I Love a Broad Margin to My Life - Maxine Hong Kingston [0]
Published by Alfred A. Knopf
Copyright © 2011 by Maxine Hong Kingston
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
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Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:
Coleman Barks: Excerpt from “Song of the Reed” from The Essential Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks. Reprinted by permission of Coleman Barks.
Irving Berlin Music Company: Excerpt from “Sittin’ in the Sun (Countin’ My Money)” by Irving Berlin, copyright © 1953 by Irving Berlin. Copyright renewed. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Irving Berlin Music Company.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kingston, Maxine Hong.
I love a broad margin to my life / by Maxine Hong Kingston. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-59533-1
1. Kingston, Maxine Hong. 2. Authors, American—20th century—Biography. 3. Chinese American authors—Biography. 4. Chinese American women—Biography. I. Title.
PS3561.152Z46 2011
818′.54—dc22
[B] 2010028819
v3.1
To the Ancestors and
my contemporaries and
our children
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Home
Leaving Home
Rice Village
Bad Village
Art Village
Spirit Village
Viet Nam Village
Father’s Village
Mother’s Village
City
Home Again
Glossary
Notes
A Note About the Author
Other Books by This Author
HOME
I am turning 65 years of age.
In 2 weeks I will be 65 years old.
I can accumulate time and lose
time? I sit here writing in the dark—
can’t see to change these penciled words—
just like my mother, alone, bent over her writing,
just like my father bent over his writing, alone
but for me watching. She got out of bed,
wrapped herself in a blanket, and wrote down
the strange sounds Father, who was dead,
was intoning to her. He was reading aloud
calligraphy that he’d written—carved with inkbrush—
on his tombstone. She wasn’t writing in answer.
She wasn’t writing a letter. Who was she writing to?
Nobody.
This well-deep outpouring is not for
anything. Yet we have to put into exact words
what we are given to see, hear, know.
Mother’s eyesight blurred; she saw trash
as flowers. “Oh. How very beautiful.”
She was lucky, seeing beauty, living
in beauty, whether or not it was there.
I am often looking in mirrors, and singling
out my face in group photographs.
Am I pretty at 65?
What does old look like?
Sometimes I am wrinkled, sometimes not.
So much depends upon lighting.
A camera crew shot pictures of me—one of
“5 most influential people over 60
in the East Bay.” I am homely; I am old.
I look like a tortoise in a curly white wig.
I am stretching head and neck toward
the light, such effort to lift the head, to open
the eyes. Black, shiny, lashless eyes.
Talking mouth. I must utter you
something. My wrists are crossed in my lap;
wrinkles run up the left forearm.
(It’s my right shoulder that hurts—Rollerblading
accident—does the pain show, does my hiding it?)
I should’ve spoken up, Don’t take
my picture, not in that glare. One side
of my neck and one cheek are gone in black
shadow. Nobody looks good in hard focus,
high contrast—black sweater and skirt,
white hair, white sofa, white
curtains. My colors and my home, but rearranged.
The crew had pushed the reds and blues and greens aside.
The photographer, a young woman, said, “Great. Great.”
From within my body, I can’t sense that crease
on my left cheek. I have to get—win—
compliments. “You are beautiful.” “So cute.”
“Such a kind face.” “You are simple.”
“You move fast.” “Chocolate Chip.”
A student I taught long ago
called me Chocolate Chip. And only yesterday
a lifelong friend told Earll, my husband,
he’s lucky, he’s got me—the Chocolate Chip.
They mean, I think, my round face
and brown-bead eyes. I keep
count. I mind that