I Love a Broad Margin to My Life - Maxine Hong Kingston [18]
The man draws like a boy. “Read, la.
Read, la-a.” Our not-so-ugly American
dared recite loudly, in his best language
and second-best language, the 4-word
poems. Audience clapped hands, and laughed,
and mimicked, and asked, “You’ve come from what
far place, aw?” “I was born in the Beautiful
Country.” “Aiya-a. Beautiful Country.
Is Beautiful Country truly beautiful and rich?”
“Well …” (Well, English, American.) “Beautiful
Country People are like me, not too
beautiful, not too ugly, not too
rich, not too poor. But some
too rich, too poor. Most,
my color skin, tan. Our color
skin.” Actually, the color skin of the people
around was darker, darker from working in the sun.
“I live in Big City. Eighty
out of one hundred people live in the cities.
But I am not like everybody.
Everybody has cars. 2 cars.
I don’t have one car.
I don’t want one car.”
Have and want, same sound, not
same tone. They pitied him, poor man,
no car. Audience grew, 50
souls hearing the sojourner who’d seen the Beautiful
Country, who’d learned to write their horizontal alphabet.
People vied with one another, please,
dear writer traveller teacher, come
to our home for rice, and stay the night.
A confident village, the people not shy
to bring you home and see their hovel.
He chose a solid-seeming man, mine
good host, and comradely put himself in yoke.
The farmers, washing up in public, showed off
the on-and-off faucets and the pipes. They filled
wood buckets and plastic buckets and jars.
Wittman asked for a carrying pole across
his neck, above his backpack, which steadied
and cushioned the bouncy, springy, sloshing, heavy
double load. Proudly, he sidestepped
through alleyways and around corners, and up and over
the raised threshold into the courtyard,
brought that water home where he would stay.
His host—Lai Lu Gaw,
Brother Lai Lu—praised and thanked
Witt Man Gaw—shouted, “A good person
has come to visit us!” Out of the dark
of an open doorway appeared a woman. How
to describe Beauty? Perfection. Symmetry. Beyond
compare in all aspects—intelligence of gaze,
tallness of stature, star presence, gentilesse.
Not young, not old. Just right.
What a good man am I, able
to love looks so not-American. Bro
Lai Lu introduced her as Moy Moy.
Younger Sister. (Lower tone: Plum Plum.)
They’re not husband and wife. Father and daughter?
Brother bade brother, Come in,
la. Sit, la. Rest, la.
Home, la. The men sat on stools
at a low table. The woman brought tea;
she poured. With both hands, she
held the cup out to the guest, who
quickly accepted it with his 2 hands.
I am paying you my full attention.
The Communists and the Cultural Revolution have not
wiped out manners. Hosts and guest drank
without speaking. From the dark loft hung,
high and low, dried and drying plants,
tree branches, gourds with writing on them, clusters
of seeds, baskets. On the ground, the dirt floor,
all around were open jars and sealed
jars, bales, bundles, sheaves. We
are bowered in a nest. Smell: medicine herbs,
chrysanthemum, mustard, licorice, cilantro,
vinegar. The poor save everything, all
they make and grow, and so feel abundant.
Please don’t want to be like us. Don’t want.
Host as well as hostess carried from stove
and cooler, from pots and jars, dishes of brown
foods. A cauldron of white rice, enough
for meal after meal. The brown foods
tasted like jerked meat, sausage, brined
and sugared citrus and plums. Moy Moy
got up, and cooked afresh peas and choy,
greens of the new harvest. Back-home
Chinese, too, cook throughout
the dinner party, everybody in
the kitchen. The hostess began conversation:
“Are you married?” What answer but Yes?
“Yes. She’s not Chinese.” Too
small vocabulary, blurt it all. “She’s
white ghost woman. Her name, Taña,
means Play.” (Fawn. Lower tone: Food.)
“I married Play. Heh heh.
I married Food. She married me.
I am with her more years than I am without her.”
Hard to parley verb tenses. And impossible
to admit: Marry white, escape karma.
“How much money did you pay