The Cooked Seed: A Memoir - Rilegato

Min, Anchee

Rilegato

ISBN 10: 1596916982 ISBN 13: 9781596916982

Casa editrice: Bloomsbury Pub Plc USA, 2013

Riassunto

<p>In 1994, Anchee Min made her literary debut with a memoir of growing up in China during the violent trauma of the Cultural Revolution. <i>Red Azalea</i> became an international bestseller and propelled her career as a successful, critically acclaimed author. Twenty years later, Min returns to the story of her own life to give us the next chapter, an immigrant story that takes her from the shocking deprivations of her homeland to the sudden bounty of the promised land of America, without language, money, or a clear path. <br><br>It is a hard and lonely road. She teaches herself English by watching Sesame Street, keeps herself afloat working five jobs at once, lives in unheated rooms, suffers rape, collapses from exhaustion, marries poorly and divorces.But she also gives birth to her daughter, Lauryann, who will inspire her and finally root her in her new country. Min's eventual successes-her writing career, a daughter at Stanford, a second husband she loves-are remarkable, but it is her struggle throughout toward genuine selfhood that elevates this dramatic, classic immigrant story to something powerfully universal.</p>

Su questo libro

Informazioni sull?autore

<b>Anchee Min</b> was born in Shanghai in 1957. At seventeen she was sent to a labor collective, where a talent scout for Madame Mao's Shanghai Film Studio recruited her to work as a movie actress. She moved to the United States in 1984. Her first memoir, <i>Red Azalea</i>, was an international bestseller, published in twenty countries. She has since published six novels, most recently <i>Pearl of China</i>.

Estratto. © Ristampato con autorizzazione. Tutti i diritti riservati.

The Cooked Seed

A MEMOIR

By Anchee Min

BLOOMSBURY

Copyright ©2013 Anchee Min
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-59691-698-2

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The date was August 31, 1984. It was China's midnight andAmerica's morning. I was about to drop out of the sky and landin Chicago. What made me scared and nervous was that I didn'tspeak English and had no money. The five hundred dollars I had foldedin my wallet was borrowed. But I could not let myself be frightened. Iwas twenty-seven years old and life had ended for me in China. I wasMadame Mao's trash, [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII.], which meant that I wasn't worthspit. For eight years, I had worked menial jobs at the Shanghai Film Studio.I was considered a "cooked seed"—no chance to sprout.

Sitting in the airplane crossing the Pacific Ocean, I felt like I wasdreaming with my eyes wide open. I tried to imagine the life ahead ofme, but my mind went the other way. I saw myself as a child attendingkindergarten, where everyone called me Stink. My mother was ill withtuberculosis and never got the chance to wash the blanket I broughthome every month.

"It's just a matter of time," Mother said. She was thirty-one yearsold and she expected herself to die. Watching her labored breathing andthinking about how my grandfather died of tuberculosis at age fifty-fiveand my grandmother at forty-nine, I didn't have the heart to keepasking my mother to wash my blanket.

I brought the unwashed blanket back to the kindergarten. Myteacher rolled her eyes. "And look at that pair of animal claws!" Sheturned away in disgust. I was embarrassed. I wished that I could tell herthat I had tried to do it myself, but the scissor was too rusty to cut. Icouldn't get help from my father either. He was rarely home. He spenthis days knocking on people's doors asking to borrow money, wearingtattered clothes patched at the knees and elbows. People avoided himthe moment they saw him approach.

In the hot and humid summer, pimples began to bloom on my forehead.Infected, they swelled and oozed pus. Flies landed on my head. Itried not to scratch the pimples, but the itch was unbearable. To lessenthe chance of passing germs to others, I was restricted from play and hadto stay away from the crowd during lessons, especially during story time.

I begged my mother to take me to a doctor. One pimple was nowthe size of a grape. My mother said that she had no money. She had fourchildren, and I was the only one who was not sick.

"Your father has exhausted every relative," Mother said. "No onewill help us anymore." Every month I witnessed my parents strugglingagainst their late debt payments to relatives, friends, and colleagues. Wedidn't own a towel. For years, the six of us had been sharing one dirty rag.Pinkeye spread to every member of our family. In the end, my mothertold me that the zits would not kill me.

