I roll down the car window. It’s hot. The engine murmurs steadily. I can feel my stomach flipping as we near Fullor. The basketball courts loom ahead, all empty but one. The two-door Toyota stops. Amy jumps out quickly. I take my time, slowly stepping out onto the scorched cracked blacktop. I can feel the heat through my black sandals. We wave good-bye, and I force a smile. Inside I am whimpering. Amy jogs over in her running shoes, short brown hair tied back. A blue sweatshirt casually blends into relatively baggy jeans. I wobble after her, my shoes slowing me down. I had curled my hair the night before. It lay like a doll’s. Big hoops dangle from my ears, giving way to a silver choker necklace. It was all planned out the night before. The clothes. I wanted to make a good first impression. Tight jeans match with my tank. It reads “Princess.” We stop in front of the coach. He frowns at me, observing my ensemble. I can feel my face turn red. I didn’t know they would all be boys. Sixteen boys. Sixteen pairs of eyes. Sixteen smirks. But now, as I look around me . . . I just don’t belong We need to run a warm-up lap around the bare field. The boys gradually pass me. Sympathetically, Amy matches my slow pace. I stare longingly in the direction of home, but am forced to turn a corner and head for the sneering crowd instead. A ball rolls out toward me, slowly. I pick it up. What am I doing here? Who am I trying to fool? Being on a team seemed like a great idea two weeks ago when I applied. But now, as I look around me . . . I just don’t belong . . . I close my eyes, in hope that I can just wake up from this bad dream . . . They open, looking down. I hold in my hands a basketball. I drop it, watching it roll away. Slowly, I turn to run. We both slip on the gravel. The boys make no attempt to muffle a loud laugh. I know they’re laughing at me. Amy goes to Felton Junior High. Fullor and Felton are like brothers. The two schools end in the same high school. They accept Amy as one of them. I am the outsider at Remdon Private Middle School. I arrive last, panting loudly. Everybody stares at me, annoyed. I held back the group. Coach says something about an all-star team. “The judges will choose the two best players . . . It’s in your hands . . . Only those who really want it . . .” I am not listening. A boy with mousy brown hair and large front teeth whispers something to his friend. Distinctly I can make out the words “pathetic” and “blondie.” They snicker, causing the coach to clear his throat loudly in their direction. I stare down at my feet. The private whimpers inside of me are threatening to reveal themselves to the world. The only pathetic blond here is me. WEEK TWO I feel my forehead. It seems fine. I stand still and close my eyes, searching every inch of my body for any sign of pain or illness. If I concentrate really hard, I can almost feel some pressure in my head . . . It’s useless. Unfortunately, it seems I’m in perfect health, and basketball practice starts in fifteen minutes. WEEK THREE I don’t know if it is the boys’ taunts or really just my lack of ability that is causing me to miss. Every shot. Insults are murmured constantly in my direction, loud enough for me to hear, yet concealed from the coach. Things like “princess” and “loser.” I don’t dare tell him, for fear of what the rest might do to me. It doesn’t make the situation any easier to accept, that apart from Amy, I am the oldest. No matter how much older I am than the boys, I’m still too young to have a nervous breakdown, but I fear it is edging close. Sobs echo throughout the inside of my head. My life is turning into a living nightmare. Amy gave up trying to convince me to ignore them. Ignore them? How can I just ignore them? Easy for her to say; feet don’t stick out in attempts to trip her as she walks by. Every little mistake of hers is forgotten automatically. Mine are as good as posted for public viewing. WEEK FOUR Shoot . . . miss. Shoot . . . miss. Shoot . . . miss. WEEK FIVE The boy with the big teeth goes by: C.J. Every now and then I make a shot. Nobody notices. WEEK SIX C.J. says he’ll give me a dollar for every shot I make. He coughs when I’m about to shoot and makes attempts to trip me when Coach isn’t looking. So why don’t I just leave? I thought about it. It’s too late. If I go now, C.J. will think he defeated me. I feel like Hamlet. To leave or not to leave . . . I’m not the quiet accepting type. I’m proud. Perhaps too proud. I shout back the first insults that come into my head. C.J. and his followers can top anything I say. I don’t care what the coach thinks, either. I don’t think he even notices anything is wrong. He’s far too ignorant and absorbed in his own little world. C.J. says something about my school. I throw the ball so hard at him, he falls over backward. Coach sees this as an accident. With their “chief” gone for the day, the boys don’t seem to find any pleasure in making my life miserable. Only a fraction continue to taunt me. Today I made my first three-pointer. WEEK SEVEN I am wearing sports pants today. My hair is
September/October 2002
Rare Treasure
