took a garment from the right side, hung it on the hook on the rack, then opened the plastic bag and fit it over the item. Then you had to separate the bag from the previous ones in the roll and, finally, lift the entire garment up over the rack and hook, and hang the garment on the rack to the left. It was important to be careful not to rip the bag or you would have to start all over again.
The finishing process started when we got the garments and ended after they were bagged; it included hanging, sorting, belting, tying sashes, buttoning, tagging and bagging each item. For all of this work, we were paid one and a half cents per skirt, two cents per pair of pants with a belt, and one cent for an upper garment. I was still too short for the rack so I had to stand on a chair. I timed myself with the large factory clock that hung on the opposite wall. It took Ma about thirty seconds to bag a piece, which worked out to bagging about 120 pieces an hour. It was easy to figure out that Ma was making much less than two dollars an hour.
This was no way to survive. At first, when I was doing it the slow way, separating each bag with two hands and carefully fitting it over the garments, it took me twenty seconds to bag a piece. Then I tried different tactics to refine my methods.
I figured out that the fastest way was to grab the next bag in the roll with my hand, which was moist with sweat and thus sticky, give the bag a slight twist so that the bottom dropped open and then, as I pulled it down and over the hanging garment, to strike the serration line with my other hand so that the bag separated from the others in the roll as it fell. Before the plastic had fully dropped to cover the entire garment, I was lifting it up by the hanger to get it off and onto the rack on my left. Then I grabbed another one with my right hand.
Pants took slightly longer because most of them were belted, which made them unbalanced on the hanger, and if you didn’t grab them with both hands as you lifted them, they would slip off. I developed hard muscles in my arms from all of the lifting.
By the end of that summer, when I’d hit my rhythm, I could get almost five hundred skirts bagged in an hour, about seven seconds per skirt. Later, when I was older and stronger, I would reach a top speed of a bit less than five seconds per skirt, doing more than seven hundred in an hour.
Despite my dislike of Aunt Paula, I worked harder and faster whenever she passed by to show her that we were industrious people, valuable workers and loyal to the factory. I still hoped that maybe we would be rewarded for our good behavior.
Once, Matt was hanging around the finishing station, helping us tag some skirts in his free time. On the days a shipment went out, we finished in the order we were placed in the garment procedure. Since he helped his ma with thread-cutting, a much earlier part of the process, his part of the work for the final shipment had been done earlier in the day. As the finishers, Ma and I were always last. Matt could leave but sometimes he stayed to hang around me.
Ma gave him a smile. She had to speak loudly to be heard over the noise the steamers made. “You’re growing up, Matt. I never realized what fine human material you were made of.” She was saying that he was handsome.
Matt grinned and flexed his muscles. “It’s all that thread-cutting, Mrs. Chang. Makes a guy strong.”
I was a few feet away, bagging as usual, but I couldn’t help sneaking a glance at his shoulders. He was still skinny but the white undershirt he wore revealed the broad frame of a young man’s body. Matt glanced at me, as if to see if I had heard Ma’s compliment, and caught me looking at him.
He struck a pose, with one arm raised and the other on his hip. “How do I look?”
I giggled. “Like the Liberty Goddess!”
He pretended to be insulted. “What would you know about that? You probably don’t remember what she looks like.”
I sobered up, remembering all my old dreams of New York. I’d thought we’d be living in Times Square, known in Cantonese as the Tay Um See Arena, and what I’d gotten was the slums of Brooklyn. “No, actually, I’ve never seen it.”
“You must be talking the big words.” He meant I had to be lying.
“I’m serious.”
“You mean, you haven’t seen Min-hat-ton?” He pronounced “Manhattan” the Cantonese way.
“Only Chinatown.”
“Hey, I’ll take you out on Sunday. You can’t live in New York and not see the real Liberty Goddess.”
I could feel my lips form a small, delighted “O” but I didn’t know how Ma would react. She had her back to us, working and pretending not to be listening.
