The Barber

The Barber

My mother and I had just returned from a successful day of shopping at Dillard’s where I was able to purchase some clothing (on sale, naturally) for work.  My mother then tells me the following story upon our return home:

Your father always liked to wear nice clothing – he was tall, slim and very handsome.  He also went to the barbershop in Chinatown on a monthly basis. (I remember accompanying my father on several of these trips.  He seemed most relaxed in this situation, receiving a haircut and straight razor shave and participating in the banter between barbers and customers).  He liked to look good.  When he was ill from his cancer, I remember bumping into his favorite barber from the shop while in Chinatown doing some grocery shopping. 

“I haven’t seen Mr. Kuo in quite a while” he noted.

 “He’s been very sick and in bed,” I replied.  “He hasn’t been able to leave the house in a while now.”

 “I’m so sorry! Can I come and visit him?”  The barber genuinely looked perturbed.  “I’m retired now and have a lot of spare time.”

I told him he could and gave him our home address.  He arrived several days later to visit your father.  I left them in the bedroom while they briefly spoke.  The barber came to me after seeing your father.

“Do you think Mr. Kuo would mind if I came back tomorrow and cut his hair?” he asked.  “I still have all of my instruments.”

Your father was very surprised by this request.  “This is wonderful!” he exclaimed.  “My hair is like weeds now!  I can’t travel to get my haircut and there isn’t any such thing as barber outcalls.  Of course he can come!”

The next day the barber arrived and sat your father in a chair in the bathroom. 

“Please cut it short,” my father requested.  “I can’t get out like I used to.”

The barber proceeded with the haircut and shave.  I remember it seemed to take 10 years of age off of your father.  They joked with each other and he made your father laugh for the first time in months.  The barber refused payment for the haircut, stating that I had already paid him.”  When asked what he meant, I told him that as the barber was illiterate, I had agreed to read some letters from his family in China and write some return letters for him as well.

The barber returned the following month to cut your father’s hair.  That would be his final haircut, as he passed away shortly afterwards.  He did leave this world, as he would have wanted, looking handsomely well groomed.

The Forgotten Cat

The Forgotten Cat

I went with my mother this morning to Petco to pick up dog food.  She was amazed by the size of the store – all of it devoted to pets!  We browsed the aisles, as if it were at  a zoo, looking at the birds, ferrets, snakes and fish.  All of this reminded my mother of her own childhood pet.

When I was young, maybe 10 or 11 years old, Little Flower was the household cat.  Her job mainly was to keep the house free of mice and other rodents, and she did this job well.  But to me, she was my cat.  Little Flower followed me everywhere and would wrap her body around my ankles lovingly when I returned from school.  In the winter chill she was my body and feet warmer.  We would feed her rice topped with bits of fish and she always seemed satisfied with her meals.

In 1941 I was 12 years old.  The war was raging through the world, and our family heard that the Japanese Army was pushing their way toward Shanghai, where we were then living.  We were living in the Chinese part of Shanghai and just a few miles from the British occupied portion of the city – just over a connecting bridge.  One night we were all awakened by cries from the neighbors that the Japanese were rapidly approaching our area.  The Japanese army had a reputation for being absolutely ruthless and we knew that we would all perish at their hands if we didn’t leave immediately.  My father and mother told us to gather as much of our belongings as we could gather and that we were to hurry to the bridge and cross into the British territory.  It was chaos!  I grabbed whatever seemed to be important at that time – some clothing, some nick-knacks, anything that I could stuff into a bed sheet. 

We were perhaps a mile away from our home when I realized that I had forgotten Little Flower!  “Little Flower!  She’s not here!” I wailed to my mother.  Tears streamed down my cheeks uncontrollably.  My mother did a quick check of our belongings and confirmed my fear.  “We have to go back to get her!”  I cried.  “Don’t be silly!” my mother answered.  “Is that cat worth your life?”  I couldn’t answer that question and continued trudging towards the bridge.  It took perhaps 45 minutes before we reached and were able to cross the bridge.  I learned that my parents had already made plans to stay with friends who had an extra room above their tailor shop in British occupied Shanghai.

When we finally reached our destination, I was exhausted.  We quickly settled into the extra room, and ate a hastily prepared meal.  I knew that my parents were grateful that we were all still alive, but I continued to sob over losing Little Flower.  Over 70 years have passed and I still think of her often.

The Story of Second Brother

The Story of Second Brother

I had sent a picture of you and your sister to Second Brother who is 2 years my junior.  We still lived in the lower east side in New York so you must have been less than 5 years old.  I later learned that that picture caused a great deal of pain and grief.  Second Brother loved the photo and sewed a secret pocket into his jacket to keep it.  He was educated and very good with numbers but because of the Cultural Revolution the Red Guard assigned him to work the land.  He would steal glances at the photograph during the day, until one day he was arrested for having it.  He thought that another worker must have told on him, and the picture was taken from him and destroyed.  He, under duress, confessed that the photo was of his sister’s children and that they all lived in America.  He was beaten and imprisoned for communicating with citizens of an enemy nation and accused of being a spy.