The day Gu Zewei was born, we got the first notice. We had a month to choose a child to give away. “I will come to take her when you have decided,” the official who delivered the notice said. She said “when you have decided,” but her words implied that she was sure we would choose the girl, not the boy, to give away. Zewei’s name, which means “Rare Treasure,” caused a great deal of confusion in the adoption department, because it is usually a boy’s name. No one thought of girls as rare treasures. After the official left, Zemin took Zewei’s hand and looked at her with a mixture of envy and love, as I watched them and thought. The only other choice besides giving one of the children up was leaving the country. However, after how much we were fined for having Zewei, we would have no money left. During the next two weeks, my husband and I cared for the baby and looked for solutions constantly. We hardly ever spoke, except to ask each other to hold Zewei or change the blankets on her bed. So far, she had been much more quiet than Zemin when he was her age, and the house’s silence, combined with her simple, calm stare, hurt me more than any cacophony or uproar. At the end of the second week, there was a loud knock on the door. It was the official again. Would we be able to leave these familiar sights and sounds we had grown up with? “If I were you,” she said, “I would just give her up now. There is no point in getting more attached to her.” “How do you know that we will choose to give her? Do you just assume we will give the girl?” I asked. “The boy is your first and he is a boy.” “I did not say I wanted to give him either.” “Just make a decision,” said the official, and slammed the door. I needed to get out. The stillness in the house clashed too strongly with the inner tempest and indecision in my mind. I went out on the clattering, crowded Shanghai street—so crowded. I blamed the crowd for the indecision. If it hadn’t been for overpopulation, the government wouldn’t have had to make the one-child law. What became of the children who were given away? Most went to other countries, so Zewei or Zemin would leave China even if we did give one away, except separated from the family. And the rest of us would still be here. We did not know if it would be better somewhere else, but at least most other countries didn’t have the one-child law. However, there still was the money problem. As I dodged rickshaws and bicycles, and the shouts of fruit- and umbrella-sellers rang in my ears, I wondered, even if we had enough money, would we be able to leave these familiar sights and sounds we had grown up with? When I returned to the house, my husband greeted me at the door. “The baby has been hungry,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He nodded. “I’ll go back to her now.” He nodded again. I broke out, “We have hardly spoken for two weeks, and now the official came again, telling us we just have two weeks left and now you won’t speak at all. You always just let things happen.” “The baby is hungry.” I stomped off to Zewei’s bed, then remembered to tiptoe, for fear of waking her. The official came at the third week again, and we were still undecided. In the meantime, Zewei learned how to work both hands and kick her feet, discovering a world which might not end up being hers. During the fourth week, I was so tired I fell asleep as soon as I lay down in bed. One night I had a dream in which I was gazing out across the sea to the other side, which was almost hidden in mist, causing its shape and outline to be unclear. Zemin and Zewei crawled toward it, making hardly any progress, and occasionally being tossed back by the high, dagger-like waves. I found myself hoping they would make it and wanting to go myself. Then a tidal wave came and washed me toward them . . . That morning was exactly a month from Zewei’s birthday. We would have to choose soon. I got up and started to make breakfast. Shortly after, my husband got up. I gave him a futile, inquisitive glance. He shrugged. We sat through the day, waiting. At five o’clock sharp, the official came for the last time. She was in a bad mood when we opened the door for her. She didn’t come in. “Why don’t you have her ready?” she asked. “We haven’t decided.” “You have to. All the other families give them right when they’re born. This is ridiculous.” I sat down on the porch steps and didn’t say anything. My husband said, “They’re more yours than mine, really. You decide.” Just like him to lay the decision on someone else. I sat there for a long time, almost peaceful, lost in the importance of the moment. I should be crying, I thought. I should protest. But I felt outside my body, my tumultuous mind floating far above. And then in an equally external voice, I spoke. “We’re going to leave the country. I don’t care where we go, or how much it costs, if they don’t have the one-child law. We’re going to leave China.” * * * After many delays and uncertainties, Zewei, Zemin, my husband and I stood on the deck of a ship taking us to another continent. Between us, we only had a few yuans. The horizon was cloudy, but I looked that way eagerly. Then I looked back at my children’s faces. Justine Koo Drennan, 12San Mateo, CaliforniaJustine’s Chinese name is Gu Zewei. She learned about the one-child law
