I Love a Broad Margin to My Life Read online

  stateline at South Shore Lake Tahoe,

  travel Highway 50, the Loneliest Road

  in America. Objective correlative everywhere—

  lonely Sierras, lonely turkey buzzards, lonely

  railroad tracks, ghost towns, lone

  pines. You can stay on Highway 50

  all the way across the U.S.

  of A., but they turn off in Reno.

  Husband and wife walk its streets hand-in-

  hand; they keep ahold of each other;

  they could divorce in an instant. They arrive

  in the middle of Mario Ah Sing the Real’s

  Magic Show. (The father a mere monkey,

  a trickster; the son a magician of the actual.)

  There he is—our dear, only son.

  Father and mother feel shock, thrill

  at sight of him—grown, a man, a strange-

  looking man. It’s the Hapa eyes;

  he’s got the epicanthic fold and

  the double lid. The better to see you with,

  my dear. Mario spots his parents

  heading in the dark for the last empty table.

  And his patter changes. He is strange-

  sounding too, his voice deep even as a

  hairy baby. “… Raised in Hawai‘i, no

  picnic. Too much da kine. Da

  bad kine. You dink it’s all

  aloha, you got another dink

  coming, Haole. Take dees, Haole.

  Take dat, Ho’ohaole.” He socks,

  he punches, takes socks, takes punches that

  clobber him against invisible walls. The audience

  laughs “But. Yet. On the other hand—”

  shaking out each sleeve of China Man gown.

  Nada up his sleeves. “—the wahine are beautiful.

  I love the wahine, and some of them have loved me.

  They swam out to meet my ship.” He

  chants spooky-voice mele, calls

  upon his ‘aumākua—and a hula girl

  appears out of nowhere / somewhere. She

  hula hula up to him, her hands

  making the “ ‘ama‘ama-come-swimming-to-me”

  moves. Mario the Real snags a rope

  of flowers in air, raises them above her head,

  places them around her neck and shoulders. See?

  No strings, no mirrors, no

  hologram. Upon being circled, the Little

  Brown Gal (in the little grass skirt)

  says, “Aloha-a-a, Mario,” and on the long

  out-breath becomes air. The flower

  lei falls to the floor. The audience applauds.

  “Aloha to you too,” says Mario. “A fine how

  do you do. Hello goodbye.” He confides

  to one and all, strangers and family alike:

  “I’ve just been dumped. My wahine alohaed me.

  Auwe! It hurts. Aiya!

  My chi is broken. Aiya!” He lifts

  his elbows; his arms dangle—broken wings.

  The poor parents just about cry.

  Oh, our son, our only child hurts

  so bad, he presents his pain

  for all to see. Oh, the guilt—to’ve raised

  him among Hawai‘i’s violent people and heart-

  breaking girls of every race. “Auwe-e-

  e-e. Ai-ya-a-a.” And pidgin-speakers

  teaching him to howl and yowl and keen. Our fault.

  We should’ve stayed in California, mainland,

  home after all. Having a kid

  gets you running the hamster wheel.

  But the audience is aiya-ing and auwe-ing.

  He has an audience, and they’re with him, mourning along.

  “My penultimate gal, Lori, girlfriend-

  before-last, had the ring I gave her assayed.

  Assayed?! I’d give her a fake?!

  ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘not fake.

  It’s good—twenty-five hundred

  dollars. Oh, Mālei. Oh,

  Mai’a mālei, I love you.’

  No, you don’t, Lori. You don’t

  love me. You had me assayed.” The poor

  parents should’ve broken him out of magic.

  But he keeps truck with the Little People

  (who live in the rocks at the edges of old gardens).

  The sharma thrush was his ‘aumākua. The pair

  that lived in the Surinam cherry hopped in the grass

  behind his feet, sang on branches above

  his head. All day they sang him night-

  ingale songs. All year they flashed him

  Hallowe’en colors. Now he plays

  clubs and lounges—like night all the time.

  Mario the Real uncoils a length of rope.

  “This cowboy rope belonged to a paniolo

  I rode with on the Big Island. Most likely

  any old rope will do.

  I throw it into the air like so—and something

  or someone catches it. I can feel him or her

  or it grab ahold. I better go

  exploring, and see … ” He shinnies up the tense

  rope, lifts one foot, sets it down,

  then the other, sets it solidly down,

  and pulls himself into the invisible.

  Mario does not reappear for a curtain call.

  The audience waits a stretch of dead time, then

  disbands, wanders, examines the rope, which

  collapses on the floor, an ordinary thing.

  Such relief when the missing son (Oh,

  too many dead sons!) in regular

  T-shirt and jeans exits the side door

  into the parking lot in daylight.

  Those who’ve seen a baby erupt into being

  will ever after fear that he’ll as suddenly

  slide, slip, crash out of life. Now

  you see him, now you don’t.

  Father and mother both have nightmares—

  war, the war, the wars happening at this

  very instant. A missile drops from the star-

  warring sky. A rocket shoots up

  out of the mined earth. Harming our child,

  who is all the ages he’s ever been. Shrapnel

  rips through his face, his baby-fat cheeks,

  his goateed chin. His mother holds

  his head. His father holds his hands—

  they’ve been chopped off. The magician’s hands

  chopped off. Don’t try to comfort me,

  that it’s only a dream, only a dream.

  I answer for what I dream. Kuleana hana.

