How Sweet the Bitter Soup Read online

  how

  sweet

  the

  bitter

  soup

  Copyright © 2019, Lori Qian

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-614-5 ISBN: 978-1-63152-615-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934765

  For information, address: She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

  To Abraham, Annabelle, and Alex: Remember to hold to the sweet things in life, and use the bitter, which inevitably comes, to learn and grow. Thank you for believing in me. I love you more than you can imagine. Love, Mom

  And, of course, to William: Without you, there isn’t a story. Thank you for the bitter soup, and for adding so much joy to my life.

  chapter 1

  Getting married in China is nothing like what we’re used to in America. For a foreign woman to marry a Chinese man is highly complicated at best—in fact, it is nearly impossible. On February 16, 2002, William and I became the ninth American/Chinese couple to get married in Hubei province. Not the ninth that month, that year, or in the last decade. The ninth. Period. As I sat there with William, the steam from the soup warming my face while I held tight to that marriage certificate, my mind drifted back to how this all began.

  The car seemed to have a mind of its own, perhaps wanting me to think things through before making any rash decisions, but I was done thinking. I knew what I wanted. Sort of. I wanted to go to China. But I needed to talk to Dad first. I wanted to sit down with him and explain this rare and special opportunity that had been presented to me. I wanted him to understand how important it would be for me to go, to accept this job, to do something for myself, to see what my future could be. I wanted him to be happy for me, to wish me well in this adventure. But I knew that wouldn’t happen. It simply wasn’t possible.

  Last time I had visited—Sunday dinner just six days earlier—he had thought I was the neighbor’s daughter. Not his and Mom’s current neighbor, mind you, but Sue Frocks, our neighbor from fifteen years earlier, when we lived in a small white house on the outskirts of Wisconsin Rapids.

  This idea to go to China seemed perfectly normal when I could pretend my parents were not old, or poor, or sick. The reality, though, was that they didn’t have enough money to support themselves, and it was up to me to close the gap between their rent and their social security allowance. The even more painful reality was that my dad was no longer playing his guitar, solving logic puzzles, or reading eight-hundred-page books; he simply wasn’t able. Instead, he was a fragile man whose Alzheimer’s had taken over all of our lives.

  When I pulled up to their apartment, I hoped I wouldn’t find him wandering outside, as I had two weeks earlier. On that day, he’d been walking around looking for their apartment. Worse than that, he had forgotten to put his pants on before embarking on this little stroll.

  “I was trying to find Sparks. It was always here on this corner.” He slowly lifted his finger and his gaze, pointing at nothing.

  “I know, Dad,” I said as I took him by the arm. “Let’s go inside.”

  Sparks was a grocery store in Starbucks, Washington, his childhood home. My childhood was filled with stories relating back to this town. I thought then, as I walked my father into the house, that I wished I’d taken the time to visit his childhood home so that he could have shown me the places he loved and remembered.

  Thinking of this moment, I was reminded that I needed to arrange full-time care for him, or Mom would need to quit her job. She’d been working as a nanny for the same family for ten years, and she was struggling to make ends meet. I told myself, though, that accepting this job in China, where I’d be earning a good salary, would enable to me to help her do just that. If we could just make it through until then.

  I opened the door to the apartment and was relieved to find Dad sitting at the kitchen table, eating toast. He was wearing clean blue sweat pants and a black cable-knit sweater that was a hand-me-down from me. He’d lost enough weight that he could now fit into all those once-fashionable, oversized men’s sweaters I’d bought years earlier. He looked like a child sitting on a big kitchen chair, carefully using two hands to bring the buttered toast to his mouth.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I said, closing the door behind me.

  “Hiiii,” he said, dragging out the word. He’d done this ever since his first stroke. I’d become used to it. All the changes in his speech had been hard to deal with at first, but I didn’t mind it so much lately. His new mode of speech made every word sound more sincere, like it was trying to stay in the air a little longer.

  “How are you, Dad?” I asked, kissing the top of his bald head, my arm around his shoulder.

  He looked up with a slow smile that began in his glossy eyes.

  I realized I’d caught him on a good day. I moved around the kitchen, putting things away, listening to him, testing to see how coherent he was. I’d already told him I wanted to go to China when I’d called from Vancouver. I’d attended an International Teaching Conference there several days before. He’d said that was nice and then passed the phone to Mom. I knew it had not hit him, and I was sure he had no memory now of that conversation. I hoped that maybe, just maybe, if I sat down and told him in person, it might sink in. I prepared myself for two possibilities: either a blank stare or extreme sadness.

  As I played out these possibilities in my mind, he shuffled toward his bedroom, sliding his hand along the wall for support. I guessed he was going to lie down, which was okay. He needed more rest. I could help with the laundry and dishes while he slept, and maybe I could come up with a fantastic way to tell him without hurting him in the process.

