I Love a Broad Margin to My Life - Maxine Hong Kingston [11]
work to do, the teaching, the writing. I
am writing right now on an airplane,
above thick clouds. I’ve taken the window seat.
Upon the dragon clouds, Mother’s soul
walks toward Father’s soul. He’s holding open
a shawl; he’s hugging her in it. They’re happy,
they’re home, ancestors all around.
The clouds dispel. Ocean and sky on and
on and on. Land. Mountains. Circles
of irrigated fields, squares of plowed
fields. From on high, human beings
and all the terrible things they do and make
are beautiful. Loft your point of view above
the crowd, the party, any fray. All
is well. All always well. Land,
Chek Lap Kok International. Hong Kong.
The soldiers at Passport Control do not
say Aloha, welcome, dear traveller, welcome.
But then, no such hospitableness anymore
at any border-crossing on earth. (Once,
at the supermarket in Ann Arbor, in America’s
Heartland, the butcher called out
to an Asian-looking man and woman, “Where
you from?” The man of the couple answered, “Seoul,
Korea.” The butcher said, “Welcome, sir. Ma’am.
Welcome to Michigan.”) Wittman took the train,
got off in Central, and alighted tomorrow in the Land
of Women. Women everywhere—the streets, the parks,
the alleys, the middle of streets. All the city
was closed today, Sunday. Women on sidewalks,
curbs, stairs up and down hills—
everywhere women. Women of his very
type, beauties with long black hair
gathered up or cascading down,
naturally tan skin, dark eyes
the warmest brown, lashes like black fans.
The women were of one generation—no matrons,
no little girls, no crones.
Thala-a thala-a-a. The one
man, knapsack on his back,
stepped—delighted, curious, englamoured, happy—
among, around women. Women picnicking,
drinking sodas and juices. Women
playing cards. Women combing and trimming
their sisters’ hair. Painting emblems and charms
on fingernails and toenails. A solitary
is reading a book. Another writing a letter.
Mostly the women converse. The sound of their language
is like hens cluck-clucking. They talk, talk,
listen, listen, listen. For them, the city
stilled. Women walked and lingered on streets
meant for cars. What are they saying about life,
about love, these Peripatetics from the Pilippines?
Wittman circled este grupo, ese
grupo. No woman paid him look
or heed. Standing on a box in an intersection,
a sister raised Bible and voice to the crowd
and/or to God. Sisters (and brother
Wittman) tarried and stared, then floated away
on the wavery heat of the tropical sun. They passed
expensive stores, passed luxury hotels—
five stars all. (My mother
on her way to catch the S.S. Taft,
fled the police soldiers by running inside
one of these hotels.) A bronze sign on
a movable stand placed mid-sidewalk
says:
IN CONSIDERATION FOR HOTEL GUESTS,
PLEASE DO NOT BLOCK
ENTRANCEWAY.
The women sat at the curb, like hippies.
Free of husband, free of kids. Like
on vacation abroad with girlfriends.
Oh, let me be hippie with you.
Just like we were last summer!
The women and the hotel people act as if
the other did not exist. A vendor of sweets,
a man, set his wagon down; the women
crowded, haggling, selecting, buying just
the right treat—that candy for me,
that cookie for best girlfriend.
All people smile and laugh when anticipating
dessert. Along another curb, a row of
women stood in political demonstration.
They’d appliquéd a paragraph on a long
piece of cloth. Something about la inmigración.
Something something derechos. Rights.
Los derechos de criadas.
“What is criadas?” asked Wittman.
“Maids. Servants. Maids.” So, these masses
of women are maidservants, and today their day
off, Sunday. And they want their rights.
Tell them, Wittman: “In San Francisco,
we have inmigrante workers too.
We want los derechos too.”
“O-o-oh, San Francisco,” breathe
the women, “O-o-oh, California.”
They like you from San Francisco, and California,
my places, and Hawai‘i, and the Grand Canyon,
also my places. I have places the world
dreams for, hardly knowing they’re U.S.
“Are you organizing
las criadas