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Mao’s trash. I wondered if he actually checked my dossier. I had heard many people say that the boss was unpredictable. He had once been wounded in the skull. When he was in a dark mood, he would recognize no one. He described himself as a “loyal Communist dog” and was proud of being ruthless. I thanked heaven for putting him in a favorable mood that day.

{ Chapter 5 }
    It was discouraging just to look at the long line wrapped around the block at the United States Consulate in Shanghai. It was an old-style mansion half hidden in a canopy of large trees on the west Huai Hai Boulevard. Armed Chinese soldiers stood on pedestals by the gate watching over the crowd. I was looking for information on how to obtain an American visa. Since our new leader, Deng Xiaoping, had opened China’s doors, the people’s view of America had changed dramatically. As we watched newsreels showing America’s poor protesting on their streets, we were shocked to see that many of them were obese. They dressed better than the rich people in China. For half a century, we had been fed the idea that American people were skeleton thin and wore rags. If a picture was worth a thousand words, the newsreel created a silent revolution in Chinese minds. The newly imported American movies
Snow White
and
The Sound of Music
fueled our doubts and wonder. I was beginning to understand that Americans were not the devils we had believed them to be.
    More and more university graduates wanted to go to America to see for themselves. The visa office was jammed with applicants. The neighborhood near the consulate entrance became a hot spot for young and interested people. During visa hours, the place was like a refugee camp. Makeshift vendors sold food, water, and aspirin. Old ladies rented out stools, sun hats, sunglasses, fans, and umbrellas. There were wise men and fortune-tellers giving opinions and predictions. The crowd grew bigger in late summer before the start of the school year in America.
    The crowd was divided mostly into two groups. Group A was formally rejected visa applicants who wanted to try again. Group B was people like me, about to try their luck for the first time. The update was that the American government had raised the qualification bar on visas. Master’s-degree applicants were no longer promised visas. Onehad to be a Ph.D. candidate in the area of math and science in order to get a visa.
    People said to me, “Going for a bachelor degree in art? Next life!”
    I began to cough blood again. My doctor said that it was not tuberculosis, though he couldn’t tell what it was. The traditional Chinese doctor told me that my internal breath “chi” was “gravely disturbed.” My body had lost its ability to heal. My intestines no longer functioned properly. I suffered from chronic diarrhea. When I saw undigested spinach floating in the toilet bowl, I wept.
    I carried
English 900 Sentences
on buses going to and returning from work. Compared to Chinese, English as a language made more sense. For example, the English “I” took one stroke while the Chinese “I” took seven. The Chinese “I,” “”, looked like a walking person in an elaborate costume. English seemed to serve as a better tool, while Chinese existed to be admired.
    It was obvious that the English “I” was the result of capitalism. Time equaled money. I welcomed the English “I.” In China we never stopped talking about “Serving the people with heart and soul,” yet people, the majority, were uneducated and illiterate.
    To prepare to face an American visa officer, I drafted a “self-introduction.” I composed it in Chinese first, then had it translated into English. At the entrance of the US Consulate, the wise men had told me that a “self-introduction” must focus on three points:
    1. Who are you?
    2. Why do you want to go to America?
    3. How will you be able to survive in the US?
    “If you fail to impress the consul, you will be given a rejection stamp