“Mrs. Chang?” Matt said. “How about I act as your tour guide on Sunday?”
I felt a rush of disappointment even as I recognized his cleverness. Ma would be much less likely to say no if she’d been invited too.
Ma turned around with a teasing smile on her face. “Now, I wouldn’t want to be a lightbulb.”
“Ma!” I was glad I was already flushed from the heat, or I would have turned bright red. Her joke, that she would be there as a chaperone—stopping the lovers from kissing because of her presence, like a lightbulb in a darkened room—made public my private hope: that Matt’s invitation might actually be a date.
Matt shook his head like a dog, hiding his embarrassment, but he managed to look flirtatious at the same time. “No, no. You look so young, everyone would think you were only coming along to shell peanuts.” It was a good line. He meant the younger brother or sister who is sometimes sent to accompany a couple to the movies, shelling peanuts and preventing them from making out.
Ma laughed. “You have such good mouth skills. All right, I’d like to—”
Suddenly, one of the men at the steamers started to scream. It was Mr. Pak. I didn’t know much about him except for his name. I didn’t think he had any other family working at the factory. He was surrounded by steam, so it was hard to see what had happened, but the other three men who worked on the steamers raced to his side. They were working to release the metal top of the steamer as Matt, Ma and I rushed up. Finally they got it open and Mr. Pak clutched his hand. He was still howling. I didn’t dare look at his hand directly.
I immediately knew what had happened. When the men at the steamers are under pressure, they need to work so quickly that they simply slam the top lid down hard enough that it latches closed by itself. Then they open the lid and switch garments at lightning speed. Matt had told me that if they weren’t fast enough when they slammed the lid again, their hands could get caught.
Aunt Paula and Uncle Bob had arrived, and they pushed their way to the front of the crowd that had formed.
“Why are you so clumsy?” Aunt Paula yelled. She grabbed Mr. Pak, who was sobbing and hunched over his hand, and she pulled him in the direction of the exit. Uncle Bob hurried after her, with his swinging limp. She called over her shoulder, “Nobody call a lifesaving-car! We’ll take him to the factory doctor! Everyone, get back to work, tonight the shipment goes out!”
As the crowd dispersed, I turned to Matt. “I didn’t know there was a factory doctor.”
His voice was low, shaking a bit from what he’d just seen. “He’s just a friend of Dog Flea Mama’s. Someone who won’t report the accident.”
I was trembling too. “You probably want to go home, Matt. Don’t worry about us.”
“No one’s at home anyway. My ma is getting the needle-rescue treatment for her pains.”
Later, I was working as fast as I could bagging skirts—I still had to finish them all before the shipment could go out—when I saw Aunt Paula had returned to our work area. She moved briskly, and I thought she seemed stressed by what had just happened.
“I was going to talk to the two of you about something anyway when that incident occurred. There’s been a change in the factory policy.” She didn’t bother to use her false smile. “Due to bad economi
c conditions, after this shipment goes out, the rate for skirts will have to drop to one cent a skirt.”
“What?” Ma said.
“Why?” I asked. And then I knew. Aunt Paula had seen me working fast. Too fast. We’d started earning more, and she’d calculated that we could receive less and still survive. And I’d imagined I was impressing her.
“Sorry, but that’s the way it is. Company policy. For all the finishers.”
We were the only finishers at the factory.
“That’s not fair,” I blurted. Ma, standing behind me, poked me under my shoulder blade.
Aunt Paula turned her attention to me. Her lipstick was smudged in one corner. “I wouldn’t want the two of you to be unhappy. You’re free to make your own choices if you feel uncomfortable. There’s no slavery in America anymore, is there?” And she started to walk away.
Ma, who never touched anyone casually, shoved past me, ran after Aunt Paula and grabbed her arm. “Older sister, I’m so sorry. She is such an outspoken child.”
“No, no,” Aunt Paula said. She sighed. “Those bamboo shoots, they’re like that. Don’t worry about it.”
