God's Double Agent (6 page)

My classmates, who had all written papers about being doctors or teachers, began calling my thesis my “State of the Union” address.

“Here comes Prime Minister Fu,” they laughed when I entered the room. This was particularly amusing to them because my family name means “deputy,” or “vice,” as in “vice president.” A Fu could only be second-in-command, not a true executive.

I laughed along with everyone else, but after witnessing and experiencing terrible poverty as a child, I realized the only way to get rid of inequality was to become someone very important and powerful. If I had power I could truly help the underprivileged by working to eradicate systematic corruption. My mission changed from becoming a millionaire to becoming a high-ranking Communist official. Power, I reasoned, was even better than money when it came to making lasting change. For example, who created social ranks? Who classified people? I knew in my heart that if I were important, I could help the poor.

But my idealism and naiveté posed problems.

A few days after I read my “State of the Union,” I was called into my headmaster’s office. Normally, because of our close relationship, he greeted me warmly. But this time he had a very sober look on his face. Had he found out about our late-night movie excursion? Did he know I was stealing his newspapers? We weren’t alone. Another grim-looking man was waiting there too.

“Hello,” the man said, sticking out his hand very formally. “I’m the party secretary of the city electricity company.”

Uh-oh
, I thought.
I’m in big trouble
.

He was holding my handwritten letter, outlining my complaint of corruption. I was terrified.

“We received your accusation that our officials received bribes
in order to provide electricity,” he said in a cold, even tone. “And so, I’ve come here to . . .”

In my mind, I filled in the blanks. . . .
to punish me? To tell me to stop spreading lies against the Communist government? To suspend me from school
?

“. . . to address your concerns.”

The headmaster looked at me with an amused look that conveyed, “You troublemaker!” When I saw his affectionate glance, I knew I would not get in too much trouble. Still, I could barely breathe as the party secretary continued.

“I admit,” he said, “that there may have been some irregularities around the Spring Festival in your village. Perhaps some part of the company has problems. But I want to assure you that we didn’t receive any tractors of eggs.”

I couldn’t believe it. This was the number-one guy—the party secretary of the city—right there with me in the headmaster’s office. After I got over my initial fear of reprisal, I was incredibly proud that my high school letter received all that attention. After all, he seemed like a respectable, honorable man. He even talked to my other classmates about the integrity of the electricity industry, which made me feel like that important person I’d always wanted to be. The flattery went straight to my head. As a high school student, I was able to get this Communist official to explain himself and to hold himself accountable to the “little people.” That moment verified my life’s calling: I’d rise within the Communist Party and fight corruption. I’d work against inequality using my prominence and power.

As he said goodbye, he shook my hand, thanked me for my concern, and smiled reassuringly. Though he didn’t say as much, I got the message. Though I’d forced their hand on this issue, my relationship with the government would be respectful and amiable as long as I understood who was ultimately in charge.

It wasn’t me.

4

“You got in! You got in!” My classmate slammed on his brakes, causing a cloud of dust to rise up around his bicycle. He hopped off and ran into our courtyard, shoving a piece of paper at me.

“You got accepted!”

In June, at the end of high school, the graduating seniors sat down over the course of several days to take the
gaokao
, the dreaded college entrance examination that determined our future.

“Here are your scores!” my friend said to me. A low score meant I’d have to stay in my village and be a farmer forever—permanently residing in the lowest class. A high score meant college, maybe even in a big city. I always dreamed of a more urban existence. Beijing, with its university life, tall buildings, opulent palaces, and political power, held a definite allure. Plus, college meant government food coupons, a salary, and an immediate bump into a higher social strata. I grabbed the paper and looked over it quickly until my eyes landed on the number.

Of my forty classmates, I’d ranked thirteenth.
Not terrible
, I thought.
Well above the national average.
I lowered the paper and considered what this meant for my future. While my classmates had crammed all year for the big test, I was more interested in creating newspapers, sneaking out to the movies, and fighting
the electric company. Perhaps I should’ve studied more, but I had scored high enough to get into a four-year college. Each student had to submit a list of three universities, ranked in order of preference. Through a rather mysterious, opaque process, the government assigned a college that determined the destiny of a student. Since the College of International Relations was in Beijing, I had listed it as my top choice of college.

“No, no, no,” my headmaster said to me, taking a pencil and marking through that college’s name. “You’re too much of a troublemaker to go there. Why don’t you become a teacher? It’s nice and safe.”

Later, I realized he was just trying to protect me. Apparently, the College of International Relations, managed by the Chinese Ministry of State Security, was where the intelligence personnel were trained. In other words, it was the Communist Party equivalent of a CIA school. Though I heeded my headmaster’s advice about that particular college, I definitely didn’t want to become a teacher. Teachers were paid very little and weren’t respected. I needed an important job, an impressive title, and a big paycheck. And so I ended up putting law school at the top of my list, journalism second, and management third.

It took several weeks to find out which direction the government had chosen for my life. When the news finally arrived, I was the only student in my class to get into a four-year university. This alone would’ve been a huge honor for most students. However, as I glanced down the form in my excitement, I realized I didn’t get into my first, second, or even third choice of school.

“How could this happen?” I asked my mom through tears. Her health had been gradually deteriorating over the years, which made college all the more important. “I didn’t even list this school as an option!”

“It says they accepted you to study in the English teaching department,” she said, reading over the paper to see what had
upset me. Liaocheng Teacher’s College had accepted me, which meant the government was forcing me into the very occupation I didn’t want. “That’s better than being a typical school teacher, right?”

