In Shanghai: First Impressions
His hands were thick, with rough calluses on the palms. He had a slight twitch in one eye, which made him jut his head out when talking. He grabbed my two suitcases and shoved them into the trunk. The other girls clambered into the backseat of the van. Subconsciously, I stood back to let them pass. Soon, there was no space for me in the back and I had to share the front seat with the driver. I held my shoulder bag close to me and climbed in, while he entered from the opposite side. The van tilted slightly before he settled himself in. He swung the door shut noisily and the van drew away from the airport in an energetic huff.
I fought off my in-flight drowsiness, wanting to keep my eyes wide open. Young Chinese girls texted furiously from their cell phones, their carefully chosen charms jingling as they walked. Babies toddled next to their parents, the slit down the back of their pants revealing bare bottoms. Billboards passed by in a blur of beautiful faces, while street cleaners raked leaves from the sidewalk. Before long, my head was plastered against the window and I started drifting in and out of sleep.
I saw that the driver’s shoes were brown. The sole of his right one was peeling away. As he drove through the stop-and-go traffic, he tapped a black-rimmed fingernail on the steering wheel.
When we arrived at the dorm, I didn’t even know how to say, “Thank you.”
* * *
It was easier to say, “Goodbye.”
When I left my parents at the gate at JFK, they looked pained. But I was filled with nervous energy. As I checked in to my flight, I looked back at them. Their faces tilted upwards, expectantly. They stood waving, their hands stuck straight up in the air to get my attention. “Don’t forget us!” they yelled. And I knew they meant it.
I lost sight of them as I soon as I turned a corner. The fluttering in my stomach deepened when I realized that for the first time in my life, I was truly alone. As the plane sped up on the runway, I held my breath. And just before the wheels left the ground, I sunk into that moment of pressure and release.
* * *
I unpacked my suitcase in a hurry. My parents hadn’t heard from me for 20 hours and I was certain they’d be furious. They had been expecting a call when I reached my layover stop in Seoul. I’d rushed through airport, searching for a public phone. But the instructions for international calls were in Korean and Chinese. I didn’t understand them.
The air in my new room was heavy and hot. I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the air conditioner. I didn’t even know how to turn on the lights. So the international calling card was beyond my comprehension. I dialed the number several times, only to hear a female voice saying, “Duibuxi.” What did that mean? Finally, I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes and waited.
My dad hated to be kept waiting. Every weekend, I’d pack my clothes, textbooks and toothbrush into a suitcase. I remember standing on the corner of 24th street and 3rd avenue with my hand on my cell phone. He’d call several minutes earlier to make sure I was there when he arrived. He’d blink his headlights before he parked, so that I could see him. Jumping out, he’d give me a quick hug before carefully placing my suitcase in his trunk.
Spending weekends at home made me feel like a guest at NYU. The worst part was that my parents didn’t do this as punishment. They did it out of an abundance of love.
Love is the key currency at my home. During meals, my mom and grandmother work in the kitchen while the men sit down to eat. They bring out steaming plates of vegetables and curry, laughing and joking around with each other. Following the examples set by women before them, they hover near the table. They ladle out rice and fill glasses with water. They don’t sit down to eat their own food until everyone else is done. For them, loving someone is constantly asking, “How can I be of service?” That’s just the way things are done.
* * *
I sat on the bed, cradling the phone on my shoulder. My parents weren’t furious. They were just deeply saddened. Which hurt even more.
“It’s not forever!” I insisted.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” my mom said.
We said our goodbyes. I went to sleep clutching my cell phone.
* * *
She walked through the crowd, wearing ECNU’s service worker’s uniform. Her hair was tied back into a loose ponytail. Strands slipped out as she lugged a cart full of empty industrial water bottles through the hallway. The blue bottles sat on top of each other precariously. There wasn’t enough space on the cart for all of them. She steadied the stack with her hands.
The hallway rumbled with the sound of students chatting. People swapped phone numbers and travel plans.
Over the din, I heard a hollow thud. The big blue bottles were tipping out of her cart and falling to the ground. The students grew silent. As soon as she picked up bottle, another fell down. It was almost comical, the way she clumsily bent over again and again to pick up her wayward load. As if she was bowing to us.
Some students offered to help, some passed sped up and passed her quickly. I stood by and watched, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. The loud bongs seemed too silly a sound for a moment like this. When I glanced at her face, I didn’t see embarrassment. I saw acceptance. And that scared me.
My cell phone rang. I rejected the call and walked home.
