Lauryann got her way and jumped. The cold water shocked her. When she resurfaced from the water, she screamed. “Mommy! Mommy!”
I let the moment sink in a bit before I helped her out of the water. I wrapped her with a towel and held her. When she stopped trembling, I asked, “What did you learn?”
“Lis … listen to Mommy.”
In another instance, Lauryann went walking in a mosquito-infested area when we visited one of China’s rural villages. She not only wore shorts but also refused to apply the mosquito spray. I had to force myself not to interfere in order to allow Lauryann a chance to learn. And she did. She would never again leave the motel without the mosquito spray. I must admit that it tortured me to think that Lauryann could be exposing herself to malaria.
I had to constantly remind myself not to clip Lauryann’s wings. When Lauryann told me that she was sick of practicing ballet in the church parking lot, I allowed her to quit. As a result, she fumbled her steps at the American Dance Competition and missed the gold medal by a few points. Her ballet teacher, who was trained in China, refused to believe that Lauryann had done her best.
“If you had practiced enough,” the teacher said, “you wouldn’t have messed up the steps. The movement would have become second nature, and you would have won.”
Lauryann broke down in tears and admitted the teacher was right.
For my forty-sixth birthday, I asked Lauryann for a gift. I wanted her to learn to change a car tire. She was eleven years old. I got the idea from a news story about a mother dying of cancer who made videotapes preparing her children. I said to Lauryann, “In case I die in an accident tomorrow, I’d like to know that I did my best to prepare you.”
I sat next to Lauryann as we removed the tire from my car. Lauryann wasn’t happy, but she did it to please me. I let her know that it was the best birthday gift I received that year.
I have been learning from my American daughter ever since she started kindergarten. At a parent-teacher conference, the teacher said, “There is not one mean bone in Lauryann’s little body.” My daughter was praised for making friends with a handicapped boy named Wilson, whose head shape was severely deformed.
“Other kids stayed away, but Lauryann befriended him,” the teacher reported. “She’s been by his side, and they’re doing everything together.”
“It’s very kind of you to befriend Wilson,” I said to Lauryann. “I am proud of you.”
“Mom, Wilson was the one,” Lauryann replied.
“What do you mean, ‘Wilson was the one’?”
“Wilson was the kind one, not me.”
I was surprised to find out that no one played with Lauryann. Wilson was the one who offered his friendship.
It was an ordinary afternoon when Lauryann returned home from school. She announced that she was in love with biology. She was in fourth grade.
I wanted to kowtow to her teacher. I wanted to thank the teacher for helping my daughter believe in herself. Lauryann’s shortcomings in math and science had worried me for years. There were no sweeter words to my ears than hearing Lauryann say, “I love biology!”
I understood that I could lead the cow to the river, but that I couldn’t force it to drink. If there was anything I was passionate about and worked at the hardest, it was pushing Lauryann as much as I could without breaking her spirit.
“Try to see if you can make the p-trap work. I am afraid this is a job for a master plumber!” I repeated to Lauryann the line I had composed and rehearsed many times.
Another example: “What an improvement on climbing the math Everest! My test score on this would have been a big goose egg.”
When Lauryann tried to decide her field of interest, I offered “advice” in an animated tone. “A salesgirl might suit you better. Biology? To be a doctor? That’s too hard!”
I was thrilled when my daughter gave me the shut-up-and-go-away-Mom look. It was just the reaction I’d hoped for, and I was ecstatic when she defied me by signing up for all the classes I had “suggested” that she avoid, like math, computer science, and mechanical engineering. Although she didn’t do well, the experience and exposure were invaluable.
I read Lauryann the Chinese story “The Marriage of the River God” around the time she was learning about Dr. Frankenstein. My story was about how an ancient Chinese judge fought against superstition. He stopped the practice of drowning children as offerings to the river god. As I read on, I imagined Lauryann on a mission as a medical worker. I imagined her walking through darkness and crossing the desert on a moonless night to reach a remote corner of the earth to save lives. I couldn’t help entertaining the thought.