“Bamboo shoot” was a term for a kid who’d been born and raised in America, meaning he or she was too westernized. I’m a bamboo knot, I wanted to say: born in Hong Kong but brought over here young. A bamboo knot blocks the hollowness of the bamboo shaft, yet the knot gives the bamboo its strength as well.
“Thank you,” Ma said. “Thank you.”
I suddenly heard Matt’s voice. I’d forgotten he was there. “You enjoy having bamboo shoots for your midnight snack, don’t you, Mrs. Yue?”
I stopped breathing, even my heart seemed to stop beating. What was he doing, what had I done by starting this whole fight?
Aunt Paula started to laugh and her laughter chilled me. “The older Wu brother is turning into quite a man, isn’t he? All right, if you’re so grown-up, you can take over the empty steamer spot tomorrow.”
“No!” I realized we had played right into what Aunt Paula needed. “You know Matt, he’s always joking—”
Matt interrupted me. “It’s okay. No problem, Mrs. Yue, I’ve been wanting to build up my muscles anyway.” And with a shrug, he set off slowly for the exit. “Bye, Mrs. Chang, Kimberly.”
Aunt Paula stared at his back and then stalked off in the direction of her office.
Once she was gone, Ma whirled on me. “Don’t interfere when adults are talking! Who will fill our mouths with food when we don’t have any work?”
“It is a free country, Ma. Why do we have to work for her?”
“Free country! Who do you think owns the other clothing factories? They’re all family or friends with each other. The whole Chinatown garment industry. And what is going to happen to Matt now?”
I looked down. The ragged edge in her voice had turned into frustration and despair. Like me, Matt was only fourteen, and who knew what would become of him when he worked on the enormous steaming press, which only grown men operated.
Ma’s voice became gentler. “Ah-Kim, I know you mean well. It’s just that everything in you gets spoken right out.” She meant I was too honest, and at that moment, I agreed with her.
The next day, I lingered by the steamers. The three men who worked them were constantly appearing and disappearing behind billows of steam. They laid garment after garment across the steamers with military precision and as the massive lids clamped down, scorching clouds were expelled in enormous gusts. When the lids were pulled open again, remnants of steam trailed behind like saliva between jaws. Even an accidental touch of the steamer surface resulted in a rush of blisters.
Matt was a small figure in between the muscled men. I saw he wasn’t as fast as the others yet, but he was working hard with his left foot on the vacuum and his right foot on the steam paddle. He lifted a skirt onto the surface of the steamer. He ducked his head away when a cloud of steam poured over him and was lost in the fog. The next thing I knew, he was coming up to me with his fist clenched.
I shrank back. I saw that his undershirt, all that he was wearing, was soaked, and droplets of sweat and steam rolled from his neck down onto his chest.
“Guess I got a big mouth,” he said.
“Me too.”
“Hey, someone has to find the rice, right?” To earn the money.
I felt so guilty, I couldn’t answer. It made it worse that he was being nice to me. “Can I help?”
“Maybe when you’re older. Work pays well and you get into shape too. You work here, you’ll become a stud like me.”
Normally I would have laughed and I tried to, but something in my body stopped me and it came out as a kind of a cough instead.
At that, he looked at me seriously. “I need this anyway. My ma can hardly earn a dime anymore. Her heart hurts, her lungs hurt. And Park can’t work. I’ll be okay.” He didn’t wait for an answer but changed the subject. “Hey, can you take this to her for me?”
I held out my hand and he poured something metal from his closed fist into it. It was a necklace made of gold, with a jade Kuan Yin hanging from it. This Kuan Yin was carved with a multitude of arms, each hand holding a different tool. People call her the goddess with an infinite number of arms to help all those in need.
I had noticed Matt wearing the necklace before, but thought nothing of it. It was common for parents to have their children wear gold and jade jewelry underneath their clothing to protect them from evil. They never take it off. Some families with barely enough money for food save until they can afford this kind of protection for their children.
