For the first time I couldn’t bear to look at him—the father of my child, the father who felt cheated and trapped. Qigu had the right to a lifestyle he desired, which did not include a child. I was too afraid to leave. I was disgusted with myself for driving both of us into this.
I don’t want the baby to follow your bad example. The words kept stabbing me in the gut.
I loaded construction debris into garbage bags and struggled to hold back my tears. I had lost my dream—to feel like a princess for once. Something precious in me died. Ever since I had read Jane Eyre and learned the meaning of love, I had wanted love. I dreamed of love as a Chinese peasant might. I had fancied myself as a peasant-wife planting rice with an infant tied to my back. I had imagined myself walking the edge of a field carrying lunch to my husband. Buckets of cool water, at both ends of a bamboo pole that sat across my shoulders, would sway and slosh as I drew near. My husband would greet me with a sweet smile. He would take a break from his plowing. I would hand him a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. I would sit down on the edge of our land and breast-feed my baby.
“Really, I meant humor,” Qigu said again. “You are overreacting as usual.”
I had nothing to say.
Qigu shrugged, “Well, I can’t stop you if you want to take me the wrong way. Let me know when you are ready. We can go to the city hall and register for a marriage license.”
I would have refused. His words felt like insult. But the pregnancy changed my perspective. All I cared about was the baby inside me. I owed this child a set of parents.
“I am ready,” I said to Qigu.
We made an appointment with the city to be married in front of a judge on February 6, 1991.
We couldn’t afford a wedding, but I still longed to celebrate. Wasn’t it, after all, the biggest moment in my life? Shouldn’t I share the news, or call someone and announce, “Hi, I am getting married tomorrow!” I wanted a blessing. I thought about calling my family in China, Joan Chen, and Margaret.
I dropped the idea because truth hit—I would be sharing false happiness. Qigu wasn’t marrying me because he was in love with me, although he tried to convince me and himself otherwise. Qigu’s “bad example” had been seared into my mind: It contained all of his reluctance, resentment, and regret. I felt sad. Qigu didn’t look forward to marrying me. He was only doing me a favor. He was defeated.
Instead of preparing a celebration party, or giving my wedding dress a final inspection, Qigu and I worked on the apartments. We drove to the hardware store and purchased plumbing supplies. We ate Polish hot dogs. After returning home, Qigu went down to the basement to work on his paintings. “Good night,” he said.
I reheated leftover food and ate dinner alone. I washed the dishes. Afterward, I sat in the kitchen. I was overwhelmed by sadness.
Qigu hadn’t revealed anything to his parents about my pregnancy, although they knew that I had been living with him. Qigu told me that his parents were “stiff-minded” folks, former Communists. “All they did with their lives was blindly follow the Party,” he said. “My mother was never offered Party membership in the end, which crushed her. My father was a veteran Party member, but he lived a crappy life. He was distrusted, punished, and sent to a reform camp. His bourgeois family background was a stain he could never escape from.” Qigu and his younger brother grew up on the streets of Shanghai while their parents were denounced. His mother was tormented by jealous coworkers and suffered a mental breakdown, from which she never completely recovered.
The last time Qigu had heard from his mother was on a cassette tape. She mailed it across the ocean, which must have cost half a month’s salary. The tape was ninety minutes long and advised Qigu on what to do and what not to do, with an emphasis on safety and food poisoning.
Qigu asked me to press the fast-forward button. I felt sorry for his mother. I wished that I could write her to tell her that her son was safe.
I imagined that my future in-laws would be excited to learn that they were going to have a grandchild. When I visited China two years before, Qigu’s father sat me down and shared the history of his family. After Mao died and the Cultural Revolution ended, his “stain” had miraculously been transformed into proof of his prestige. “My ancestors, the Jiangs, were first silkworm farmers and then silk merchants from Zhejiang province in southern China. By the turn of the century, they became the founding fathers of China’s textile and banking industry.” The old man recalled his youth as a romantic idealist who joined the Communist Party to change the world for the poor. Although he was dedicated to his work, he never rose far in rank. “Qigu didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in his mouth. We lived in one small room located in Shanghai’s Xuhui district. It was too crowded for five people from three different generations.”