We were considered middle-class in Shanghai. I wished that myparents were proletarians like our neighbors, so that we would qualifyfor free medical care. Unfortunately, both of my parents were teachers,and thus regarded as bourgeois sympathizers. To be reformed was theirfate. When the Cultural Revolution erupted in 1965, my mother wassent to a factory. Her job was to pick rubber boots from molds on an assemblingline. To get to work, she had to transfer three buses every morning,which took hours. My father's work was farther. He labored in aprinting shop.

One day, I was sent home with a notice from my kindergarten. Theinspector from the public health bureau was concerned about the spreadof my infection. My parents were ordered to "take action," or the governmentwould do it for them. My mother decided not to respond.

A blue tricycle with red stars painted on each side came for me ona Monday afternoon. I was taken to a hospital where a surgeon removedmy infected pimples. The surgery left an inch-long scar on the left sideof my forehead.

My mother was horrified when she opened the bandages. She protestedthat she hadn't given consent for the surgery. "For heaven's sake,you have ruined my daughter's appearance!"

Mother was told that a girl's looks carried no meaning in a proletariansociety. "You ought to be grateful that the surgery cost you nothing,thanks to the Communist Party and the socialist system!"

When I graduated to elementary school, I was still friendless. Myclothes were covered with patches and my shoes were falling apart. Bulliescompeted at hitting me over the head with umbrellas and abacusesand seemed to enjoy the sound of beads hitting my skull. The more Iducked, the more excitement I generated. I never told my parents aboutwhat happened to me at school, because I believed they would onlymake the situation worse.

"I am going to leave you on the street," my kindergarten teacher threatened."It's ten p.m.! Your mother is taking advantage of me. I have myown three young children to attend!" I was scared. Finally, my mothershowed up. She was so thin she looked like a ghost under the dimstreetlight.

On the day my mother got paid, I took my siblings to wait at thenumber 24 bus stop on Shanxi Road. We had been hungry for days. Ilicked the rice jar clean with my tongue. I also picked apple cores andsucked on popsicle sticks from public trash bins. The thought of Motherbuying bread helped us endure our stomachaches. We cheered the momentour mother stepped off the bus. One time she arrived with badnews—her wallet had been stolen on the bus.

Waiting for my mother in the hospital was another thing I oftendid. My mother wanted so desperately to qualify for a permission-to-restslip that she was almost happy when she felt dizzy, for she knewthat her condition might earn her the slip. I saw Mother throw awaymedicine to ensure that her condition would not improve.

My mother was once a beauty. Though she was never interested inher own good looks, she was praised for having a pair of bright double-lid"Indian eyes" and a slender figure. She loved ancient Chinese poetryand singing, although with her poor lungs she could barely hold highnotes.

Another strong memory is of waiting for my mother in a pawnshop.It had a huge black door and a high counter. My mother stood onher toes and reached up toward the counter with her bag. The night before,she had mended the clothes and sewed on buttons. She pawnedher winter clothes in the summer and her summer clothes in winter. Inthe end, she ran out of things to pawn. I will never forget the disappointedexpression on her face when her items were rejected.

Once I saw Mother's eyes light up when a relative bought us children'sjackets as gifts for the New Year. I anticipated wearing the newjacket to school the next day. But the clothes disappeared. My mothernever told us where the jackets had gone. I knew she had taken them tothe pawnshop. She must have convinced herself that she would get thejackets back before the expiration day, but she never had the money.

I remembered the traces of blood on the snow where my motherwalked. Her frostbite wounds cracked open and the backs of her feetbled. Her shoes were made of plastic that cut like a knife in winter. Shecouldn't afford a pair of cotton shoes or socks.

I followed Mother and walked in her bloody footprints. I wasamazed that she never complained about the pain. Occasionally, her facewould screw up, and she would let out a muted cry.

In the days before my departure for America, I went to a hair salon onShanxi Road. It was called the Shanghai White Jasmine. I was asked thenature of my "occasion."

"The style must go with the occasion," the hairdresser announced.I told her that I was going abroad to America. The hairdresser looked meup and down in disbelief. I took out my passport and showed her myAmerican visa.

"America!" The hairdresser shouted for the whole room to hear. Thesalon's workers abandoned their customers and gathered around me.

"You don't go to America looking like a peasant!" one hairdressersaid.

