Reid - THE BIRD’S NEST

THE BIRDS NEST:
How I learned Chinese

Yolanda A. Reid

E-leaf Press

New York

2020

All rights are reserved. This is a work of non-fiction. No part of this work may be reproduced by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

Cover art by Brenda Szuromi.

Copyright 2018, 2020 by Yolanda A. Reid

For my mother and father

Contents

When I was a child, I created a make-shift nest from a cardboard box. My grandfather helped and guided me in the process. We lined the box with cloth, nestled an egg within its folds, then set the box on the back porch. Then we waited.

After what seemed to me a long time, but was probably only about three weeks, a tiny bird-beak began to peck through the eggshell. Soon a baby-chick, enveloped in soft yellow fluff, emerged. We fed the chick bird-seed, grain and water.

We must have done that more than once, because I have a vivid childhood memory of seven or eight yellow chicks as they scurry across our back porchs pink-tiled floor. They leapt onto the grass and scurried further out into the backyard.

At about this time, my mother gave me two oversized books of fairy tales, illustrated with pretty watercolors. I grew to love the Chinese fairy tale about a nightingale that thrilled a palace with its mesmerizing music. Devious and manipulative palace officials convinced the emperor to replace the nightingale with a gem-encrusted mechanical bird. The live nightingale lost its prestige in the royal court, and was banned.

Eventually, as with most gadgets, the mechanical bird broke down. The emperor became ill from sorrow. In secret, the nightingale returned to sing for the emperor, who was then healed. The palace officials, who had been waiting for the emperor to die, were shocked, their plans thwarted.

With my little hands, I held that enormous storybook, as I sat in my room, in wonder.

***

Years later, as if by some existential miracle, when we moved to a new house, I discovered a real birds nest in the attic--made of twigs, tiny tufts of hay, and feathers. Id awaken to the beatific sounds of bird-chirps or to the soft coo of what I now assume was the mama-bird tending to her brood.

Often, I lay awake, at dawn, as the birds wriggled into the nest tucked inside the tiny attic window. Sometimes Id just hear wings as they flapped and rustled. Morning and night. In spring, in autumn. Not so much in winter. In summer, the attic was hot as a sauna--which, to me, was prohibitive, but perfect for a pigeons eggs, as their optimal temperature for incubation is 99 degrees.

One day as my mother and I stood in our driveway, and looked up, we glimpsed a pigeon fly into the cubbyhole that led into the attic. Thats how they get inside, we said. Now we knew.

We wondered, What should we do about that opening? My mother--or perhaps the contractor shed hired to re-pave the driveway--suggested that we seal the cubbyhole to staunch the birds comings and goings. This idea made me sad, as if I was releasing a friend, companion or beloved pet.

I suppose the cubbyhole was sealed, because the flapping and rustling sounds ceased. But the birds nest, I imagine, remained.

For years afterward, Id remember the chirps as the birds rustled in and out of that birds nest. At times, even my dreams were suffused with their ethereal music.

***

About ten years ago, by a second miracle, I discovered birds nest soup. I read about it online in the New York Times. (Most likely, it was the article at http://www.nytimes.com/1987/01/21/garden/endangered-species-bird-s-nest-soup.html.) At once, I thought of the birds nest up in the attic.

My dream was to travel to China and, in Chinese, order a bowl of this rare delicacy. That scenario seemed potent, romantic, and poetic. Birds nest soup (or yn w tang) now embodied my nearly life-long wish to learn Chinese and visit China.

Some days, I daydreamed about birds nest soup. Those daydreams gave me spiritual sustenance and comfort. That is, until I discovered what the actual ingredients are: copious amounts of bird-spittle and -droppings found in the crags, rocks, caves, mountains, tree-tops and beaches of Malaysia, Thailand and China.

For me, birds nest soup was no longer appetizing. So Ive never eaten it.

***

During the years that I took care of my mother, once in a while Id wonder about the birds nest. Was it still there? It seemed to pervade my inner thoughts, at intervals, although the birds had by now flown, never to return. In the meantime, I busied myself with the many duties of taking care of my mom: there were meals to plan, doctors appointments to make and keep, home care workers to schedule.

One day the home care agency sent Nalini Nelly Majeed--a young woman of Indo-Guyanese ancestry. Nelly stood at 5'6" with an athletic build. To me, she was tall in grey jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers. Her black hair, upswept into a top-knot, framed her olive-toned skin. At age 24, she had a strong personality etched with reserve. This was, she said, her first day as a homecare worker.

Later that same week, my mom had a doctors appointment. Dressed in black slacks, a red blouse (her favorite color), and a black cardigan sweater, she insisted on wearing a pair of stylish black suede booties with kitten heels. I tried to talk her out of wearing them, but she would not budge. A retired college professor, she commanded with authority. So Nelly and I decided that between the two of us we could steady my mom, if necessary, steer her, hold her arm. We brought along a pair of black ballet flats, just in case.

We took a long cab-ride out to the doctors office. On our way back, we were all hungry. We decided to go to a Chinese restaurant. I had my index card with Chinese phrases and their English translations, which Id been studying all week. (Phrases such as Wo zai shu zhongwen, or Im learning Chinese.)

Boldly, I greeted the waiter in Chinese. Ni hao. He gave me a look of deep surprise. In English, he said, How you know Chinese? I told him I had memorized a few phrases while trying to learn the language. I said I wasnt sure about my pronunciation. I always say this and it is always true, as Chinese involves a complex system of tones and stressed sounds that Ive yet to master. Even so, both the waiter and Nelly seemed impressed.

We ate. I do not recall what we ordered, but it was plain everyday Chinese food. Rice with an assortment of vegetables and sidedishes; no birds nests. Although I encouraged Nelly to eat, she did not eat much, if at all. (I discovered later that the home care agency had guidelines on when and where the workers could eat.)

Afterward, all three of us went to the ladies restroom. My mom stepped inside the first stall--next to the sink and hand-dryer. I entered the stall beside hers, while Nelly waited by the sink.

When she was finished, my mom could not open the stall-door. She toggled the silver lock on the stall-door, to no avail. She was locked in. Only a twelve-inch space existed between the bottom rim of the door and the floor. Quickly, like an Olympic sprinter, Nelly jumped ontop of the sinks dresser, stood on it, then reached over the sidepanel, and unlocked the stall-door.

Now I was thoroughly impressed.

***

Soon after, once Nelly left, I created a vision-board with the help of the new home care worker, Gertie Jeudy. A recently separated woman in her late twenties, Gertie had 3 young children. Slender yet strong, with chestnut-brown hair and skin, she was Haitian-American. She said she was handy, knew how to use a hammer, did most or all of her own home repairs, and had to, since her husband had left her for his now pregnant girlfriend.

Technically, they were still married. Gertie said shed had to become independent, self-reliant and handy. She bought the board, backed with cork, and measured 18 by 24, then hammered the nails into the kitchen wall and set the board on it.