Lloyd, on the other hand, made up his mind to play the bad cop. When Lauryann asked him to pick her up at a sporting event and she was a few minutes late, Lloyd drove away even as Lauryann appeared jumping and waving in his rearview mirror. Lloyd refused to go easy on her. “In real life, the train doesn’t wait,” he said to her. “You had a cell phone, and you could have notified me ahead of time that you’d be late.”
Lloyd’s method became ineffective when Lauryann became a teen. He installed a flip lock on the inside of the front door so Lauryann wouldn’t be able to enter even with the key. Lloyd expected Lauryann to arrive home on time as promised. She was not allowed to stay out past 10:30 at night on weekends. A few times, Lauryann arrived late and did not call. She knocked on the door, but Lloyd refused to open it. For the sake of a united front I felt that I had no choice but to stay on Lloyd’s side, although my heart went out to Lauryann.
Instead of begging, Lauryann called her friends. She ended up spending the night at a friend’s house. There, with her friend’s “normal” parents, she received sympathy and a bowl of popcorn.
When Lauryann was two years old I took her to China, hoping she would learn to appreciate her life in America. Lauryann had so much fun that she fell in love with China. She went back every year for the next sixteen years.
My motherland had been transformed in the decade since I had left. In Shanghai, a magnificent skyline, fashionable boutiques, and fancy restaurants had replaced the old residential area where I grew up. The modern, high-tech subway system was more efficient than those in Europe. Every relative and friend we visited lived a prosperous life. Although they complained about job stress, the rising cost of food and utilities, the government bureaucracy, and not enough money saved in the bank, each of them had a roof over their head, a full belly, a private living space, and a toilet of their own.
Compared to the homeless population on the streets of Bombay, New York, and San Francisco, Shanghai’s homeless population seemed nonexistent. I was fooled by a blind homeless person begging at a train station. I meant to teach Lauryann a lesson in compassion and asked her to hand out five yuan, but Lauryann discovered the blind person was a con artist. He not only wasn’t blind—we later saw him counting the money—but he was also a thief who was busy the next day at the corner of a crowded intersection, picking people’s purses.
The best part of Lauryann’s experiences in China was that they gave her a more balanced view of China than was taught in American classrooms. The TV news and the school textbooks portrayed China as it used to be, a backward country. Lauryann’s classmates even asked her, “Is it time for your arranged marriage?”
It was pointless when Lauryann explained, “Chinese people no longer wear Mao suits, work in labor camps, and have no freedom!” The class, including the teacher, refused to believe her.
Lauryann decided to make a point. Every day she put on a fashion show with clothes she bought in China. She became the envy of her fashion-minded high school girlfriends. The sexy outfits she wore were what they all dreamed of wearing. Getting a kick out of it, Lauryann kept on. She enjoyed telling the girls that she purchased all her clothes and accessories in “poverty-stricken Communist China” at a cost that was one tenth of America’s prices. Finally, the teacher teased, “Goodness, Lauryann, when is this fashion parade going to end??
??
Lloyd believed that Lauryann needed to “correct” and “sharpen” the lens through which she viewed her happiness. “Look at those TVs,” Lloyd said. “Products are designed to be immensely appealing, attractive, and addictive to children. Your generation grew up with the message that if you truly love someone, you buy him stuff! The TV commercial says, Love your baby? Buy her milk with calcium. Love your teen boy? Buy him a car. Love your girlfriend or wife? Buy her a diamond. Love yourself? Buy a face-lift or liposuction surgery. Love your grandchildren? Buy life insurance. Love your family? Buy a vacation package! Then the kids feel punished if they don’t get stuff from their parents!”
I was amazed watching Lloyd prepare Lauryann for reality. “You’ll be lucky to end up doing what you don’t hate,” he said. “Only on TV do most people appear to love what they do. Look, the smiling delivery man, the smiling janitor, the smiling grocery man, the smiling night-shift security guard. Yeah, he’s so happy not to be able to have dinner with his family … It’s not that your mother is such an idiot that she doesn’t know how to reward herself and spend money. Tell your daughter, Anchee, what your dreams are besides turning your backyard into a Chinese flower garden.”