I must have looked puzzled that Matt had just handed it to me, because he said, “Look.” He pulled open his T-shirt and I saw the red marks the necklace had burned onto his skin.
“It’s too hot for you to wear any metal so close to the machine,” I said flatly, the guilt flooding over me again.
“Duh. Hey, we’re going to the streets on Sunday, right?”
I couldn’t stop the huge smile from breaking across my face. “Really? You still want to?”
“Sure, have to get back to work so I don’t fall behind too much.” And he went back to his spot by the steamer.
The jade Kuan Yin glowed as green as tender leaves in spring and I could see how valuable that necklace had to be. I brought it immediately to Mrs. Wu, whose back was to me. She was scolding Park for something. He was half turned away from her and there was no way he could have read her lips. To my surprise, he responded by turning to her and clumsily patting her arm.
I looked at her face more closely and I saw that Matt was right, she didn’t look healthy. In addition to the large bags she always had under her eyes, both her skin and her lips were sallow, and the whites of her eyes seemed very yellow. That was when she saw me.
“You,” she said.
Terrified, I held out Matt’s necklace, but she only cast it a scornful look. “You going to be nice to my son?”
I didn’t dare speak. She clearly knew I was responsible for Matt’s being at the steamers.
“And to think I thought you were a boy,” she said. Her disgust made her Toisanese accent in Chinese even more pronounced. “He has a good heart.” She took the necklace from my hand. “Course, he would give this to you,” she muttered.
Suddenly, I heard Ma’s voice behind me. She must have come over when she saw us talking. “Mrs. Wu, I cannot face you. We are responsible.”
Mrs. Wu gazed at Ma, then the tension seemed to leave her. “We all have no choice. He’s a good boy. He’ll be all right.”
“Kimberly’s not a bad girl either.” Ma’s glance was warm. “They’re both so young and impulsive. We have to give them time.”
The two mothers looked at each other.
“Kids,” Mrs. Wu said.
I ran back to our workstation but their words flickered on the walls of my mind. Was Mrs. Wu implying that Matt could actually like me, perhaps just a little bit? I thrilled to the thought, but it was also strangely painful, l
ike an ache in my lungs.
Matt didn’t just take Ma and me to see the Liberty Goddess, he started by meeting us at Times Square, the Tay Um See Arena. We got out of the enormous subway station, drawn along by the sea of people, and I was relieved to see Matt at the Burger King on the corner, just where he’d said he would meet us. Standing by his side, Ma and I looked around. Finally, this was the New York I’d dreamed of. A long white limousine drove by, surrounded by dozens of yellow taxis. We strolled by movie theaters and restaurants, signs that said “Girls Girls Girls” and massive billboards advertising Broadway shows. I felt strangely at home. The crowded streets and bustling city reminded me of the fancy parts of Hong Kong, although the Tay Um See Arena was bigger and richer. The people on the street were dressed in every imaginable way, but some of the women were especially elegant, with high heels and suits with shoulder pads. Many people were white, but I saw an Indian man with a turban, some black people in traditional African dress, and a group of singing monks in melon-colored robes. Ma put her hands together and bowed to them. One monk paused in his chanting to bow back.
“Oh, look at that!” Ma said to me, pointing to an enormous musical instrument store. I shielded my eyes from the hot sun to see through the window: an expanse of grand pianos, cellos and violins. In the back were what appeared to be cases filled with musical scores.
“Let’s go in,” Matt said.
“Oh no, we can’t buy anything,” Ma said.
“No harm in looking,” I said because I knew how much she wanted to enter, and Matt and I ushered her in through the double doors.
A burst of air-conditioning met us. It felt like heaven. There were enough customers wandering around, examining instruments and looking at musical scores, that Ma started to relax. Some were seated at the pianos, testing them out. I longed for this clean and carpeted life. Ma was as wide-eyed as a young girl. She started leafing through a stack of scores by Mozart, completely absorbed.
