Maxine Hong Kingston - I Love a Broad Margin to My Life

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
Published by Alfred A. Knopf

Copyright 2011 by Maxine Hong Kingston

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

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Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

Coleman Barks: Excerpt from Song of the Reed from The Essential Rumi , translated by Coleman Barks. Reprinted by permission of Coleman Barks.

Irving Berlin Music Company: Excerpt from Sittin in the Sun (Countin My Money) by Irving Berlin, copyright 1953 by Irving Berlin. Copyright renewed. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Irving Berlin Music Company.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kingston, Maxine Hong.
I love a broad margin to my life / by Maxine Hong Kingston. 1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-59533-1
1. Kingston, Maxine Hong. 2. Authors, American20th centuryBiography. 3. Chinese American authorsBiography. 4. Chinese American womenBiography. I. Title.
PS 3561.152 Z 46 2011
818.54dc22
[B] 2010028819

v3.1

To the Ancestors and

my contemporaries and

our children

Contents

HOME

I am turning 65 years of age.In 2 weeks I will be 65 years old.I can accumulate time and losetime? I sit here writing in the darkcant see to change these penciled wordsjust like my mother, alone, bent over her writing,just like my father bent over his writing, alonebut for me watching. She got out of bed,wrapped herself in a blanket, and wrote downthe strange sounds Father, who was dead,was intoning to her. He was reading aloudcalligraphy that hed writtencarved with inkbrushon his tombstone. She wasnt writing in answer.She wasnt writing a letter. Who was she writing to?Nobody.This well-deep outpouring is not for anything. Yet we have to put into exact wordswhat we are given to see, hear, know.Mothers eyesight blurred; she saw trashas flowers. Oh. How very beautiful.She was lucky, seeing beauty, livingin beauty, whether or not it was there.I am often looking in mirrors, and singlingout my face in group photographs.Am I pretty at 65?What does old look like?Sometimes I am wrinkled, sometimes not.So much depends upon lighting.A camera crew shot pictures of meone of5 most influential people over 60in the East Bay. I am homely; I am old.I look like a tortoise in a curly white wig.I am stretching head and neck towardthe light, such effort to lift the head, to openthe eyes. Black, shiny, lashless eyes.Talking mouth. I must utter yousomething. My wrists are crossed in my lap;wrinkles run up the left forearm.(Its my right shoulder that hurtsRollerbladingaccidentdoes the pain show, does my hiding it?)I shouldve spoken up, Dont takemy picture, not in that glare. One sideof my neck and one cheek are gone in blackshadow. Nobody looks good in hard focus,high contrastblack sweater and skirt,white hair, white sofa, whitecurtains. My colors and my home, but rearranged.The crew had pushed the reds and blues and greens aside.The photographer, a young woman, said, Great. Great.From within my body, I cant sense that creaseon my left cheek. I have to getwincompliments. You are beautiful. So cute.Such a kind face. You are simple.You move fast. Chocolate Chip.A student I taught long agocalled me Chocolate Chip. And only yesterdaya lifelong friend told Earll, my husband,hes lucky, hes got methe Chocolate Chip.They mean, I think, my round faceand brown-bead eyes. I keepcount. I mind that I be good-looking.I dont want to look like Grandmother,Ah Po. Her likeness is the mask of tragedy.An ape weeps when another ape weeps.She is Ancestress; she is prayed to. Shesits, the queen, center of the family in China,center of the family portrait (my mother in it too,generations of in-laws around her)allis black and white but for a dot of jade-greenat Pos ears, and a curve of jade-greenat her wrist. Lotus lily feet showfrom the hem of her gown. She wanted to bea beauty. She lived to be 100.My mother lived to be 100. Onehundred and three, she said. Chineselie about their age, making themselves older.Or maybe she was 97 when the lady officialfrom Social Security visited her, as the government visitseveryone who claims a 100th birthday.MaMa showed off; she pedaled her exercisebike, hammer-curled hot pink barbells.Suddenly stoppedwhat if So-so Securitywont believe shes a century old?Heres a way for calculating age: Subtractfrom her age of death my age now.100 65 = 35I am 35 years-to-go.Lately, Ive beenwriting a book a decade; I have timeto write 3 more books. Jane Austenwrote 6 books. Ive written 6 books.Hers are 6 big ones, mine4 big ones and 2 small ones.I take refuge in numbers. Iwaste my time with sudoku.Day dawns, I am greedy, helplessto begin 6-star difficultysudoku. Sun goesdown; Im still stuck for that squarethat will let the numbers fly into place.What good am I getting outof this? Im not stopping time. Nothingto show for my expenditures. Pure nothing.8 days before my birthday, I wentto John Mulligans funeral. He was 10years younger than me. He died withoutfinishing his book, MIAmerica .