“Well, I’d like to buy myself piano lessons,” I began. “I’d like to build up a collection of art books, build a painting studio with a large easel on rollers and a matching paint tray, dress in fashionable designer clothes, learn to dance, join a gym and keep fit …”
“I know. Mom is saving for my college instead,” Lauryann said.
“She’s willing to let go of all her dreams for you,” Lloyd said.
“I am her dream!” Lauryann said.
“That’s correct. But my point is that don’t ever think that all your mother knew and wanted was to be a bolt in a machine!”
I was grateful that Lloyd voiced my thoughts. Besides telling Lauryann endless stories about Alexander the Great, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, Lloyd helped me instill in Lauryann the ambition to become a scholar athlete.
“Life is yours to make,” he said. “My mother was told that I would never be able to read or write because of my dyslexia. But she told me that she had lost my brother to illiteracy and was not about to give up on me. She beat me with a coat hanger and forced me to learn to read, and she succeeded.”
“You’re not going to use a coat hanger on me, are you, Lloydee?” Lauryann teased. “Hey, how about peaceful coexistence?”
“Never!”
In 2003, Lloyd came down with a series of severe sinus infections that continued for the next few years. He continued teaching while on antibiotics. The virus invaded his lungs, and he was diagnosed with bronchitis. The air in the classroom bothered Lloyd so much that he had difficulty breathing. The doctor gave him an inhaler that contained steroids. At home, he had difficulty sleeping. He wheezed all night. I had little idea of the seriousness of Lloyd’s condition. I encouraged him to keep working because he was only a couple years away from retirement. Then one day, I called Lloyd after his last class and I could barely hear him.
“Why are you whispering?” I asked.
Lloyd struggled to speak, but there was no voice. I realized that the classroom environment was destroying him. Every day he taught five classes one after another with a five-minute break between them. Lloyd was so exhausted that his body was unable to heal. The respiratory infection grew worse, but Lloyd kept returning to the classroom. He told me that he had no choice—the students took advantage of the substitute teachers. “They know the sub is not there to stay.”
Extremely concerned, I went to see him at about six o’clock in the evening after the students had gone for the day. The campus was empty and quiet. I knocked on his classroom door and discovered that the door wasn’t locked. I pushed it open, and to my horror I saw a person with the head of a beast sitting behind the front desk.
It was my husband, and he was wearing a gas mask that covered his face.
Removing the mask, Lloyd said it helped filter whatever was in the classroom air that made him sick. With the mask on, he could breathe without wheezing. He didn’t want to scare the students so he wore the gas mask only when he was alone in the room. He had been correcting papers and working on the next day’s lesson plan.
I begged Lloyd to quit. I insisted that he retire immediately. We had witnessed two of Lloyd’s best friends and fellow teachers die of cancer soon after they retired. I’d rather my husband lose some of his pension than die at his post. After he retired in 2005, his sinus and respiratory infections stopped.
“Pole? What? Vault? What’s pole-vaulting?” I asked Lauryann. “Is it a legitimate sport? How come I have never heard of it?” The only thing I could relate to a pole was the one I used to carry manure in the labor camp.
“Mom, this is what I picked because you and Lloyd insisted that I participate in sports so that I could show that I am ‘well-rounded’ on college applications.” Lauryann would later reveal that the only reason she picked pole-vaulting was because I had no idea what it was and so wouldn’t be able to criticize her.
I was amazed that her coach, Randy, sincerely believed that Lauryann was worthy of his attention. He trained her as if she had Olympic potential. “This would never happen in China,” I told Lloyd. “Kids who do not have an athlete’s build, endurance, and stamina would never get any attention from a coach.”
Under Randy, Lauryann, who was afraid of a fly, would now smile through tears and bruises. In less than three years, Lauryann became an athlete who competed at the state level. She won first place several times and broke the record at the North Coast Section Championships. She jumped higher than twelve feet, one inch. I learned the news from a neighbor who gave me the newspaper that featured a photo of Lauryann as she soared over the bar.
