I Love a Broad Margin to My Life - Maxine Hong Kingston [9]
America. This land is my land.
Why should we leave? We who made
everything wonderful, why should we leave?”
It’s easy to talk yourself out of leaving.
Easier to move in, stay, than to move out, go.
The troops will never come home.
“But now my work establishing Asia America
is done. Our nation won. We have a people.
And passport home. My leaving is not exile.
I must, I need act out my deep
down monkey nature. Wife, son,
let your indulgence set me free.”
And so, wife understanding and son
understanding, Wittman Ah Sing
begins his Going Forth. (Buddha left
wife and son. Confucius’ wife left him.)
From his bank, the Bank of San Francisco,
China Man took out his money.
Sittin’ in the sun,
Countin’ my money
Happy as I can be.
How very grand—there’s money, money
to spare. Grandparents and parents had had
leftover money too and passed it on.
There’s money. Enough to live in a rich country
for 6 months, or in a poor country
for the rest of my life. So-so
Security will send a check every
month to wherever I’ll be living.
China
begins at the Consulate, where you get your visa.
The last couple of times I, Maxine,
went, members of Falun Gong were protesting
against China persecuting them and their way of
kung fu. At first, they merely moved
and breathed, doing slow, quiet exercises
on the curb in front of the door to the Consulate.
They looked like other Chinatown ladies
who exercise in the parks of San Francisco.
Then, they started showing color photos
of torture—purple black eyes, a red rectum.
Wittman, lover of street theater, come,
talk to them. Three old women meditating
beside their yellow banner with the pink flower.
Look again. The poor things aren’t old;
they’re younger than oneself. But they dress old,
home-knit vests, home-sewn
pants, the same style patterns passed
along for generations, old country
to new country. They’re coifed old-
fashioned, Black Ghost hair.
It is raining. Martyrs praying in the rain,
beseeching China, shame on China. Two
sit cross-legged on the cement, eyes
shut, palms together. The woman who stands
also has her eyes closed; she holds
the banner out from its stanchion, one hand
in prayer position. Bags full of food
to last days. At Tiananmen
Square, the man faced off the tanks
with a bag of groceries in either hand, danced
stepping side to side, tank moving
side to side. A Chinese can dare
anything, do battle, armed with bags of food.
Wittman feels guilty, about to break
his vow never to cross a picket line.
Talk to these women, justify himself.
“Excusu me? Excusu me?” he says
to the woman standing. She opens her eyes,
looking straight at him. “Please, teach me
about Falun Gong.” She reaches into a bag,
and gives him a CD, says, “Falun Gong
is good.” He goes for his wallet. She waves
No no no—shoos away
payment. Amazing—a Chinese who
doesn’t care too much for money.
The label has no info, only
the pink flower logo. “You hear
good. Falun Gong good.” “Thank
you. Daw jeah. Jeah jeah. I go
now to apply for visa in-country, your
country, China. I vow, I’ll do
something for your freedom of religion. Don’t you
worry.” “Dui dui dui.” I love it
when Chinese make that kind sound.
Dui dui dui. Agree agree agree.
We conjoin. Understand. We match.
(The CD turned out to be blank.
The true scrolls that Tripitaka Tang
and Monkey carried on the Silk Road also blank.
Meaning Noble Silence? Emptiness? Words
no good?) A purer citizen of the world
would boycott China—for tyrannizing Tibet
and Xinjiang, for shooting nuclear missiles
off Taiwan’s beam, for making weapons
and selling them to all sides. Better to
communicate or to shun?
Inside the Consulate,
the Chinese diaspora are seeking permission
home, yelling its dialects and languages,
the Cantonese hooting, honking like French,
lisping like Spaniards, aiya-ing, the northerners
shur-shur-shurring. We’re nervous.
The borders are sealed, the homelands secure.
Every nation state is mean with visas.
Especially the U.S.A., especially
the P.R.C. We