(I have a superstition that as long as I,any writer, have things to write, I keep living.)I joined in singing again and againa refrain, Send thou his soul to God. Earll,though, did not sing, did notsay any of the Latin, any of the prayers.He muttered that the Catholic Church divides youagainst yourself, against your sexy body.The Church is a gyp. John Mulligan shouldvebeen given a pagan ceremony; Woman Warrior,Robert Louis Stevenson, and Cuchulainhad come to him in Viet Nam. Johncarried them, tied to him by silver cords,to the U.S. The priest, who came from the Philippines,kept reminding one and all that the benefitshe was offering were for Christians only. Buthe did memorialize John being born and raisedin Scotland, and coming to America at 17.Summarily drafted to Viet Nam. Youdidnt have to be a citizen to be drafted.The war count, as of today:Almost 2,000 killed in Iraq. G.I.s.Not counting Afghanis,Iraqis,civilians,mercenaries,children, babies,journalists.7 days before my birthday, I had breakfast withMary Gordon, whos always saying thingsI never thought before: Its capitalisticof us to expect any good from peace demonstrations,as if ritual has to have use, gain, profit.I agreed, Yes, its Buddhist to go paradingfor the sake of parading. Can you think of a writer(besides Chekhov) who is holy and an artist?Grace Paley. She smiled. Well, yes.Obviously. Thoreau. Oh, no. Thoreaustoo Protestant, tidy, nonsexual. He goeshome to Mom for hot chocolate. Nosex, no tragedy, no humor.Come to think of it, Thoreau doesnt makeme laugh. A line from Walden hangs over oneof my desks:I love a broad margin to my life.Sitting here at this sidewalk caf with Mary,deliberately taking time off from writingand teaching duties, I am making a broad marginto my life. The margin will be broader when we part,and I am alone. Thoreau swam, then sat in the doorwayof his Shelter, large box, dwelling-house,alone all the summer morning, raptin the sunlight and the trees and the stillness.Birds flitted through the house. Untilby the sun falling in at my west window,or the noise of some travellers wagon on the distanthighway, I was reminded of the lapse of time.I have a casita of my own, built instead ofa garage after the Big Fire. Its widthis the same as Thoreaus (10 feet), its lengtha yard longer. He had a loft; I havea skylight. I want to be a painter.Sometimes, I hear the freeway, now and againthe train, and the campanile. Thoreau heardthe band playing military music; his neighborswere going to war against Mexico. He made up his mindnot to pay taxes.Trying broad-margin meditation, I sit inthe sunny doorway of my casita, amidst the yuccaand loquats and purple rain birches. Some Iplanted, some volunteered. Birdschickadees, finches, sparrows, pairs of doves,a pair of towhees, and their enemy, the jay. Hawkoverhead. Barn swallows at twilight.I know: Thoreau sat with notebookand pencil in hand. Days full of writing.Days full of wanting.Let them go by without worryingthat they do. Stay where you areinside such a pure hollow note. RUMI Evening, at an Oxfam Relief benefitfor Hurricane Katrina refugees, I read aloudwhat Gilgamesh of Uruk (Iraq!) heard about a flood.The Euphrates flattened a city bringing calamitydown on those whom now the sea engulfsand overwhelms, my children who are now the childrenof fishes. Earll auctioned away a 100thanniversary Mardi Gras doubloon handed downfrom his family. A bakery donated an immense cakewith candles, and people sang Happy Birthday to me.6 days ahead of birthday: A smallwhite man sat abandoned at the stairsto our garden. Summer sportcoat. Its autumn.He carried a heavy suitcase.Two bigger suitcases, trunk-size,sat on the sidewalk. Here Band B? he asked, and handed me papers.Lists of bed-and-breakfasts, the top onewith our cross-street but no address number.A neighbor must be running a secret B & B.Widow B and B. A widow used tolive next door, but her house burneddown, and we bought her vacant lot.And theres a Viet Nam widow down the street,and a faculty-wife widow 2 doors up.I got reservation. My name is Fred.I came to see about my Social Security.Where are you from? You can go to your localSocial Security office. I came fromairport. I paid shuttle thirty-onedollars. But it doesnt cost nearly thatto be driven here from OAK orSFO. Shuttle van broughtme