The Cooked Seed (10 page)

The lady asked if I was afraid of demons.

“Not demons, but dreams,” I replied. In my dreams I was never able to secure the explosives. I had been blown into pieces hundreds and thousands of times in my dreams.

I had no place to go during holidays. I had been in America almost four months and wished that I could afford to call home. I longed to hear the voices of my parents and imagined how happy my mother would be. I imagined the lady working at our neighborhood telephone booth when the call came in. I imagined her shouting my mother’s name under her window. “A long-distance call for the Min family! Your daughter is calling from overseas! Hurry up!”

I imagined my mother abandoning her chopped vegetables. My mother would run through the narrow hallway, down the wooden staircase, and out onto the lane toward the telephone booth. What a pleasure it would be!

I wrote home, filling both sides of one sheet of paper. I printed my characters as small as I could to save postage. I told my sister to continue to hold on to my farewell letters, because I was not yet certain of my immigration status. I still hadn’t made it back to the school that issued me the original I-20 form, although I had been anticipating it since the day I arrived.

I received a letter back from my family. My mother didn’t say, “I miss you.” She believed that it would weaken me if she showed any emotion. My mind was cast back to the time when my mother abruptly ended her visit to my labor camp. She simply couldn’t face the horrid conditions I lived in. She fled despite the fact that she had just arrived.
The journey had taken her eight hours: five hours standing on a crowded bus, then three more walking on rough roads. She feared that if she broke down, my own courage to go on would be affected. I remember how I wished that my mother had stayed overnight. I missed her. Her presence would have comforted me and given me strength.

Kate said she’d love to take me home to spend Christmas with her family. Although I was nervous around strangers, I convinced myself to go. It would give me an opportunity to practice my English listening comprehension. Besides, I had never experienced a real American family in their home. I also simply needed a break from my constant worry about my debt.

Kate’s parents’ house was located in a Chicago suburb. She had a big family with lovely siblings, parents, and grandparents. It was an eye-opening experience to watch them affectionately greet each other, shower each other with gifts, and eat breakfast together, all laughing and talking together. It was difficult not to miss home.

I put a smile on my face and made myself appear interested. At the same time, I learned a loneliness that had no name. It plagued me. I felt consumed.

Kate’s family treated me warmly and kindly. They asked me if I had enjoyed myself, and if I liked the dinner. I responded with equal enthusiasm. “Thank you! It was wonderful,” I said. “I enjoyed everything so much.”

What was really on my mind was my own family back in China counting on me to save their lives.

Back at school, Kate had news for me. She wanted to introduce me to a group of students from mainland China. “Folks from your hometown!” Kate said excitedly.

It was already too late when I told Kate that I couldn’t afford to speak with people from my hometown. I couldn’t afford to speak Chinese. I would have stayed with Joan Chen in Los Angeles if I had wanted to be with someone from my hometown. I had asked Joan if she would speak English with me. She said that it’d be awkward. We were so used to speaking to each other, not even in Mandarin but in Shanghai dialect.

But Kate was right that I needed to socialize. Sitting among the students from China, I was able to drop my mask, and it felt good. The
Chinese students shared the same burdens I did. We joked that we were like the roof of a bamboo hut under the weight of snow.

The Chinese students discussed visa expiration and deportation instead of Michael Jackson, Michigan Avenue, and the Chicago Bears. We shared the same homesickness, although we didn’t talk about it. Like grasshoppers at the end of autumn, we worried about the freezing winter ahead. One student told me that he hadn’t gone back home to China for years. His returning visa was not guaranteed. “An American consul in China can easily reject your reentry,” he said. “You can lose everything.”

“Practical training period” was what the Chinese students discussed the most. It meant that the graduating student was given one year, the last year, to locate a job in America, which would lead to a green card. The job had to be offered by a reputable American company with a decent salary. The job offer would qualify the Chinese student for an immigration H-1 working visa. The difficulty was that it had to be a job no American citizen would be able to or want to do. A job that might pay a minimum wage but that would require the skill of a Ph.D.

The Chinese students dreamed of earning a green card and the permanent residency in the USA that came with it. The competition was about seven hundred applicants for one position. “You have to beat your rivals by skill and qualification,” one Ph.D. student said. “Even if you win, you might still not get the job, if the hiring company doesn’t want to go through the immigration process. Unless the company is desperate, they won’t pay for an immigration lawyer.”

In Mandarin we talked about our “status of beheading.”

Stick out your neck or not stick out your neck—your head would get chopped either way. I’d lose if I failed to achieve a green card, and I would also lose if I returned home with accumulated debt. “You might as well commit suicide.”

It was the first time I heard the words “going underground” and “illegal alien.” The Chinese students called it “the last option.” “If the Mexicans have the guts to risk getting shot crossing the borders, why can’t we?”

The moment our student visas expired, we would be violating US law. No one wanted to end up going underground. It would mean living like a bat in a cave.

“Can you bear not to see your family forever? Can you stand being a ‘permanent missing person’ to your family?” “What if your parents became ill and needed you?”

