The Self-Serving Cynical Immigrant

The Self Serving Cynical Immigrant

I’ve heard stories about the last emperor,

How he became a beautiful paper puppet,

And the Japanese decided how his little arms

Would move.

I’ve heard stories about the man who led China,

Who marched with his people on the ink black mountains,

And how he lit fires to the wealthy,

All for the people

不管黑貓白貓能捉老鼠都是好貓

No matter if it’s a black or white cat,

If it catches mice,

It’s a good cat.

On the television screen in the living room, there is a picture of a man with a rather large nose and a graph of the stock market. He isn’t too tall and is rather tan compared to other Chinese men. By instinct and familiarity, she knows that it’s Ma Yun, although he’s known here as Jack Ma. Li Biyu isn’t too familiar with what’s going on in China as of right now, that’s by choice, yet here she is listening to a Caucasian news anchor report on Chinese politics and economy. To think, that even in the United States, China is still ever so present in her life. There are no feelings of hatred linked to her avoidance of Chinese politics, if anything, Biyu could care less about the two-faced country. When she did care, her existence could essentially be deemed as a national threat, and her life could be in danger. Escapism: that is what America offers. In a foreign country with foreign laws and rules, there is no need to involve oneself in civil society, for why should the government care about a mere immigrant? In China, people drink their Starbucks and buy their Chanel bags while social activists disappear from society after they post criticism of the Communist Party on their WeChat timeline. Private messages are never truly private, but nobody minds because so long as they follow the rules, there is no reason to worry and they can continue sending cute little animated gifs to each other. Black or white cat, as Deng Xiaoping said, if it catches mice it’s a good cat— is this really just a metaphor for Chinese economics? It seems like the cat has gotten too good at catching mice to the point where the people don’t even question what happens after the mice are caught and how the mice are caught. So long as they are not the mice, there is no reason to be concerned.

She pours herself a cup of Longjing green tea and sits comfortably on the couch and decides to turn off the television to watch YouTube videos on her laptop instead. Before moving to New York, Biyu was used to using four apps on her Huawei phone for entertainment. iQiyi was her YouTube, while Weibo, DouYin, XiaoHongShu, and Baidu pretended to be her Twitter, Tik Tok, Instagram, and Google. She’s grateful at least, for without Wikipedia and History.com, she’d never know about how many people have died at Tiananmen or who the Uyghurs even are—but without knowing she would’ve been fine too. Knowing just made Biyu want to expose the government to her friends in Shanghai, let them know how they trade in human rights for capitalisms material pleasures, but she’s more afraid of her friends calling her ungrateful or not believing her than of the government making her a ghost. Do I be a martyr, or do I become the boy who cried wolf? Neither were good answers and so that is why Biyu sits comfortably on her couch in a small apartment in Brooklyn. Forget leading, how can one even spark a liberation inside the Great Wall with soldiers that own facial recognition technology? Would Mao Zedong see the same success he did then if he lived in the day and age of Alibaba and 5G?

Cicadas sing songs taught by their mothers,

The skies are burnt orange from the pollution,

That built Shanghai her high-rises

That rise above the skies.

Pale skin with lips too red,

Calves and ankles shaped to perfection,

Words are all she has,

A woman is soft.

换一下风景,

Let’s change the scenery,

Abandon the past

And live selfishly.

Shanghai is the true metropolis of China. Where Beijing has elements of its ancient history infused with the technology of today, Shanghai is made of memories of past occupants, like the French and British, along with the remnants from the beginning of the new Republic of China. Having grown up in Shanghai, Biyu cannot help but think about her former home whenever she drinks her favorite tea on the couch on cold grey winter afternoons. Longjing tea is from a city nearby Shanghai called Hangzhou, and the loose leaves in her teacup were harvested and roasted in China, just as she was-- and just like herself, the tea was exported to the United States. As much as she tries to avoid thinking about her regrets and life before her physical liberation from the authoritative state, Biyu cannot help but dwell on it when she makes a cup of her favorite tea or when she notice the trends regarding Chinese food on popular western media. In China, she worked an average desk job at some media company and would regularly be set on blind dates with men her parents loved. Give him a chance, her mother would say, he has money. Why does it matter? Marrying him would only mean that the Li’s would forever be in debt to the man’s money and that she would stay home every day to watch the children that his money bought. Of course, this is the best chance at a comfortable life, or at least what her mother thinks of as comfortable (and all that she will ever know of comfort.) A year later, the same lips will tell Biyu to learn how to draw on her makeup better and speak kindly so that she can at least be one of the several girlfriends of a CEO. And a year after that, her mother would say, with exhausted eyes, that even being a Xiao Jie (an escort. The direct translation means “little sister,” but that’s a bit too incestuous for a proper country but gentle enough to serve as the general title for the girls at the club who eye your clothes to see if you’re worth their time) would beat being over twenty-five and single. And a year after that, Biyu would leave the restraints of Chinese society for the turbulent self-titled “Land of the Free.” What kind of purpose is there to a life of ruthlessly studying for the GaoKao test to get into a good college to get a well-paying job to impress a man and eventually becoming a housewife? A thought Biyu would have constantly running through her head when she was in China: why couldn’t I have been born a bit prettier? At least then, she wouldn’t have to worry so much about speaking kindly since her face will do half of the work. While looks are the common woman’s greatest gift, it seems like words are the Chinese woman’s real sword and shield. In congress, there are 2,280 members as of 2017 and less than a quarter were women. Of course, it’s not like China is void of female influence in higher positions, but a majority of those women rose to their ranks from having good guanxi (connections) and excelling in the social aspects of life. Women are soft and must know how to speak well, that’s what Biyu learned, yet if politics is made of speech and women are raised to be social, then why are there so few women in politics…? Ah, that’s right, being a politician and working in the government is far too much labor and stress for a mere woman. Stick to teaching or retail, and if that does not pique your interest, just get married then so you can live mindlessly in a routine, forever shackled and the property of the man in a country that is so efficient that it’s terrifying.

Outside, there is the faint sound of Christmas songs on the streets. The Chinese woman smiles faintly. As of a few years ago, China banned all foreign holidays. She breathes out and continues sipping her tea as she stares outside her window. Sure, the United States has its problems, but at least she is free from the judgments and control of China. By moving away, the woman has not changed anything in her life, yet she believes she is free and can become an example for other inspiring to-be immigrants of her native home. It sometimes scares her, thinking about the women who cannot leave China as she did, those who can only try to lead their freedom from the grasps of misogyny masked as tradition and the authority of Xi Jinping. But alas: she is content and happy in her little apartment with her false sense of self-liberation far far away from China.

*A/N: TO CLARIFY, I have no problem with immigrants! I just find it interesting when a lot of them leave their homes for the purpose of escaping the state and yet they participate in the fetishisation of their ethnicity or partake in white liberalism while not sharing their experiences to help the community of immigrants around them (along with those who cannot immigrate.) I am also slightly scared about posting this piece because I am Chinese (American born, and have lived in Shanghai before) and publicly commenting/critiquing the Chinese government scares me still....