here, to B and B. Earll phoned somehome-inns in the Yellow Pages, and drove Fred toa B & B, which cost $125a night. One hundred andtwenty-five dollars a week , Fredcorrected. No, no, a day . Helooked ready to cry. Get mea taxi. The innkeeper called motels, and foundDays Inn at $90 per night,and a hotel at $60 per night.Fred told us of his life: He had been educatedat San Jose State. He lived in a basement,and studied engineering. Hed made $900a month, then in San Francisco $1,200a month. Housing was $30 a night.Theres no work for engineers in San Franciscoanymore. Social Security will givehim $600 every month.Earll also$600 per month.In Iran, I live for a long timeon six hundred dollars. We tookFred to BART. Go to San Francisco.At a big hotel, ask for a youth hostel.Earll gave him a hug goodbye.We picture the little lost man, from Iran,getting his bags stuck in the turnstile,leaving 1 or 2 behind as the traindoors shut. Shouldve warned him, he has tocompete with the Katrina refugees $2,000housing allowance. Shouldve offered him water.In Freds reality: Widows rent out rooms.At B & B on the computer, hitPrintvoilroom reserved,room confirmed. Taxi drivers knowthe place for you, and will take you to it.Everywhere wander people who have notthe ability to handle this world.Late the next day, we went to the Cityfor me to talk on the radio about veterans of war,veterans of peace. In a waiting room, womenin scarvesMuslimswere serving food to oneanother. Each one seemed to have come froma different land and race, her headdressand style and skin color unlike any sisters.Silks. Velvet. Poly jacquard. Coral,red and black, henna, aqua. Peacock.Crystals, rhinestones. Gold thread. Impossiblydiverse cultures, yet Islam brings them together.This corridor is an oasis on the Silk Road,as if that thoroughfare continues through Africa,and across oceans. An Egyptian-looking womanheld up to me, then to Earll,a tray of fruits and vegetables. Eid,she said. Celebrate the Eid.I chose a cherry tomato and a medjool date.I willed my Thank you to embrace her, go throughand around her, and enfold the other Muslims, the oneshere, and the many far away. Thank you,Muslims, for giving food to whoever happensamong you. Im lucky, my timing in sync with their time,the sun setting, and a new moon coming up.Last day of Ramadan, women ending their fast.If not for years of practicing Buddhist silenceand Quaker silence, I wouldve chattered away,and missed the quiet, the peace, the lovingkindness.Happy birthday to me.Sunday, my friend Claudebrought a tea grown by old Greek ladies.It cures everything. I drink, though nothingneeds curing. Cured! we said in unison.Monday ere birthday, I resolve, I shall restfrom worry and pursuit. (In childhood chasedreams,monsters chased me. Now, I do the chasing.)Joseph, our son, calls. In a marathon read,hes finished all the books Ive ever published.Im the only writer I know whose offspringreads her. How was it? Good. (Accurate,said my mother.) Joseph cares for accuracy too.Hes mailing me pages of errata: I gotthe Hawaiian wrong; I got the pidginwrong. Hes a musician; he has the ear. I lovehearing his voice wishing me happy birthday.I must be getting old too; Ireally like my power tools. Hedread again and again the instructions on howto use a chainsaw, then cut up the pinetrees without mishap. Borders in Honolulusold all his CDs, and wants more.My time in Hawaii, I never learned the hula,never learned the language. Couldnt bearthe music. Heard at evening, the musicmeleand pila hookaniwould stay with meall the night and into the next day.It hurt my chest; my chest filled with tears.Words for the feeling are: Regret. Minamina.( Hun , said my mother. Hun , the sound of want. Hun .) Hun the nation, lost. Hun the land. Hun the beloved, loving people.Theyre dancing, feasting, talking-story, singing,singing hello / goodbye. No soonerhello than goodbye. Trees, fronds wave;ocean waves. The time-blowing windsmells of flowers and volcano. My son has givenme the reading that I never gave my father. Whyarent writers read by their own children?The child doesnt want to know that the parentsuffers, the parent is far, far away.Joseph says, Dont write about me.Okay. I wont do it anymore.To read my father, Id have to learn Chinese,the most difficult of languages, each word a study.A stroke off, a dot off, and you lose the word.You get sent down for re-education. You lose your life.My father wrote to me, poet to poet.He replied to me. I had goadedhim: Ill tell about you, you silent man.Ill suppose you. You speak up if Ive gotyou wrong. He answered me; he wrotein the flyleaves and wide margins of the Chineseeditions of my books. I shouldve asked him to readhis poetry to me, and to say them in common speech.I had had the time but not the nerve.