Although the heater in the room was on, no one took off his or her snow jacket. After a while, a male student pointed to a female student and said, “If I were you, I’d sell myself. I’d marry a grandpa or a dying man for a green card. I would consider that seriously.”

The female student shot back. “You can do that too. You can marry a man and get the same thing.”

Another female student said, “The two of you can marry and give birth to a baby on US soil.
Cee-tee-zen!
The baby would be legal and he could grow up to save your ass.”

I learned that every one of them was on some sort of scholarship or grant, plus earning money from teaching-assistant positions and work-study plans. Although I didn’t ask the Chinese students to reveal the sources of their scholarships and grants, by the end of the day I understood that it was public information and was available in the university library.

I began my hunt for scholarships and grants. I stayed up all night translating the texts and filling out applications. I also drafted proposals.

My mother wrote to tell me that although my aunt had never mentioned the money I had cost her, it didn’t give me the right to take advantage of her. I wrote back to my mother and told her that I understood and that I was doing my best. It maddened me that I was moving at such a slow pace.

I made a great leap forward in English one day. I experienced my first comprehension of a complete sentence. I owed it to Mr. Rogers’s TV program. He said, “The best gift you can offer is your honest self.”

Upon understanding every word, I broke into tears. What a thrill to feel worthy! It had never occurred to me that my honest self could be a best gift to anyone.

I was in awe of what I was capable of accomplishing. My struggle to translate subsided. The trouble gave itself up. I began to think in English for the first time. My world opened like spring flowers blossoming all at once.

My TOEFL score didn’t reach 500, but after interviewing me over the telephone, Dr. Barbara Guenther from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago decided to admit me. I rewarded myself with two extra hours of sleep.

I felt like Alice in Wonderland at the orientation day. I had never seen so many strange styles of dress, hair, and makeup. People here seemed to compete for attention starting with their hair. One boy dyed his hair in rainbow colors and piled it up like a hamburger. A girl did hers in bright green in the shape of Mount Everest. A tall man wore his like a rooster’s crown. He was sitting next to a bearded man whose hair was a giant yellow fan. I was shocked by the multitude of rings worn in eyebrows, ears, under the noses, and on the bellies of girls and boys. I wondered why anyone would want to imitate a cow. In China, a cow’s life symbolized misfortune. After working its entire life, a cow was sold or killed for food. Why should such a sad existence fascinate America’s youth?

A group of students sitting on my left dressed in black from head to toe. They wore dyed suits, pants, and skirts and knee-high black boots. Their hair was the color of black ink. Their belts, necklaces, armbands, and wristbands were made of beaten silver with spikes. They used purple eye shadow, which made their eyes look bruised. One girl was in such a skintight outfit that her nipples showed. As I took a closer look, I couldn’t believe what I saw—she was naked. She had painted her entire body with snake patterns. I must admit that she had done an amazing job. No security guards came to take her away.

I tried hard to understand the president’s welcome speech. He said something about how 99 percent of the graduates from this school would not land jobs. He also talked about choices and sacrifices an artist must make. There was still time to change your mind, he told the crowd. But no one stood up or walked away.

I would have stood up and walked away if I could have got any other American college to accept me with my TOEFL score.

I began to look for a way out before I even started to take classes. The immigration law said that I had to stay with the school that issued me the I-20 form to maintain my visa status. With a dictionary in my hand, I visited the school’s job-placement office. I stood in front of the wall where employment ads were posted. Unfortunately, most required English. I applied for a modeling job with the school’s fashion design department. I was directed to the modeling office, where a little old lady received me. After one glance, she said I had the job.

I was thrilled. The job paid seven dollars per hour, more than my monthly salary in China. I moved all my courses to the evenings so I’d be able to apply for more jobs. Soon my schedule was full. I became an attendant for the student gallery and a helper at the admissions office. I stuffed, sealed, and labeled envelopes while counting and recording visitors who strode through the gallery.

I sought cheaper housing. An ad that read “rent negotiable” got my attention. I composed a script for a telephone call. I practiced reading the script until my tongue obeyed me. I dialed. The person on the other end said that she was also a student. We arranged to meet at the school cafeteria.

Her name was Stella and she was eighteen. She had golden hair, light-brown eyes, and a boyish haircut. She was astonishingly beautiful with a touch of masculinity. She took off her ocean-blue velvet coat and revealed her homemade, matched outfit. Her top was in between a blouse and a dress and she wore it with a pair of jeans splattered with brightly colored paint. The pattern of the fabric reminded me of
One Thousand and One Nights
—Arab themed.

As a sculpture major, Stella worked with metals and found objects. Power saws, hammers, and electric drills were her tools. She described her place as “ideal for artists.” I didn’t interrupt. Rent would be my only concern. I almost walked away when she said that the total rent was $1,000. I let her know that I could not afford $500. “I am from China,” I said.

“China? Red China? Communist China? Cool!” Stella said she would give me a good deal. She’d let me pay whatever I liked. “You don’t have to pay a penny if you really can’t afford it. I’d love to have you as my roommate. All you have to do is share with me your experience
growing up in China.” She told me that she was extremely interested in Communism, socialism, and revolutions.