I watched the video Randy sent via YouTube. It captured the moment when Lauryann broke the record. The replay in slow motion detailed her airborne moment. The jump and the midair turn was dancelike. My tears welled up as I watched the clip. Once again I was reminded of what made America great—any ordinary individual stood a chance to fight and win.
I was distressed to discover that sixteen-year-old Lauryann viewed things differently. She described herself as sweet, cheerful, and obedient on the outside and miserable on the inside. Some of this she attributed to her never having gotten over my divorce. The separation from her birth father had left her with persistent feelings of abandonment. I had shared my perspective with Lauryann many times: that my marriage to her father had been ill-fated, that we were unsuited to one another, and that the best thing to come of it had been our daughter, herself. But this was not the story she seemed to need, and she continued to suffer.
To compensate for her loss and to help her build a bridge, I took her to China so that she could bond with Qigu’s parents. For fifteen years, we made the trip across the Pacific Ocean religiously. Yet Lauryann didn’t heal. As close as my relationship was with my daughter, I missed the signals that she was in great mental pain. Because she did not want to hurt my feelings, she always showed her pleasant side.
The explosion came when Lauryann returned from a leadership camp. She told me that she had shared with her fellow campers her deepest emotions, that she had broken down and cried out her pain for the first time.
I was surprised. “What pain?”
“The pain of being abandoned,” she replied.
It was then that I realized that all the talks I’d had with her over the years had not worked. I saw her revelation as an accusation that I had been selfish and cruel to choose divorce. I couldn’t help but feel that Qigu was the problem. He had quit paying child support, but he hadn’t stopped influencing Lauryann. On the rare occasions when he actually made an effort to see his daughter, he tried to convince her that I was the irresponsible parent. He provoked in Lauryann “the grass is greener on the other side of the hill” syndrome. When I let Lauryann visit him in China during the summers, Qigu showered her with affection and gifts. He b
ought her an iPod when it was “cool.” He put her up in a five-star hotel in Beijing that was paid for by one of his admirers. He invited her to exotic banquets and parties where she met with his students, fellow artists, collectors, and critics.
Lauryann realized that she had missed many good times with Qigu. Although she challenged him, criticizing his laziness and bad habits, she took comfort in him. She later admitted that she had fantasized living a different life with Qigu.
Lauryann’s feelings of inadequacy disturbed me. I was upset when she told me that “Qigu’s side of the story made sense.” I had worked hard to control the damage caused by the divorce, but a few days with Qigu, and Lauryann was pushed into a pit of self-pity and self-loathing.
“Instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you ought to feel grateful that you escaped the mess of our marriage,” I said, raising my voice. “Why can’t you see the truth as I see it? Why can’t you take life as it is and deal with it the way I do? When I came to America …”
“Don’t start, Mom, please! I already know your next line. You didn’t speak English, and you had no money and knew nobody … I am aware of what you’ve gone through, but Mom, what I’m experiencing is different—a pain of a different kind and nature. I don’t think you understand. I don’t think you want to understand. I am not supposed to feel this way, I know. I keep reminding myself that I have everything, that I am in good health, that I don’t have leukemia, or HIV, that I am not deformed, my body doesn’t have anything malfunctioning. I have been telling myself to snap out of this sad state, or whatever it is that causes this freaking mental pain. I have been telling myself that I am not broken. Yet I feel broken inside!”
I watched Lauryann and felt terrified.
“Mom, I wish I could understand why I am so needy, so insecure, and so dependent on validation from others. I’ve told myself that this is not who I am. I get sucked into this black hole, and it’s driving me crazy. I am sick of pretending to be perfect. I just want to quit! I have been throwing myself into a steel wall repeatedly thinking that the wall will change into a wall of flowers. I don’t know if you’d ever accept me as who I am. I looked at that YouTube video of a kid who committed suicide and thought, Well, at least he got to end his suffering.”