(Oh, but the true poet crosses eternaldistances. Perfect reader, come though 1,000years from now. Poem can also reachreader born 1,000 years before the poem, wish it into being. Li Baiand Du Fu, lucky sea turtles,found each other within their lifetimes.Oh, but these are hopeful superstitionsof Chinese time and Chinese poets.I think non-poets live in the turningand returning cosmos this way: An actof love I do this morning saves a lifeon a far future battlefield. And the surprisinglove I feel that saves my life comes froma person whose soul somehow correspondingwith my soul doing me a good deed 1,000years ago.) Cold, gray Octoberday. Ive built a fire, and sit by it.The last fire. Wood fires are beingbanned. Drinking the tea that cures everything.Its raining, drizzly enough, I neednot water the garden or go out to weed.Do nothing all the perfect day.A list of tasks for the rest of my working life:Translate Fathers writing into English.Publish fine press editions of the bookswith his calligraphy in the margins andmy translations and my commentaryon his commentary, like the I Ching. Father hada happy life; happy people are alwaysmaking something. Learn how to growold and leave life. How to leaveyou who love me? Do so in story.For the writer, doing something in fictionis the same as doing it in life.I can make the hero of my quondam novel,Monkey King, Wittman Ah Sing,observe Hindu tradition, and on his 5-times-12birthday unguiltily leave his wife. Parentsdead, kids raised, the householder leavesspouse and home, and goes into the mountains,where his guru may be. In America, you can yourself be the guru, be the wandering starets.At his birthday picnic, Wittman Monkey wishesfor that freedom as he and the wind blow out60-plus candles. Used to tellinghis perfectly good wife his every thought,he anti-proposes to her. Taa, I love you. But.I made a wish that we didnt have to be marriedanymore. I made a wish for China.That I go to China on my own. Taabeautiful and pretty as always, leaf shadowsrubbing the wrinkles alongside her blue eyesand her smile, sun haloing her whitegoldhairTaa lets Wittmans bare wordshang in air. Go ahead, you Monkey.Wish away. Tell away. Tell itall away. Then she kicks assHeres your one to grow on!thengets quiet. She can be rid of him .But first, have it out. So, were notgoing to be old lovers, and old artiststogether till we die. After all our yearsmaking up love, this thing, love,peculiar to you and me, you quit,incomplete. God damn it, Darling,if your wifeIwere Chinese,would she be your fit companion in China?Hell, Sweetheart, if you were Chinese,I wouldntve married you to begin with.I spurned the titas for you. Forsaking the sisters.All my sisters-of-color. O, whata romance of youth was ours, mating, integrating,anti-anti-miscegenating. BadMonkey. You married me as a politcal act.No, Honey Lamb, uh uh.An act of artiststhe creating of you-and-me.Married so long, forgot how to declare I .I want Time. I want China.Married white because whites good at everything.Everything here . Go, live Chinese,gladly old. America, cant get old,no place for the old. China, there beImmortalists. Time moves slower in China.They love the old in China. No verbtenses in Chinese, present tensegrammar, always. Time doesnt passfor speakers of such language. And the poets maketime go backward, write stroke by stroke,erase one month of age with every poem.Tuesday, I criedin public,a Chinese woman wailing to the streetsover the headline: LIBBY FINGERS CHENEY .I gloated, but suddenly stopped moving, and wept.The stupid, the greedy, the cruel, the unfair have takenover the world. How embarrassing, people asking,Whats wrong? and having to answer, Cheney.Rumsfeld. Rove. Halliburton. Bush. The liars.The killers. Taking over the world. Aging,I dont cry for the personal anymore,only for the political. Todays news photo:A 10-year-old boyhis name isAli Nasir Jaburcovers his eyeswith his hands. He hunkers in the truck bednext to the long blanket-wrapped bodies ofhis sister, 2 brothers, mother, and father.A mans bare feet stick out from a blanketthat has been taped around the ankles.I see this picture, I dont want to live.Ive seen the faces of beaten, cloaked women.Their black wounds infected, their eyesswollen shut. Their bodies beaten too,but cant be seen. I want to die.Just last week, 12 sets of bonesfrom Viet Nam were buried in 12 ceremonies.At sunset, I join the neighborswith sangha,life is worth livingstanding at the BARTstation, holding lit candles, remindingone and all that the 2,000th Americansoldier has died in Iraq. Not countingmercenaries, contract workers, Iraqis, Afghanis.Next page