  Just then I heard his voice behind me: “Lori, come and show me where you’re going.”

  I spun around, almost dropping the plate in my hand. I caught it just in time and was shocked to see him holding his globe. This was what he had gone to the bedroom for. Tears came to my eyes. I could not remember the last time I’d heard such a clear sentence come out of his mouth. And to ask me this question meant he remembered my calling from the conference. That was days ago. How could he possibly remember?

  I knelt down beside him and spun the globe. Wiping a tear away, I pointed to Guangzhou. “It’s right here, Dad. That’s the place I want to go.”

  He looked intently at the globe without speaking. He touched Guangzhou and slid his finger all the way up to the top of the globe, and then down the other side. He stopped right on Chicago.

  “The other side of the world,” he said. His grin was thoughtful.

  I stared at my father. He knew exactly who I was and exactly what I needed from him. He was doing just what he’d always done as a father.

  “I think you should go to China,” he said.

  “You do, Dad?” I asked, catching my breath.

  “You really do?” I was hoping I’d heard him correctly.


  He raised his eyes from the globe to my face. “I really do.”

  I could feel the tears streaming down my face, then falling from my chin—tears of gratitude for my dad’s brief moment of clarity when I needed it most. I had no idea what my future held, but now that I had my dad’s blessing, there was one thing I knew for sure: I was going to China.

  chapter 2

  My body felt like a water tank, all swishy and huge. I’d never been on a flight that lasted over three hours; fifteen hours was a shock. Every single body part seemed to be swollen to five times its normal size, my feet being the most obvious example.

  It felt good to stand up, let the numbness dissipate from my extremities, and realize that I had arrived. Now that I’d landed in the People’s Republic of China, I had no idea what to expect. I felt perfectly content, though—not an ounce of anxiety.

  People seemed to be in an incredible hurry to get off the plane, so I jumped right in and pushed along with them toward the exit. I could see the bus that had come to meet all the passengers. This was different. I was used to exiting a plane directly into the airport. The crowd seemed to move as one body, each of the appendages trying desperately to stay connected to the core. Stepping onto the bus, I looked around, curious as to whether there were any other foreigners. Not a one. For some reason, this fact made me smile. I felt brave and adventurous, like the person I’d always wanted to be.

  Walking from the bus to the terminal, I finally felt the thick air and noticed the heavy clouds. It was not yet six o’clock in the morning, but already the day was hot and muggy. My clothes stuck to me. Between the plane and the bus, the heat was oppressive enough to make my clothes wet and seemingly glued right to my skin. I didn’t mind.

  The airport looked nothing like my previous notion of an airport. The walls were cement and unpainted. The interior was sparse. I felt as if I were looking at an abandoned building that had once been an airport; it was hard to believe that this was an actual airport in a very large Asian city. The customs counter resembled a big metal box and was not permanently affixed to the floor. Just beyond the customs counter was the luggage carousel, and that was the extent of the international arrivals terminal.

  I must have looked a bit lost, because a security guard caught my eye and pointed me in the right direction. The first thing I noticed about this man was his waist. It was so small that his belt was wrapped around almost twice. He did not look to be a day over twelve, yet something about him suggested he was actually quite a bit older than that. His dark brown eyes stared out from under his uniformed cap and he extended an arm toward the counter. He didn’t really need to, of course, since there was really no place else to go except the customs line, but he seemed to want to help. He tried to look stern, but as I smiled and said my best “xie xie” he cracked a smile and nodded. He was still smiling, I think, as I took my place at the end of the long line.

  Again I was aware that I felt completely at ease. I thought it might be the jet lag, but whatever the source, I could not believe how relaxed I was. I felt sure that later the homesickness or culture shock would set in, but in that moment, I was simply myself. I had been in this country less than thirty minutes and already felt an excitement about being there that was hard to contain. I handed my passport to the customs official and waited for my chance to pass through to the luggage carousel.

  Somehow, all that mattered at that moment was that I was here. I was in China.

  I gathered my luggage, which was only two large suitcases and a backpack. After managing to get it on a cart, I made my way to the exit, where I saw Kassie right away.

  Kassie had hired me the previous spring at the conference I’d attended in Vancouver. We’d spoken on the phone a couple of times since then, and I had felt very comfortable speaking with her. I was genuinely happy to see her outside the airport gates, waiting to take me to my new home. I gave her a hug.

  I thought I knew what Chinese people looked like. I realized now how wrong I had been, because nobody looked like anybody else. Yes, the people around me all had black hair and dark eyes, but even just leaving the airport, I saw such different features and body types. Nobody was overweight, of course, but some people were much taller than others, while some were relatively short and stocky.

  As we pushed my cart through the door, we almost ran over an older man who was squatting down eating an orange.

