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Suzhou. I was sorry to bother her. Yawning, she took over my application.
    Three months later, I received an acceptance letter from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Joan Chen had warned me that acceptance by an American school didn’t mean that I could enter the country. It was only the first of many steps. Next I had to obtain a passport from the security authority in Shanghai, and after that I had to apply for a visa at the US Consulate in China. The United States would grant visas only to those who showed promise and potential to contribute to the country.
    If I had stopped to think, I never would have developed the guts to try. Everyone said to me, “Where did you get the nerve?” I had to force my mind to focus on jumping through the next hoop and nothing else. In the same letter, the school requested an important document. It said, “In order to issue you an I-20 form, which you will need to apply for a visa to enter America, we must first receive a signed Affidavit of Support.”
    I had learned from Joan Chen that I must find an individual willing to play the role of my sponsor. I would have to convince this person that I would pay back anything I’d owed. I thought about my mother’s sister living in Singapore. The trouble was, I didn’t know my aunt very well. During the Cultural Revolution, my father made sure that wedenied her existence to avoid the government’s suspicion that we were spies.
    My mother refused to write her sister a letter on my behalf. “It is too much to ask,” she said firmly. I wrote a letter to my aunt behind my mother’s back. It was the most difficult letter I had ever written. I promised that I would not be a burden. Fortunately, my aunt agreed to lend a hand. I could not have been more grateful when I received the signed Affidavit of Support.
    I was at the office of the Communist Party boss. I had asked for permission to apply for a passport. The boss was a former veteran and a chain-smoker. He spoke with a northern accent and did not look me in the eye when he talked. He asked me to explain the difference between America and Albania. The question confused me. I was afraid to give the wrong answer. Instead of answering him, I took out the acceptance letter from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. I pushed the papers toward the boss over the desk and asked him to examine them. He pushed them back.
    “What’s the difference between America and Albania?” he insisted.
    I wondered what kind of trick he was playing.
    I spoke carefully and humbly. “Please enlighten me, for I am illiterate over international affairs.”
    “We know that there are proletarians in Albania, yes?” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “Are there proletarians in America, Comrade Min?”
    Relieved, I gave a firm answer. “Yes, of course, absolutely, definitely. There are many, many proletarians in America. Hundreds and thousands and perhaps millions of proletarians in America.”
    “Excellent!” His eyes brightened. “We know what to do now. Are you, Comrade Min, a member of the Youth League of China?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you intend to promote revolution in America?”
    “Of course.”
    “In the name of the Communist Youth League of China?”
    “In the name of the Communist Youth League of China!”
    The boss was satisfied. “I shall stamp your application and then forward it to the Department of Security for processing. However, I need you to answer my last question. I want you to complete the lower couplet of a poem I am going to recite.” Smiling, as if pleased with himself, he continued. “
A spark of flame—
”
    “
Will start a wild fire!
” I was thrilled that I had received solid training in reciting Mao’s poems and teachings.
    I ran from the studio like a criminal who had escaped by accident. I was afraid that the Party boss might change his mind or have another question that I wouldn’t be able to answer. I was surprised that he hadn’t mentioned that I was Madame