As we spoke, Qigu’s mother cooked rice by the staircase. The scene filled my heart with warmth because I identified with their poverty. I took comfort in the thought that Qigu came from a humble home. I assumed that he would understand suffering—a quality I’d look for in the man I would marry.
Qigu did not have fond memories of his childhood. Fear had been his constant companion. He was beaten by street gangs while his parents were away serving at a series of reform camps. Qigu resented that his father’s family had “donated” its fortune to the government in order to prove its loyalty to the Communist Party. “I could have been a rich man today,” Qigu once said to his father.
“It was a forced donation,” the father argued. “You wouldn’t have escaped punishment and gone on to live the life you now enjoy if I had failed to comply with orders! You definitely would not have been given a passport to America!”
Qigu and I arrived at the Chicago city hall. It was crowded with people. A lady received us and gave us forms to fill out. She then directed us to a window that read RECORDING, where we filed our forms.
Qigu grinned at the signs above and said, “At this window you file a marriage application, and at the next window you file a divorce application.”
“Please don’t rain on my parade,” I said.
“Sorry,” Qigu responded. “I just think humans are foolish creatures.”
We were led to an empty waiting room and told that a court judge would call us. After a long wait, Qigu and I wondered if we should knock on the door where there was a sign that read COURTROOM. As we were about to knock, the door opened. A large, dark-skinned man appeared. He seemed to be in the middle of changing his costume.
“Stay outside, please!” he said loudly. “I’m not ready yet.” He then closed the door in our faces.
We went back and sat down on a bench in the corner. Other couples slowly filled the room. They walked through the doorway holding hands or smiling at each other. The men were in pressed suits and the women in pretty and ceremonial dresses.
All of a sudden I felt awkward. I wished that I had dressed up like the other brides in the room. Qigu and I wore clothes bought from thrift stores. He was in a casual navy-blue jacket, while I was in a mixed-color blouse matched with India-style pants and matching-colored shoes.
Qigu detected my discomfort and leaned over. “It’s all a circus show anyway,” he whispered in my ear. “Fifty percent of these marriages will end in divorce.”
I looked at him. “Will we be the fifty percent divorced, or the fifty percent who stay married?”
Qigu gave a sage’s smile and said, “Of course the latter.”
The door to the courtroom finally opened. To our surprise, a happy couple came out followed by the smiling judge in his black gown. The bride wore a white dress and had white gardenias in her hair.
The happy couple kissed passionately. Their arms were wrapped around each other as they exited the room. I was moved by their affection and my uneasiness deepened.
“How come we haven’t been called?” Qigu said. “The rules say, ‘First come first serve.’ ”
I looked around. “Maybe we should check with the clerk again.”
A
female clerk came into the room and yelled, “Q Young and Amen!”
Nobody responded.
“Q Young and Amen!” the clerk repeated.
The couples in the room all looked at each other.
“Last call, Mr. Q Young and Miss Amen!”
“That must be us!” I cried to Qigu. “Americans can’t pronounce Qigu. They can’t sound Qi as ‘chi.’ They pronounce it as ‘Q.’ They pronounce Jiang as ‘young.’ ” But this was the first time anyone had turned Anchee Min into “Amen.”
Qigu and I stood in front of the judge. The man looked straight at us with his big, penetrating eyes. I grew nervous, because he remained silent, as if he was taking his time to examine us. I noticed that he was looking at our clothing. I regretted that I had been following Qigu’s sense of fashion. I believed that Qigu knew how to dress cool.
Finally the judge spoke. “Have you a ring?” His voice was like a church bell.