About fifteen years later your father and I went to a dinner sponsored by a group in Chinatown.  We were to dine with one of the first delegations of Chinese from the mainland as relationships between China and America improved.  At the dinner, one of the delegates spoke with an accent that I recognized as being from my home community.  Against your father’s advice, I went up to speak with this delegate.  “Excuse me,” I said, getting his attention.  “I think we are from the same province.  My home province is Anhui.  I am so happy to see you here, as it fills me with pride to know that Anhui has produced such an important official such as yourself to represent China.”  He responded in a very engaging manner and we talked for 20 minutes.  His delegation had come to evaluate the United States infrastructure, particularly bridges.  He felt that China had a very long way to go before being able to come close to matching what America had built.  The conversation turned direction, and I told him that I had a younger brother who still resided in Anhui.  We made some more small talk, and he departed.

I would later find out that this official was a vice mayor in a city close to Anhui.  Several days after returning to China, he sought and summoned my brother for an audience.  Second Brother thought that he must have done something terrible.  At that time, he was an accountant for the province and he thought he must have made a horrendous error.  “They’re going to shoot and kill me,” he fretted.

When Second Brother arrived to the official’s office, he kowtowed 3 times and tried to apologize for whatever error he might have made.  The official pulled him up by the hand and shook it.  He described meeting me in New York and how pleased he was with the conversation.  They chatted for a while.  The official thought that second brother seemed extremely intelligent (which he was) and gave him a position as his assistant.  When the official retired, Second Brother succeeded him.  To this day, Second Brother credits me with his good fortune and calls me every New Year.  He is now retired, is financially well off, and travels China in his leisure.

Meeting Your Father

Meeting Your Father

It was Great Aunt who introduced me to your father.  I remember riding in the elevator of the building on Riverside Drive, where lived the Ambassador and his family for whom I worked.  Much to my surprise, on the elevator ride I met Great Aunt, who was working for another family in the building.  “They work for the new Chinese language newspaper and grew tired of American food – so they brought me over to America to cook for them”.  I told her of my plight with the Ambassador, and that my 3 year commitment to them was almost up.  Elder brother advised me against returning to China as Mao and his army were waging a terrible was against the Nationalist government.  Great Aunt wanted to introduce me to someone, “He isn’t rich but is honest and hard-working.  He also has never been married”.   I knew that men often would get married to wives on both sides of the ocean and I did not want to be any part of that kind of life. 

Your father and I first met at a small Chinese restaurant on Riverside Drive and 68^th Street in Manhattan.    He was tall and handsome and well dressed in a suit.  I had on a light blue top and a dark blue skirt that apparently made me look very young.  “How old are you?” he asked in the middle of dinner.  “Twenty-one,” I replied.  “You look so much younger,” he responded.   “I told great aunt that she was mistaken for introducing me to someone who was only 13 years old when I was twenty-eight”.

Your father was polite, soft-spoken and well mannered during dinner.   We spoke comfortably during dinner and I truly enjoyed his company.  However, I told great aunt that I could never see a future with him.  “I hate that he smokes.”  This apparently was relayed to him and he quit smoking for the 3 months prior to our marriage.  He did pick up the habit again after we married, although he tried on numerous occasions to quit.  I don’t think I ever really appreciated how hard it was for him to quit.  He later told me that he had begun smoking at the age of 8, encouraged by his grandmother.   I know now how addictive cigarettes can be, like opium.   He eventually died of lung cancer, which had spread, to his liver.   I guess his grandmother never really realized how bad smoking could be to one’s health.  In any event, we married 3 months after our initial encounter, and it lasted for the next 44 years until his passing.

The Ambassador's Daughter

The Ambassador’s Daughter

My mother, after 2 weeks of cajoling on our part, has decided to move in and live with my wife and I.  After a celebration dinner with one of her favorite meals – eggplant parmesan – my mother tells me this story:

As you know I came to America with the Ambassador and his family to be their daughter’s nanny.  Annabelle initially loved me, but became more spiteful towards me as my 3 years of obligated service continued.  I was able to leave them after my contract was up and moved out on my own.  I had only intermittent contact with them initially and lost contact with them completely after several years.

Imagine my surprise when Annabelle contacted me and wanted to visit me years later.  You had just left for Philadelphia to attend college and weren’t home.  It must have been in 1970 or 71.  She knocked on the door and I could barely recognize this girl.  She must have been in her mid-twenties then.  Thin, dressed in old jeans and a torn t-shirt, I could smell her lack of bathing.  Her hair was greasy and had forgotten the stroke of a brush.  Her companion was an American boy, also similarly clad and disheveled.

We sat down at the kitchen table.  I tried to make small talk with her but she was loud and often didn’t make much sense to me.  “I don’t care about money – that’s all my father and mother thinks about.  I just want to have fun.”  I learned that she lived with several friends in a small apartment near the Village.  “Are you married?” I inquired.  “No, marriage is for old people.  I’m with my friends”.  I learned that she was sleeping with not only her companion but apparently a number of other boys as well.

The visit last less than 20 minutes when she claimed to she had to leave.  I was happy to have her leave the house but not happy to see her the way she was.  “She’s a hippie!” I muttered to myself.

About 5 years later I ran into the Ambassador and his wife in Manhattan.  They inquired about my life and I told them about you – about attending medical school and becoming a doctor.  I could see the surprise and envy in their eyes.  “Annabelle never even finished high school,” they admitted. 

That night, I told your father about my encounter.  “Life is full of steps,” he mused.  “The rich often tumble down and the poor often pull themselves up.  This is the essence of America.”