In Shanghai: First Impressions
His hands were thick, with rough calluses on the palms. He had a slight twitch in one eye, which made him jut his head out when talking. He grabbed my two suitcases and shoved them into the trunk. The other girls clambered into the backseat of the van. Subconsciously, I stood back to let them pass. Soon, there was no space for me in the back and I had to share the front seat with the driver. I held my shoulder bag close to me and climbed in, while he entered from the opposite side. The van tilted slightly before he settled himself in. He swung the door shut noisily and the van drew away from the airport in an energetic huff.
I fought off my in-flight drowsiness, wanting to keep my eyes wide open. Young Chinese girls texted furiously from their cell phones, their carefully chosen charms jingling as they walked. Babies toddled next to their parents, the slit down the back of their pants revealing bare bottoms. Billboards passed by in a blur of beautiful faces, while street cleaners raked leaves from the sidewalk. Before long, my head was plastered against the window and I started drifting in and out of sleep.
I saw that the driver’s shoes were brown. The sole of his right one was peeling away. As he drove through the stop-and-go traffic, he tapped a black-rimmed fingernail on the steering wheel.
When we arrived at the dorm, I didn’t even know how to say, “Thank you.”
* * *
It was easier to say, “Goodbye.”
When I left my parents at the gate at JFK, they looked pained. But I was filled with nervous energy. As I checked in to my flight, I looked back at them. Their faces tilted upwards, expectantly. They stood waving, their hands stuck straight up in the air to get my attention. “Don’t forget us!” they yelled. And I knew they meant it.
I lost sight of them as I soon as I turned a corner. The fluttering in my stomach deepened when I realized that for the first time in my life, I was truly alone. As the plane sped up on the runway, I held my breath. And just before the wheels left the ground, I sunk into that moment of pressure and release.
* * *
I unpacked my suitcase in a hurry. My parents hadn’t heard from me for 20 hours and I was certain they’d be furious. They had been expecting a call when I reached my layover stop in Seoul. I’d rushed through airport, searching for a public phone. But the instructions for international calls were in Korean and Chinese. I didn’t understand them.
The air in my new room was heavy and hot. I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the air conditioner. I didn’t even know how to turn on the lights. So the international calling card was beyond my comprehension. I dialed the number several times, only to hear a female voice saying, “Duibuxi.” What did that mean? Finally, I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes and waited.
My dad hated to be kept waiting. Every weekend, I’d pack my clothes, textbooks and toothbrush into a suitcase. I remember standing on the corner of 24th street and 3rd avenue with my hand on my cell phone. He’d call several minutes earlier to make sure I was there when he arrived. He’d blink his headlights before he parked, so that I could see him. Jumping out, he’d give me a quick hug before carefully placing my suitcase in his trunk.
Spending weekends at home made me feel like a guest at NYU. The worst part was that my parents didn’t do this as punishment. They did it out of an abundance of love.
Love is the key currency at my home. During meals, my mom and grandmother work in the kitchen while the men sit down to eat. They bring out steaming plates of vegetables and curry, laughing and joking around with each other. Following the examples set by women before them, they hover near the table. They ladle out rice and fill glasses with water. They don’t sit down to eat their own food until everyone else is done. For them, loving someone is constantly asking, “How can I be of service?” That’s just the way things are done.
* * *
I sat on the bed, cradling the phone on my shoulder. My parents weren’t furious. They were just deeply saddened. Which hurt even more.
“It’s not forever!” I insisted.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” my mom said.
We said our goodbyes. I went to sleep clutching my cell phone.
* * *
She walked through the crowd, wearing ECNU’s service worker’s uniform. Her hair was tied back into a loose ponytail. Strands slipped out as she lugged a cart full of empty industrial water bottles through the hallway. The blue bottles sat on top of each other precariously. There wasn’t enough space on the cart for all of them. She steadied the stack with her hands.
The hallway rumbled with the sound of students chatting. People swapped phone numbers and travel plans.
Over the din, I heard a hollow thud. The big blue bottles were tipping out of her cart and falling to the ground. The students grew silent. As soon as she picked up bottle, another fell down. It was almost comical, the way she clumsily bent over again and again to pick up her wayward load. As if she was bowing to us.
Some students offered to help, some passed sped up and passed her quickly. I stood by and watched, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. The loud bongs seemed too silly a sound for a moment like this. When I glanced at her face, I didn’t see embarrassment. I saw acceptance. And that scared me.
My cell phone rang. I rejected the call and walked home.
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