"You don't parade the American streets with your moplike straighthair!" others echoed.

I agreed.

After a serious discussion, the salon's hairdressers came up with astyle called Esmeralda.

I had no idea what "Esmeralda" meant. They explained that it wasShanghai's hottest style and that it was inspired by a beautiful Gypsynamed Esmeralda in a newly imported foreign movie, The Hunchback ofNotre-Dame.

I rushed to see the movie to make sure that the Esmeralda stylewas what I wanted. It was convenient, because the movie theater waslocated a block from the salon.

I fell in love with Esmeralda. I returned to the salon and requestedthe style. Seven hours later, the hairdresser announced that my Esmeraldawas complete. During the process, I had endured pulling, curling,and blow-drying. The chemicals they used stunk worse than manure. Theheated ceramic rollers were heavy on my head. Finally, I was led back tomy chair. The moment I saw my reflection in the mirror, I fell out ofthe chair.

"This is not Esmeralda!" I cried. "It is a basket of seaweed!"

The flight captain's voice came through the speakers. I didn't understandwhat he was saying. I looked around and saw the passengers onmy right and left buckling their seat belts. I copied them.

The plane began to descend. I saw a sea of lights outside the window.The beauty stunned me. "Capitalism rots and socialism thrives" wasthe phrase passing through my mind. Was this the result of rotting?

The plane rattled as it touched the ground. The passengers cheeredwhen we finally came to a stop. One after another, everyone stood, pickedup their belongings, and exited.

"Chicago?" I asked the flight attendant.

"No," she smiled.

"Not Chicago?" I took out my ticket.

"This is Seattle." She signaled me not to block the way. The rest ofher words I couldn't understand.

I followed the passengers moving toward a big hall. My growingnervous ness began to choke me. The hand that held my passport becamedamp with sweat.

I didn't feel like I was walking on my own legs. The sound insidemy head was louder than the sound outside. It was the noise of a tractorwith loose screws going over a bumpy road.

I feared getting caught. I was not the person I had claimed to be—astudent ready for an American college. But what choice had I had? Iwouldn't have been issued a passport if I hadn't lied through my teethand claimed undying loyalty to the Communist Party. The Americanconsulate in Shanghai wouldn't have granted me a visa if I hadn't cheatedand sang my self-introduction in English like a song. I had charged forwardlike a bleeding bull. I had not had the time to get scared until thatmoment.

My father was scared to death for me. He didn't think that I wouldmake it. No one with common sense, or who had anything to lose, woulddo what I was doing. But I didn't have anything to lose. I was a caughtfrog, kicking my last kicks. I jumped the hurdles in front of me.

Off the plane, I went in search of the ladies' room. All the signs in Englishconfused me. I followed a woman into a room with a sign showinga lady in a skirt. I was glad that it was the right place. There was no waitingline. I looked around to make sure that I was where I thought I was.I entered a stall and closed the door. I had never seen such a spaciousand clean toilet room. A roll of paper came into view. It was pure whiteand soft to the touch. I wondered how much it would cost. I would notuse it if I had to pay. I sat down and pulled the paper a few inches. Ilooked around and listened. No alarm went off. I was not sure if I wasallowed to use the paper. I dragged out a foot more, and then anotherfoot.

I put the paper under my nose and smelled a lovely faint scent.Perhaps it was free, I decided. Carefully, I wiped my behind with thepaper. It didn't scratch my buttocks. What an amazing feeling. I grewup with toilet paper that felt like sandpaper. In fact, it was what I hadpacked in my suitcase—toilet paper made of raw straw.

People with different colored eyes, hair, and skin confirmed that I wasno longer in China. I hoped my seaweed hairstyle didn't offend anybody.I inched forward in the line leading toward the immigration station.I heard the man behind the booth call, "Next!" My heart jumpedout of my chest.

I forced myself to step forward. My surroundings started to spin. Iwas face-to-face with an immigration officer. I wanted to smile and say,"Hello!" but my jaw locked. My mind's eye kept seeing one image—agroup of peasants trying to haul a Buddha statue made of mud acrossa river. The Buddha statue was breaking apart and dissolving into thewater.

Shaking, I held out my right arm and presented my passport.

