I Love a Broad Margin to My Life - Maxine Hong Kingston [21]
but a frog jumps, a dragonfly zooms.
Tadpoles—schools of tadpoles—hurry by.
A mudsnail gliding and sliding. And me
planting rice, helping to feed a fifth
of the world’s people. All, all related.
This planting food together is heart
center. Hour after hour, eon after eon,
doing the same thing, plant, plant,
sink, loft, into water, into sky,
I am one of the human race that has always
done this work. Stay, let this life be
my whole life, and these people my people.
That other life, the one in America, the wife,
the son, the Berkeley education, that
complex life is dream. Stay
and see the rice through to harvest. How
long does it take for rice to grow through
its seasons? A year? Two years? Now
that I’ve found this lost possible self—Chinese
rice farmer—let me stay with it. Keep
doing this most basic human task
til satisfaction. When used to that life
and don’t see it anymore, then leave.
BAD VILLAGE
Once more, away,
out on the open road, Wittman enjoyed
his walk with fellow travelers. Millions errant,
looking for work, some on paid vacation.
The driver of a pony cart slept atop
his produce; his pony knew the way. A buffalo
or ox pulled a tumbrel of logs and rocks;
woodcutter and wife dozed side by side.
A bicyclist carried one bar of steel
under an arm. Another bicyclist was delivering
a circus of chairs. Motorbikers covered
faces, and entire heads, with gauzy scarves,
no helmet law. 100
big white ducks or geese rode
on the roof of a bus, feathers ruffling; they
did not try to fly away. A stake
truck and a flatbed truck, both
honking hard, drove head-on
at each other, veered to drivers’ right,
and passed. They’re right-laners, like us.
People walking carried twigs, furniture,
baskets, pots, live fish in buckets.
Wittman changed his walk to be like other
Peripatetics. Cut out the American
attitude. Quit the truckin’, the I’m-walkin’-here.
Send the strength away from macho shoulders,
and will it down to butt seat chakra.
Walk bent-legged, loose-kneed,
loose-seated like kung fu.
Hands behind relaxed back. Oh,
it feels so good, giving in—bent old
China Man at long last. A pickup
truck bounced, braked—off popped
a giant pig, a hog. PLOP! Burst?!?
But it got to its feet, jiggled, breathed loud,
coughed, coughed, and screaming, ran off.
Some men in the laughing crowd gave
chase, Wittman too. They were running
after a big fat naked person.
Her pink Caucasian ass and hams rolled
and pumped. Hurrying ahead of the hooting, joking
crowd, she screamed, grunted, wheezed. Internal
injuries. Ran toward people who were assembling
a market. Help me. Help me. Please. She
was It, the big fat naked dumb one. Caught.
The redoubling crowd herded the sow back
to the truck. She climbed the ramp. Her owner kicked
her legs out from under her, thanked the people,
and drove off. No pig basket for
her. So what if she’s hurt? On her way
to slaughter anyway. Wittman reentered
the village that the sow had led him to. Today
was market day; farmers were arriving with this day’s
harvest. Cooks were boiling up noodles
for breakfast, throwing in handfuls of meat and choy.
There was an empty stool in a hovel restaurant;
he sat down amid the slupping, slurping men,
and let himself be served what everybody else
was having. (You’re charged extra for the seat; sitting
is a luxury.) (No ladies. Ladies cook
and eat at home.) The men sat close,
knee to knee, thigh to thigh, but not
quite touching. Did bump elbows.
They ate fast. 2 fingers tap-
tapped the table—another luxury, a table—
got refills. Tap tap. Thanks
thanks. The cook himself came around
with the tea. Some people lift-lifted it
toward the others. Sociable Wittman lift-
lifted, nod-nodded to one and all.
Tap tap. Thanks thanks. Abruptly,
eaters pushed away from the table, paid,
and left. Lazy guys stayed on,
lit cigarettes, talked. One man
folded himself up on his stool, arms
wrapped around knees, and slept. Chinese
can sleep anywhere. Our American
did not understand any of