I wasn’t sure if I had heard him right. I was relieved when the judge turned to Qigu. He stared at him, waiting.
“Ex- … excuse me?” Qigu leaned forward.
“A ring!” the judge said.
Qigu’s face turned red. He cleared his throat and then replied, “No, sir. No ring.”
“A souvenir of any kind?” The judge asked.
“No, sir. We … uh … No souvenir,” Qigu said.
“Not even a flower for your bride?” This time the judge’s voice was harsh. His tone showed disapproval.
“I … uh … we … uh … sorry about that.” Qigu tried to put on a sage-style smile, but didn’t make it.
The judge turned toward me. He went silent, but his message came through loud and clear.
I struggled to hold back my tears.
The judge’s expression softened. He stopped asking questions.
I could feel the judge’s eyes on me. It was at that moment I realized that I was after all an ordinary woman. My heart desired a wedding ring. It had been praying for a ring. If not a ring, a souvenir or a flower. Qigu had prepared none of it. What kind of fool was I? Qigu had given no thought to this occasion. This ceremony was meaningless to him.
I wiped my tears and turned to Qigu.
He looked like a hostage waiting to be released.
The judge began to speak words of blessing. But my brain had difficulty performing the translation. The judge said something about marriage not being child’s play. It should be held sacred as a commitment between two people. A vow under God. He said something about faith, the faithful, and the faithless.
Qigu was embarrassed, and I was ashamed.
Abruptly the judge left us. I would forever remember the frown on his face.
I walked ahead of Qigu as we exited the building. My tears were uncontrollable. Outside, the sun was bright. It was lunch hour, and people were going into and out of cafés and the McDonald’s on the corner. We passed the Loop under the elevated subway rails. A clattering train passed over our heads.
I didn’t know why I was walking so fast, as if I was running away. At the bus stop, Qigu caught up with me. He pulled me toward him, and I collapsed into his arms. I told Qigu that I felt awful, and that I missed my family.
Qigu told me that I had every reason to be upset. “We are in America, a country and culture that values superficial appearances. Once you compare yourself with these people, you’re bound to feel sorry for yourself. My question is: Have these people achieved lasting harmonious marriages? Will they have the same happy faces thirty years from now? Did the rings, the souvenirs, and the flowers stop half of the marriages in this country from failing? No!”
I had never seen Qigu so dignified.
“I might be poor in a material sense, but I am wealthy in my spirituality,” he continued. “What I am offering you is what money can’t buy.”
Qigu tried to convince me that it was his intent to “sing against the American tune.” “That doesn’t mean I take our marriage lightly. Quite the opposite!” He said that he would prove to me and to the judge that without the ring, the souvenir, and the flowers, our marriage would not only last but also flourish and prosper.
I am married. I am a married woman, I woke up thinking. This was supposed to be my honeymoon! I looked around. I was still on the same mattress that we had found in a Dumpster. Our side table was a wooden box, and a stained carpet covered the floor. Qigu was still asleep across from me on the other side of the bed. We had come straight home yesterday from the city hall. We ate again leftovers for dinner, and went straight to bed. Nobody in the whole world knew that we were newlyweds.
“You only get married once!” I heard my heart say.
I wanted to honor this moment. I wanted to congratulate myself. I needed a photo to send my family in China. A photo of my wedding day.
I took out my camera and went downstairs into the yard. I set up the camera on a tripod and tested the auto-timer button. It was about eight o’clock in the morning. Although the sun was rising, the air was freezing and the ground icy. I was apprehensive about waking Qigu, but I needed him to pose, to smile at the camera.
With the neighbors’ garage as my picture’s background, I ran back and forth adjusting the tripod to the right height. Once again I checked the camera’s auto timer and lens focus. When all was set, I went back upstairs. I woke up Qigu. I told him that I wanted him to join me for a wedding photo.
Qigu did not want to leave his warm bed. I promised him that it would only take a minute. “Do it for me, please,” I begged. “Just one shot and I’ll let you go back to bed. Please, it is important to me.”
