Story and photos by Bennett Barthelemy
There are thousands of them. They are invisible, or nearly so. You may have seen them out of the corner of your eye, picking up a life on the periphery. They work in steamy, tight kitchens; sliding fatty cuts of beef around or clearing dirty dishes. They clamp the mouth shut as the high-pressure sprayers work to evacuate the mustard or rice from chipped plates. Robert Lee makes $800 a month, receives no health benefits and works more than 50 hours a week. This is the hard reality of many immigrants. Still, most would assert that the lifestyle is better here. According to Robert, he has more opportunity here. He says you can have nothing and become something in the United States. Without friends or connections, in China you have almost no hope. Robert is beginning to flesh out for me, no longer invisible.
Robert was amiable from day one.
“Sure you can interview me,” he smiled, broad and toothy grin beneath a whisper of black fuzz “But why?”
Because of the insulated lives of most Americans, the idea of leaving our country to find work, or even recognizing that Chinese immigrants and Chinese-Americans make up a sizeable portion of our population, might never cross their minds.
“All right, if you really want to interview me,” he had said, with his infectious smile and quick laugh.
Robert has been accepted to Humboldt State University, where the fees are exorbitant for international students. He takes classes at the College of the Redwoods because it costs less for the same classes. He needs $16,494 to attend HSU for one semester, according to university projections. So Robert is studying at CR and earning money to cover his future semesters at HSU. He leaves for school early and goes from there to work at 3:00 p.m.
Work is a necessary risk for him because it allows him to continue his education, despite the fact that it violates the terms of his visa. Ellen, the restaurant owner, seated me and pointed into the kitchen to indicate where Robert was. I had to squint, looking through the orange glare of heat lamps and the steam from sizzling vegetables, to see an apron, arms stretched past the white cotton, hands moving like an impassioned artist over his canvas-stove. The aluminum partition allowed me to only see his working hands up to the elbow. Robert escaped the heat of the kitchen long enough to advise me on my order and engage in a little small talk. Tall and thin, Robert reminds me more of a gangly adolescent basketball star than a chef. Ellen had encouraged him to push the Peking Beef, but I opted for the Sesame Shrimp. He was shocked that I did not eat beef or chicken. In China, vegetarianism is apparently unheard of. My Western privilege assumes that I will always have the choice to eat organic vegetables and fresh seafood.
“I hope you are not too hungry,” he said. Many people hunger for an entrée into a new world.
In 1998, nearly 40,000 visas were approved, the maximum our country allows every year. And from that, nearly 13,000 came to California. A portion of these are students, professionals, and relatives of U.S. citizens. Of course, these numbers don’t account for the illegal ones, who are often brought by a shadowy collection of outlaws known as “Snakeheads,” akin to the Coyotes who traffic people from Mexico. The illegal route is expensive, dangerous and the immigrants are often abused. Today there are as many as 150 million living in poverty in China. A couple of years ago the average wages in the cities was $700 a year and in rural areas just over $200. They hunger for the greater opportunities in America. I know that Robert is here legally but he has come for the same reasons. He avoided the Snakeheads, his trip secured with a student visa issued through the American Embassy. The chances of Robert staying here legally are slim since none of his relatives are U.S. citizens. Without sponsorship, he would have to get a U.S. company to petition for his absolute necessity.
I finished my meal under the watch of Ellen who came from China years ago and had been a student of Robert’s father in Canton. “Robert is very smart. He learn everything very fast. Now he cooks for us.”
“Very well too,” I added.
I read my fortune from the fragmented cookie left in the sweet and sour sauce, wondering if I would get to spend time with Robert. The fortune read, “You have a potential urge and the ability for accomplishment.” Still scratching my head at the register, I bought four extra fortune cookies - loading myself up on Chinese-American culture, believing all the fortunes couldn’t be as cryptic and reaching as the first.
My wife, Norma, and I invited Robert to lunch the following Saturday. The entryway to his house was lined with splashes of rainbow flowers, one of the most attractive gardens I had seen in Arcata. He met us with a winsome smile. I noted his neat, simple style of dress; a polo-style shirt and baggy Levi’s covered his spare but tall frame. He graciously motioned us inside.