  “Sorry,” I said—in English, as if that were appropriate—and he fell right over. His wiry frame and weathered skin stood out to me, as did his big straw hat, rolled up pants, open shirt, and sandals.

  As he caught his balance, he let out a laugh and revealed a big, almost completely toothless grin. I couldn’t help grinning back.

  “Ni kan!” he shouted to his buddy. “Ni kan! Wai guo ren!” (Look at the foreigners!)

  His friend, along with many other people, did indeed look as the two of us kept walking. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, of course, but Kassie could, and she filled me in.

  “You’ll have to get used to that,” she said.

  “People staring, you mean?”

  “Yes, it can take some getting used to. Some of these people have never seen a foreigner, and it really shocks them when they do.”

  Other people, it seemed, were oblivious to us, and I asked Kassie why that was.

  “Well, businesspeople and those who have traveled abroad are used to seeing foreigners. But a lot of the people you’ll see— the workers, like that man by the door, he’s probably from the countryside.”

  Kassie and I crossed the busy parking lot, and I had to keep reminding myself that it was not even seven o’clock in the morning. There were people everywhere, and I was borderline giddy with excitement. I tried to play it cool in front of Kassie, but inside I was like a child, mesmerized by what others did not even seem to notice.

  As we maneuvered my cart of luggage across the street, Kassie looked at me and smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “It’s great to be here,” I said, and I meant it.

  As we approached a van, Kassie pointed out the driver, Liu, and introduced us. It was clear he was a man of few words. He gave a quick “ni bao,” swiftly put my luggage into the back of the van, and pointed toward the seats.

  It was a basic utility van, with metal floors but comfortable seats. I would soon learn that this was very nice transportation compared to some of the other modes common to the area.

  When we got in the van, Kassie introduced me to Cindy, the assistant principal of the school, and two other new teachers, along with their daughter, who had come in on the same flight. Since it was a huge flight, and I’d never met them before, of course, and we hadn’t even noticed each other until now.

  Kassie spoke to Liu in what I assumed was Chinese, and I was genuinely impressed. She told me that she had learned Mandarin when she’d served a mission for our church in Taiwan. I was familiar with this, of course, being born and raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Missionary work for young people is significant in our belief system. I hadn’t served a mission—a choice I regretted a bit, since I knew it was a life-changing experience for those who did.

  Kassie and Cindy wanted to give us a quick tour of Guangzhou before heading home. This gave me a chance to learn a bit about each of my new colleagues. There was Kassie, of course, who was starting her third year at the school. She was from Idaho but had lived and taught in China for years. Cindy was a retired school teacher from Nevada. The other new teachers, Sherry and Terry, were a couple and had just taught for a year in Hangzhou, where they’d adopted a little girl, Mei Li.

  As we drove toward the city, Cindy told us that Guangzhou was one of the most prosperous cities in China. My senses were so overloaded with information from the sounds and voices around me that I was unable to form an immediate impression of the area. I saw a McDonald’s or KFC every few minutes, along with countless little boutiques selling Western products; there were even bakeries selli
ng cupcakes and French bread. I could smell foods that I didn’t yet have a name for, and I was taking in noises I couldn’t yet describe.

  Our first stop was an extravagant, ultra-modern, elegant hotel.

  “This is the Garden Hotel,” Kassie said. “When you take the bus from the Estates to Guangzhou, there are several different stops, but the Garden Hotel stop is a popular one. You’d get off right here.” She pointed to the intersection. “Whenever I come to Guangzhou, this is my first stop. We love to come here to buy bread and goodies when we’re craving something from home.”

  Kassie just kept smiling at me. She had a very calm manner about her.

  Cindy, on the other hand, was nice enough, but rather loud. “Now, Lori,” she interjected, “the other reason you will want to come here is to use the Western-style toilet. Anywhere else you go, you’ll have to squat.” She laughed loudly. “Do you know what a squatter is?”

  “I’ve never seen one,” I said, “but the name goes a long way.”

  At this, Sherry and Terry both let out a laugh. Terry would tell me several months later that his first impression of me was that I was so calm, that I had this easy-going look about me, as if I were thinking, Yeah, I’m in China now, just taking it all in.

  As we walked into the hotel, a doorman greeted us with a “good afternoon” in perfect English. I had to stand still for a few moments as I took in an extraordinary mural before me. It took up the entire wall, and I could not take my eyes off it. It seemed to depict a story: there were figures in each scene doing different kinds of work—harvesting, sewing, carrying large baskets, the scenery changing according to the task. As I looked closer, I could see that the intricate design was done in solid gold. I moved on to admire the elaborate water fountain and stare at the boutiques selling things like TIME magazine and Liz Claiborne perfume. The five-star hotel was nicer than any building I’d ever seen in my life.