My Mother Coming to See Me母亲来看我

To add to the excitement2， a few months after I obtained Chinese citizenship my mother came to visit us. We had been talking about getting together for years. I might have gone to New York when I was still a US citizen， but my American passport had long since expired， and what with the atmosphere of implacable hostility to China prevailing in Washington， I wasn’t sure I could get another one and be able to return to China. Besides， my mother wanted to see my wife and daughter， see how we lived， see this place3 which had so enchanted her darling boy that he was willing to forgo the joys of Brooklyn.

She was over 70 when she boarded a Northwest Airlines plane at Kennedy airport， a brave venture for a lady who used to get seasick on the Staten Island4 ferry and had never been on a plane in her life. During our summer family tours when I was a child she was accustomed to giving invaluable admonitions from the back seat to my father as he drove the Buick through New England mountains. On the plane， after a first uneasy half-hour， she had no choice but to relax and let the pilot drive the plane himself. To her surprise， they reached Anchorage in one piece. By the time they arrived in Tokyo she was such a veteran traveler that she didn’t trouble to stay over and rest a few hours but took the next available shuttle to Hong Kong. There， a China Travel Service man met her and took charge. The next day he delivered her to the border at Shenzhen， where Phoenix and I were waiting.

I recognized her immediately as she walked across the short iron bridge linking Chinese Mainland and Hong Kong. Older， but not much grayer5， and the same ramrod-straight back. She stared at me， then threw herself into my arms. Later she told me she thought for a moment I was her brother Jerry. I looked more like him than the much younger impression she had retained of me in her memory.

She and Phoenix were promptly enamored of each other. The exchange of letters over the years had made them somewhat acquainted， but both were very pleased with what they found in person. The normal courtesy and solicitude of the Chinese toward older people was， in Phoenix’s case， underscored by a strong warmth and affection that went straight to Mom’s heart.

We rode back to Guangzhou （Canton） on the comfortable air-conditioned train which plies between that city and border， and drank fragrant tea. Mom， like all in-coming travelers， was struck by the contrast with what she had seen in Hong Kong. “It’s so clean here，” she said. “And they’re so bright and fresh and darling，” she added， indicating the pretty girl attendants pouring tea and handing out scented washcloths.

She liked our hotel， too—a huge sprawling affair surrounded by lawns and palm trees and lush tropical flowers. Everything was new， everything was interesting6—and very different from what she had been led to believe. But her main interest was me and mine7. So we strolled around a bit and the next day took the train for Beijing.

Yamei and her grandmother were mutually delighted the moment they met. They could hardly speak a word at first， but they soon picked up enough in each other’s language to enable them， adding gestures and drawings， to engage in long conversations. Both of Phoenix’s parents were dead， and Yamei keenly felt the lack of a grandmother. In her schoolmates’ families the grandma often outdid even the grandpa in pampering the children. Coming from a similar tradition herself， Mom certainly didn’t let Yamei down.

We gave Mom our room and borrowed a daybed for ourselves. She found our meals quite palatable， asking only for bread instead of rice. She spent hours in the kitchen with our housekeeper， who had not had the benefits of even a few weeks of “the English of southern England” which Yamei was then absorbing in her first year of junior high. Nevertheless， the ladies managed a fruitful exchange of recipes， beef in oyster sauce heading for Flatbush， and potato pancakes with onion grated in pacing into Chinese culinary lore8.

Mom brought me up to date on the births and marriages and deaths among relatives and friends in the States， briefed me on the rise in prices and crime and the drop in moral standards. We did our best to explain what we could about China. But mainly we let Mom see for herself—in the stores， on the streets， in the residential lanes.

Our friends and colleagues—Chinese and foreign—were marvelous. Both Phoenix’s office and mine gave dinners in Mom’s honor. Chinese friends were constantly calling， presenting her with little gifts， showing her around. We were overwhelmed by their kindness. Mom had a whale of a good time.

A few things took a little getting used to， on both sides. Fresh from the land of the youth cult， she bridled a bit at their frequent reference to her “great age.” We had to explain that this was said admiringly， that the term “vener-able” was a mark of respect. Mom finally accepted this， though only， I’m afraid， reluctantly.

To our Chinese friends， she was something of a phenomenon9. Red—one of her favorite colors—was worn in China mostly by young brides. They were puzzled， too， by smartly cut dresses， lipstick and permed hair10 on a woman of 70. But they liked her honest modesty， her courage， her independent spirit. When they learned that she was a widow and had been working for a living until only recently， they paid the highest accolade in urging me， her son， to “learn to be like her.”