“Barely!” I said. I was too distressed to admit that teaching English was actually more prestigious than teaching other subjects. “I might as well be working in the fields!”

I ran to my room, locked the door, and flung myself facedown on the bed. During my self-imposed exile, I went on a hunger strike.

“What am I going to do?” I cried. Should I stay another year in my village and try to take the exam again? Maybe if I took the exam more seriously, all the extracurricular activities wouldn’t distract me.

Later in the day, I overheard my mother talking with my sister in the yard. “I’m worried about Xiqiu,” she said, her voice full of sorrow and concern.

It seemed like just yesterday when my family was discussing how to afford to send me to school and Qinghua had volunteered to sacrifice her education for mine. She was smart. Would she have done better on the test if she were in my shoes? Maybe my family had bet on the wrong child. But after an entire day of feeling sorry for myself, I realized my dramatic reaction was worrying my parents too much. Finally, I was able to gather myself.

With resolve, I emerged from my room, and said, “I promise you that I’ll go to the teacher’s college, but I won’t stop there. I’ll go on to graduate school. And with a higher degree, I’ll make more money.”

My mom seemed relieved to see my resolve and helped me pack my bags for my journey to Liaocheng City.

“You’ll get to Beijing,” she assured me. “You must simply do it in a different order.”

“When I get there,” I said, as I folded clothes and placed them
neatly in my suitcase, “I’ll make sure to take you to Tiananmen Square.”

“I’ll remember your promise,” she said.

My new college was situated north of the Yellow River, the longest river in Asia. No matter how beautiful it was, however, it was located right there in Shandong Province, the area I’d never been able to escape all my life.

“I’m Xiqiu,” I said, extending my hand to one of the other male students on the first day of classes. I selected a desk in the middle of the class—close enough to hear my teacher and back far enough to still keep an eye on everything. As I met my new classmates, I learned they were from all over the province. Some seemed excited to be there, others were anxious to get to their studies. The guys, I could tell, were checking out a group of female students who were gathered at the front of the class.

Girls generally made me nervous, so I didn’t introduce myself to them. In China, dating didn’t start as young as it does in other places, because parents wanted their kids to concentrate on learning, not romance. That meant my life had been free from the drama of turbulent high school relationships. I didn’t have much experience talking to women, which was just fine with me. University officials, after they welcomed us to the campus, promptly warned us that dating was frowned upon. In fact, we weren’t supposed to pair up, because it would be a distraction to our academics.

Still, the guys were already evaluating the female contingency of our classroom.

“Who’s that?” a guy to my left asked. He was pointing to a dark-eyed, athletic girl in the second row.

“Oh, that’s Bochun Cai,” his friend responded. “But don’t get your hopes up. I heard she has a crush on a hometown guy who got sent to a different university.”

I didn’t pay attention to all the romantic maneuvering, but I did evaluate our room pretty quickly. Some students immediately introduced themselves to others, while some simply unpacked their backpacks and sat quietly waiting for the teacher. Some were laughing with people they’d apparently already known from high school, while others seemed mortified at being with a group of strangers. Unlike other areas of study, the English students had all of our classes together, so this group of strangers would soon be my circle of friends.

I hope we get along
, I thought, as the professor came into our class and smiled.

“Welcome to the English literature department,” he said. He was dressed very casually, like he’d just come from a beach—which, I soon learned, he had. Bryan Harrison was an American teacher from California. He was tall and had a kind face.

“The first thing we’re going to do is to select an English name for each of you,” he said. “This will help you guys familiarize yourself with English names. And it will help me remember who you guys are.”

The students laughed.

“Let’s face it. I won’t be able to remember a roomful of Chinese names. Your names sound just as foreign to me as my name, ‘Bryan,’ sounds to you.”

Everyone giggled at the sound of his name. We wouldn’t call him “Bryan,” of course. Since he was going to give us English names, we’d give him a Chinese name. In China, we acknowledge people’s age in order to revere our teachers. Later, as we got to know him, we’d tease him by stressing the “elder” part, because we knew Americans had an irrational desire to be seen as young. Since he was only in his twenties, we used the Chinese word “Lao,” which was an affectionate but more familiar word. It was more like “Hey, ol’ buddy” than the stuffy terms of respect we had to show our Chinese teachers. Bryan loved his new name, “Lao Wu,” and passed around a hat full of tiny
slips of paper that had English names on them. Soon it was my turn to draw one.

“Yo-seph,” I laughed, as the word clumsily fell out of my mouth.

“Joseph,” the teacher corrected me. We hadn’t yet gone over the sound associated with the letter J.

“Yo-yos-yoseph,” I fumbled. “These English names sound ridiculous. I’ll never learn how to pronounce a name like that!”

I passed the hat to the classmate sitting next to me, who drew his piece of paper.

“Bob,” he said, and burst into laughter. These names sounded so foreign to our ears.

“Bob?” I asked. “Now that’s an easy name to say.”

“Want to trade?”

“You’ll be Yoseph?”

“I’ll be Joseph.”

That’s how I went from Xiqiu to Joseph to simply “Bob”—a slip of paper out of a hat and a last-minute trade with my friend. My Chinese name is pronounced “She-Shoe.” Changing from Xiqiu to Bob would definitely help English speakers say my name. Of course, I had no idea that English names had meanings or connotations. Bochun, the girl in the second row, drew her slip of paper and read it aloud, “Hi-dee.”