We wandered through the house Robert was sharing. It was a lovely home, one you might see on the cover of Architectural Digest. Several Larry Ulrich scenics of the area graced the walls, along with some antiquated linen hangings with stylized Chinese brushstrokes of mountains and waterfalls, and a few bold Chinese characters. Instead of rent he helped with cleaning, which he felt was inadequate. The owner, Marcus, was older, well off and traveled about a third of the year. Marcus is also a good friend of Ellen’s, which is how Robert found the place.
His room looked like a monk’s cell. A huge, ornately carved headboard marked a stark opposition to the bare bookcase. A small stack of textbooks rested neatly at the foot of the made bed, on a cleanly swept wooden floor. Except for a shirt crumpled on the bed, and a few beckoning photo albums, the room was devoid of the signs of warmth that human habitation usually renders. Picking up the photo album and laughing, he said, “Let’s look at them out here, not in my room.” We started flipping through the pages.
“This is beautiful. Where is this, Sichuan Province?” I asked.
“Yes, but I have not been there. My family is poor, so we couldn’t travel,” Robert explained.
The images showed people, usually eating around large tables, or the inevitable backdrop of buildings with almost no trees. I learned he had a brother. What happened to the one-child policy? Robert told me he and his brother were born in ’78 and ’79. The policy came into effect in 1980. According to the National Bureau of the State of the Peoples Republic of China’s 2000 census, there are 1.3 billion people in China. On the China Population Web site, I watched the birthing clock tick away with the seconds, displaying that there had been 15,388,389 births by October 2001.
I found out that for as long as he knew, all his relatives had been born and lived out their lives in the same city. “China is very different from America. We stay in one place.”
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From the Samoa dunes, Robert Lee looks across the Pacific Ocean toward his Canton, China, home, where he hopes to return one day with money and an education.
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“Enough pictures,” said Robert. “Let’s go to lunch.”
Robert drove his new platinum ’91 Honda Prelude four blocks to get his favorite American food — pizza. His parents never had a car since only the wealthiest in China could afford them. Robert wouldn’t admit it, but I could tell he was proud to have the car and a license. His mom had just passed her test to ride a motorbike in Canton.
Robert ate his pizza from the back, stabbing through the crust with his fork. I found it curious, but it made sense, as you didn’t have to look at the mangled mess of toppings. We sipped Coca-Cola, which he said was more popular than Pepsi back home. I found out his favorite Chinese food was Pai Gu, or steamed ribs, and that he eats dog meat once a year during the festival that heralds the return of summer, and says it is quite tasty. His taste buds are getting adjusted to the sugar-filled American diet.
“Can you get American food in Canton?” I managed to ask between mouthfuls.
“Of course. . .McDonald’s, KFC and Pizza Hut,” he said.
Then the topic changed. He told me that only 20 percent of the eligible students are selected to study abroad; they must be approved via an interview process with the United States Embassy. He only spoke Mandarin at his first interview, and believes that was the reason he failed. The embassy interviewers watch for Chinese trying to pass themselves off as motivated students. The next time, he made an effort to speak English and he believes that was why his visa was approved.
I was curious about the social climate of China and asked if it is still very authoritarian with communist principles or shifted to capitalism. He assures me that it is still very strict, even though the free-market system is flourishing, at least in Canton.
“What do they tell you about the Communist Revolution, and the Red Guard?” I inquired.
“That it was a good thing,” Robert quickly replied.
“Why didn’t you stay in China?” I inquired.
“You have to know people in China in order to become somebody there. Here it is different. If you work hard, it doesn’t matter.”
As we headed to the car, I reasoned with myself that Robert is smart, motivated and attending college. He will make it and not end up like so many others.
Robert cordially invited us in and turned on the 32-inch TV and watched the Mexican-language station. He lamented the fact that there was no Chinese language station here, whereas they had one in L.A. Pointing at the TV, he commented that Mexicans looked very different, that they had many skin tones. A lot of white European, black and Native American influence, I said. Norma chimed in that recently many Japanese have mixed in too, having headed down there during WWII.
“That is very good. I like America because there are so many kinds of people, so many religions and cultures,” Robert said.
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