I helped Qigu into his sweater and pants. He got himself into a big winter coat.
In front of the camera, Qigu looked miserable. He pulled up his hood and tightened his coat. He was in his slippers. I told him that I needed to readjust the camera angle to avoid his slippers.
“I am cold!” Qigu cried. “I am going back inside!”
“We are almost done! Ready? Set? Here I come! Say ‘cheese’!” I released the auto-timer button and rushed to stand next to Qigu.
I offered the camera a big happy smile. I held the smile until I heard a clicking sound.
Qigu ran toward the door.
“Wait!” I cried. “One more shot just in case!”
The photo didn’t turn out the way I wanted because Qigu looked unhappy.
I had wanted to send the photo to my family in China, but Qigu’s expression made me abandon the idea. There was too much misery on his face. People would question. I knew my parents would. They would wonder where his expression came from.
I ended up sending a letter instead. I described how happy I was about the marriage. I didn’t mention that there were no rings, no souvenirs, and no flowers. I didn’t mention the judge. I faked a happy ending by telling everyone the news of my pregnancy. “The wedding photo didn’t turn out,” I wrote. “The negative was defective.”
I received my parents’ blessing. They were thrilled about my pregnancy. “Your mother has started knitting a baby sweater,” my father wrote.
A friend who worked at a Chicago health clinic offered a free ultrasound exam as a gift when I was about four months pregnant. Asked if I would like to know the sex of the baby, I said, “Sure.” I was certain that I would be told that I carried a male. When the fetus appeared to be a female, I said, “Look again!”
Upon returning home, I devoured books on pregnancy. I clung to one author who said in a footnote that there were cases in which ultrasounds had failed to accurately predict the sex of the baby.
By the end of summer 1991, I finished revising my manuscript and sent it to my publisher. I was seven months pregnant. I continued to work with Qigu on the building, because the city inspector kept issuing violations. The reinspection deadline for the front staircase was approaching, and there was still much work to do. I had meant to finish the job long ago, but Qigu kept coming up with excuses. What worried me was that we had already removed the rotted boards, so there were gaping h
oles that were tricky to navigate. If tenants forgot to be careful, they might fall from the second floor.
I told Qigu that the longer we waited, the less I would be physically able to help.
Qigu started to sleep late after we got married, usually not rising until lunchtime. I kept reminding him about the upcoming city inspection, and he kept ignoring me.
I decided to do the job myself. It was after the lumberyard truck dropped off the eight-foot-long replacement boards in front of our building. I dragged the heavy boards from the curb to the staircase one by one. With my big belly, I was soon out of breath. I apologized to the baby inside: “It’s something Mommy has to do.”
It took two hours for me to stack the boards next to the stairway. I was sweating heavily. I pulled up my hood to avoid getting a chill.
Measuring and cutting the boards was easier. I then started to nail them down. The noise of hammering drew Bruno out of his apartment. He watched me with a beer in his hand.
“You don’t want to lose the baby!” Bruno said to me.
“Thank you, Bruno!”
“Where is your husband?” Bruno asked.
I gave no reply. What could I say? “Sleeping”?
I continued to hammer down the three-inch nails. By now my palm hurt and my arm was sore.
Helen came yelling. “For Christ’s sake, you’re going to have a miscarriage!”
I felt a stir inside my belly. I prayed that my baby was undisturbed.
In the middle of my hammering I heard Qigu’s voice. He came out in his slippers and pajamas. He was waving his arms above his head. Bruno and Helen were standing behind him.
“Why do you do this to me?” Qigu shouted. “You are putting on a show! You want everyone to think that I am a bad husband!”
By now I no longer bothered to argue with Qigu. He always had his reasons for doing things or not doing things. Failing the city’s reinspection meant more fines. The trouble would not go away. The citations would keep coming and the charges would double.