  Our son was born year of the Rabbit.

  The character rabbit under the character forest

  under the radical home equals the word

  magic. It’s all right that he didn’t graduate

  from a 4-year college, didn’t become

  an engineer. Admire the magician most

  of all the artists. He makes something out of

  nothing, can himself become nothing.

  The Ah Sing

  family is together again; the parents hug

  and kiss their grown son; he hugs and kisses

  them back. You are safe. You are safe.

  “Happy birthday, Dad. Howzit feel

  turning sixty?” The father takes a deep

  breath, and answers his son, “Old. I feel

  old. I am old. No. No.

  I don’t mean my looks. People of color

  revenge: We always look good.

  I feel time. It’s like a wind

  cutting through my skin and insides. When

  I was your age, time and I moved

  at the same rate. I was in time. I went

  with the music. The ancestors say: In China,

  time moves slow like yearly rice, andante.

  Chan / Zen has been working for 2,500

  years to stop time—get that now-moment

  down. I want to be where no
-beginning–

  no-end. I’m not good at staying put.

  The older I get, the more tripping out

  and flashbacks. I live again feelings

  I’ve already gone through. Pink

  embarrassments, red guilts, purple guilts.

  I see your life too. Your life flashes

  before me. I look at you, my son,

  and you are every age. I saw you being

  born, face first. I saw your face,

  eyes, mouth tight, then maw!

  You were mouth, all mouth—red

  tunnel into a universe. Then I saw

  your whole body, your hairy little wet

  body—you were so small, how

  can you make your way in the world? How

  could I, myself small, safeguard you?

  I saw you—I see you—sit up—an owlet

  in a nest, blinking big eyes at me, at everything,

  ears perky, hair perky. You

  were not a cuddle baby. You kicked and punched

  out of swaddling, out of diapers, out

  of the little gown. You sledded down the stairs

  in your walker, bawled at the bottom—alive! You

  said, ‘My eyes are little, but I can see

  so-o-o much!’ Your toddling down-

  hill faster and faster, and not falling.

  Your announcing, ‘I am Second Bull

  of Second Grade.’ Oh, I just now

  got it—you were in a fight. You

  came out second. I saw you

  take your time running the bases—you hit

  three men home. Grand slam!

  Your popping up out of the ocean—

  alive! Rell Sunn the Queen of Makaha

  was watching too. Your concentrating for an hour

  on the written driver’s test. Your telling us that

  you obey the law, you registered for the Draft.

  I am constantly remembering you.” Meaning,

  I am constantly loving you. I am constantly

  worried about you. Old people suffer,

  too much feeling, shaking with feeling,

  love and grief over too many dear ones,

  and rage at all that harms and hurts them.

  “Mario, I’m going to China. No,

  no, I don’t mean I’m going to die there,

  home with the ancestors. I’m curious to know

  who I am alone among a billion three

  hundred million strangers who look like me.

  I am Monkey of Changes.” Hero of the talk-

  stories that he raised his son on.

  “I regret I missed the Revolution, and ongoing

  revolutions. I was kept busy claiming

  this country. ‘Love it or leave it.’ ‘Chink,

  go back to China, Chink.’ I had to

  claim my place, root down, own

  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,

  lispi
ng 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 shut

  them out, they shut us out.

  Even Canada, even Mexico.

  (But here’s a deal, brokered by our office

  of Homeland Security: 39,000

  visas back to China for aliens and/or

  refugees. Can you trust that?)

  Wait in line at the Applications window,

  come back next week to Payment,

  then Pick Up. In plain sight is money

  heaped on a table, piles of banded bills

  and loose bills. We’re the rich; we saved up

  for years, for lifetimes, able to afford

  travel to the other side of the world.

  The form asks for one’s “Chinese name.”

  At last, I’ve got a use for the Chinese name.

  Space to write it 2 different ways:

  characters and alphabet.

  Hong Ting Ting. The poet Liu Shahe,

  who sings Walt Whitman, sang my name,

  “Tong Ting Ting, the sound of pearls,

  big pearl and little pearls falling

  into a jade bowl bell.” His fingers formed

  pearls and dropped them into his cupped hand.

  Now Wittman writes his Chinese name:

  Chung Fu. Center Truth. When I first

  imagined him, I gave him that name

  as a brother name to my son’s,

  Chung Mei. Center Beauty. My son,

  child of Center Nation and Beautiful Nation.

  Hexagram 61 of the I Ching

  is Chung Fu, Center Truth. Don’t

  believe those who tell you Chinese

  have no word for truth. (Ha Jin

  told me “we” have no word for truth,

  nor privacy, nor identity.) Truth’s pictograph

  is the claw radical over the child radical.

  Americans understand, eagle snatches

  Truth in talons. But to the Chinese,

  the brooding mothering bird’s feet gently

  hold the hatchling’s head. A cap of eggshell

  clings to baby Truthie’s fontanel.

  The superior person broods the truth. And if

  his words are well spoken, he meets with assent—

  dui dui dui dui—at a distance

  of more than 1,000 miles. We won our visas.

  Our names are legal, and we win countries.

  Though we Chinese and we Americans

  shouldn’t need passports and visas

  to cross each other’s borders and territories.

  President Grant and Emperor Tongzhi

  signed a treaty giving freedom of travel—

  “for purposes of curiosity, of trade, or

  as permanent residents.” The right to curiosity!