hello, long time no see

In Memory of Mr. Li

Mr. Li had been at the school for a long long time.  He's gone through the accusations and humiliations of the Cultural Revolution and he's seen the school rise from flat houses to brick buildings.  He taught my dad, taught my aunt, taught my uncle, and then thirty some years later, he became my track coach. 

Our school had a dirt-layed courtyard, so to keep it moist, Mr. Li watered it every day with a hose.  He was talented at pressing his thumb down at the opening of the rubber tubing to make the water splash evenly.  In the summertime, we would try to run through his watery fort after a jog around the city until he scolds us away.  When Mr. Li wasn't watering the dirt ground, he was always walking back and forth with a chalk wheel, marking the courtyard with fresh lines of white powder. 

It was rumored that Mr. Li had amazing strength, I saw it proven true one day when the fifty-nine year-old skinny man climbed up a ladder with his bare hands- no feet involved.   This solidified our natural fear and respect for the guy, but we were never too shy to make fun of him, for the track kids were his favorites (although I always suspected that he didn't like much because my dad was horrible at P.E.)  Mr. Li lived in the back of the school's P.E. office.  When he did his laundry, they would be hung on display on a clothing line outside of the corridor.  Oh how we made fun of the icicles dripping from his sweaters in the coldest months; manytimes we were tempted to snap off a piece of his frozen sleeve.

Ten years after graduation, I went to see the school again.  The dirt ground was replaced by clean and ordered cement blocks.  When I inquired about Mr. Li, the lady at the gate told me that not only did he retire, the person has been forever gone for about a year now.  Then she shut the gates on me.  How did he go?  Where did he go?  Are there still footprints and chalk powder beneath that cement courtyard?  I wonder if you still remembered me, Mr. Li.  I wish you had a good life.  Goodbye, Mr. Li. 

It's the middle of November, the sun sets here before four o'clock (on a good day when you can find the sun, that is).  Ninety percent of the time I spend on the streets is spent under an umbrella.  The wind can be harsh, my jeans sometimes feel like they are just a thin layer of nylon.  Having spent the last six years in North Carolina did not prepare me well.  It sounds pretty depressing, but there is a comforting familiarity to it.  It reminds me of childhood winters, when the ground is hard with frost and when the my hands are frozen- I'm miserable, yet I can smell the food coming from nearby stands and see crowds of people bundled up stirring about under the street lights.  What's even better is when I turn a corner and am unexpected greeted by the sound of music, even the notes quiver in the cold air.  Then if I keep on walking, the music slowly fades behind the buildings like a painting, and I know I'm almost home.  I used to say that Beijing is my home, and I missed home often when I was younger, but recently I've found that home is a just a feeling that you can carry with you anywhere.  Places and memories can be easily altered, but the unrecognized feelings somehow remain and can sneak up to take you by surprise- it's quite a wonderful experience.