Category: Shouts

Bit by bit, aspect by aspect, I’m getting to know San Francisco, not as a tourist but with the fresh and new curiosity of a tourist.

Waiting at the traffic light next to a tall palm tree (the sight of palm trees still excites me), looking at all the neatly dressed office people–young and confident and with a countenance that seems to say ‘the world is my oyster’–walking from their office building to the Ferry Building for lunch. I envied the air of profession and style of these high heeled office women. They talked and laughed and listened and nodded and gave their opinions. And I thought how it was impossible for me to have a normal office job and swim in it like a fish in water and be good at it and be content with it and see it as part of my purpose in life. By coming to America, against the current of what would be my normal life, I seem to have chosen, consciously or not, a life that an ordinary office job, be it as glamorous as it could get, would not serve the purpose of being here.

As I turned from the Embarcadero to Howard, I was to see modern office buildings at its best. In my head, I silently exclaimed: “Here it shows San Francisco is a rich city that’s famous for its new technology!” The same feelings as when I walked in certain parts in London: the neatness and moderness of the highrises, the professionalism of the architect designs as only a great city with the best talents could manage.

(New York, though, is never far away. An hour or so later I was to see photos of New York at the galleries. I was to see works of artists based in New York, and the name, like the name of an old lover, never fails to bring up something tender and loving in me. )

(And how I miss the students in New York. How I miss the children with whom every moment felt like a moment of living and loving. And I tell myself I have to do what I need to do, and by doing that, by accounting for myself, being able to face myself, that I would able to face them, to justify leaving, to say it without lying and as wise as Socrates that, to take care of oneself is an act of loving towards others.)

Then after turning another corner, I was at MoMA. The whole afternoon I was in a sort of quiet ecstasy, wandering about from floor to floor, looking at photos and paintings and sculptures, and thought to myself: “This is the reason I came to America.”

I envied the artist who could tell their family, their Mother and Father, their passions and their real self. I envied the artist who feels it’s enough just by being. I’m saddened by the fact that there is not an outspoken, a lively, a joyful or a painful voice, a continuous discussion, a yelling, shouting, a celebration of life, a declaration of self that is art, in China or from China. I long to break the silence, to jump and shout.

There is someone who jumped and yelled: I read The Woman Warrior and for the first time in my life I saw a woman from my own culture screaming out all the pain and love the people like me lived and felt. Never did an English book give me this feeling of closeness, at once I could follow the flow of her words and meaning, her mother and father’s pain and powerlessness and tenacity are just like my mother and father and ancestor’s. Though she denied China. Maybe she is justified to. But I’m not, and maybe I have to love China the way James Baldwin loved America.