The officer was a middle-aged white man with a mustache. A biggrin crossed his face as he greeted me with what I later came to learnwas "Welcome to America!"

My mind went blank. I tried to breathe. Was the man asking me aquestion or was it a greeting? Did he mean "Where are you from?" or"How are you?"

I had been studying a book called English 900 Sentences. Accordingto the book, "How do you do?" would be the first words you wouldsay when you met someone for the first time. Obviously, this was notwhat the officer had said. How do I respond? Should I say, "I am verywell, thank you, and how are you?" or "I am from China"?

What if it was a greeting? Did I hear "America"? I thought I did."America" meant "United States," didn't it? Did he say, "Why are you inAmerica?"

I could feel the officer's eyes as they bore into me. I decided to givehim my prepared response.

Lifting my chin, I forced a smile. I pushed the words out of mychest the best I could: "Thank you very much!"

The officer took my passport and examined it. "An ... ah Q?" hesaid. "Ah ... Q? A ... Kee? A ... Q?"

On my passport, my first name was spelled "An-Qi." I had no say inchoosing the spelling of my name. The Pinyin spelling system was inventedby the Communist government. If the actual name was pronounced"Anchee," the Pinyin would spell it "An-Qi." The Communistofficial in charge of Chinese language reform believed that a foreignerwould pronounce "Chee" when he read "Qi." No Chinese was allowed tospell their name any other way on their passport.

Should I have answered "Yes, I am Ah-Q"? I didn't think so. "Ah-Q"was the name of a famous Chinese idiot. If it was "Ah-B" or "Ah-C," Iwould have gladly answered yes. But I hadn't come to America to becalled an idiot.

The officer spoke again. This time I failed to comprehend anything.The officer waited for my answer. I heard him say, "Do you understand?"The voice was getting louder. He was losing patience.

The mud Buddha dissolved. The river swallowed it.

The officer looked me up and down with suspicion.

I gathered all my courage and gave another "Thank you very much!"

The officer waved me to move closer. He began to speak rapidly.

Panicking, I shouted, "Thank you very much!"

The man's smile disappeared. He asked no more questions buttook away my passport. He pointed behind his back at a room abouttwenty feet away with a door that had a large glass window.

My world became soundless. My knees gave way.

I was escorted into a brown-colored room. A lady came. She introducedherself as a translator. She began to speak accented Mandarin. "You don'tspeak any English, but you are here for college. How do you explain that,Miss Min?"

I had cheated, I told her. And I was guilty.

"Your papers say you speak fluent English," the translator continued."I'd guess that you didn't fill out those papers yourself, did you?We need to deport you, Miss Min."

I broke down. "I came to America because I have no future inChina. If there hadn't been so many people in the middle of the night atHuangpu River bund, I would have carried out my suicide. I wouldn'tbe here to bother you."

"I am sorry, Miss Min." The translator looked away.

"I didn't have the fortune to die in China," I cried. "I'll be as goodas dead if you deport me. My airplane ticket alone cost fifteen years ofmy salary. My family is in debt because of me. I am begging you for anopportunity!"

"Miss Min, you wouldn't be able to function in this country." Thetranslator shook her head. "Even if we let you go, you wouldn't be ableto survive in an American college. Do you understand? You will becomea burden on our society!"

"I'll be nobody's burden. I don't need much to live. I'm an excellentlaborer. I'll deport myself if I don't speak English in three months!"

"Miss Min ..."

"Oh, please, my feet are on American soil! I might not be able tocommunicate, but I can draw. I'll make people understand me. Look,here are pictures of my paintings. I am going to the School of the ArtInstitute of Chicago—"

The translator looked at my paintings with a stone face.

"Help me! I'll forever be grateful."

The translator bit her lip. She looked at her watch.

"I am so sorry to bother you." I wept.

The translator stared at me in silence, then abruptly stepped out ofthe room.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Cooked Seed by Anchee Min. Copyright © 2013 by Anchee Min. Excerpted by permission of BLOOMSBURY.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Dettagli dell?edizione

• Editore: Bloomsbury Pub Plc USA
• Data di pubblicazione: 2013
• ISBN 10: 1596916982
• ISBN 13: 9781596916982
• Rilegatura: Copertina rigida
• Lingua: Inglese
• Numero di pagine: 361
• Contatto del produttore: non disponibile