Wish You Happy Forever (7 page)

Then it was my turn. It was my very first time speaking to an orphanage director about my plan. I hadn't thought about what I would say. But I felt oddly calm. I'd now spent twenty-four hours in semiofficial China and I was starting to get the formality, the rhythm, and the tone of things.

Before I made movies, I was in theater. I directed a little bit, but in the beginning I was an actor. When I was a young acting student in San Francisco, I used to ride the bus to my classes and eavesdrop on conversations. I'd pick up on the rhythms of speech; I'd watch people's mannerisms and how they connected with one another. And then I'd get off the bus and
become
those people for a little while . . . simply let them inhabit me, and continue the conversation until I arrived at class. Despite the alarmed glances of passersby, that was how I learned to become an actor, I think—much more than in the classes. Just by absorbing the world around me.

When I sat before Director Kong to make my pitch, that's pretty much what happened again. I became him and Madame Miao and Mrs. Zhang and Mrs. Li and the orange-peeling women, in addition to being entirely myself. I don't mean to suggest that my audience thought of me as simply one of them. Far from it. But this slipping into their skin—this chameleon-ness of me—made me comfortable in an otherwise impossible situation. I don't think I'd ever done that before in my regular life. Maybe because this was all so irregular—so utterly foreign and impossible to prepare for—it awoke some old actor's survival instinct. I became of the moment.

“Director Kong, everyone—first I want to thank you for giving us such a warm welcome. Madame Miao explained that it is our love for China's children that brings us here to see you today. As the lucky parent of a Chinese daughter and the representative of many foreign adoptive parents, I thank you for the loving care you give to the children who need you so much. Now we want to join you and give a gift to the children who remain in China's orphanages.”

Careful not to criticize, I noted that the institutions' staff helped the children as much as they could but that, with so many to care for, it wasn't possible for the caregivers to provide all children the kind of individual attention that each needed to thrive. I told them about research that tells us that infancy and early childhood are critical times for healthy development.

“Half of a child's intellectual development potential is established by age four,” I said. “Seventy-five percent is finalized by age seven.” Everyone wrote.

“If we want these children to succeed in school and in life and not become a burden to society, we can't afford to waste the early years. And think of this—if a baby hasn't bonded with a caring adult by the age of two, she may
never
learn to develop a healthy, trusting relationship with another human being. Not in her entire life.”

Everyone looked appropriately worried. Except, perhaps, Director Kong, who was whispering behind his hand into his cell phone. I paused. He got up and left the room. Oh well, the ladies were with me.

“We know you are concerned about the children in your care. The good news is that we think we can help you give them everything they need to succeed in life. With the help of Zhao
Laoshi
[Teacher Wen] and other experts, Half the Sky has developed two programs just for this purpose.”

I told them a little bit about the
very famous
and innovative and scientific Reggio Emilia approach, and about the plans we'd drafted for Reggio-inspired Little Sisters Preschools and Baby Sisters Infant Nurture Centers.

“When children feel safe and loved, it is easy and natural for them to learn. Reggio is all about opening doors for the children, giving them rich experiences, helping them to fall in love with learning. Then they can reach their true potential. The founder of Reggio said, ‘Our job is to help children climb their own mountains, as high as possible. No one can do more.'”

By the time I wrapped it up, Director Kong was back in the room. The ladies waited for him to speak.

“It is a very good plan.”

“Thank you, Director Kong. I really hope we can work together.”

“Certainly. What we need is an elevator and a new washing machine.”

I looked at the ladies. No one seemed to disagree.

“I see. Well. May I visit the children?”

Chapter 3

Do Not Upset Heaven and Earth

I entered a room full of orphans. It was the first time.

There were maybe twenty, maybe thirty of them, all little girls—toddlers. But no one was toddling. They were all sitting on little paint-chipped wooden potty chairs in a small dormitory. The children were tied to the chairs at their ankles and chests with strips of rag.

There was a scratchy black-and-white television in one corner playing a soap opera. The sound was low. There was no other sound in the room. No cries. No little kid noises at all.

A young
ayi
—which means
auntie
, but in this context,
caretaker
or
maid
—in a wrinkled, once-white uniform arrived. She was carrying a metal bowl of rice mush with bits of something brown. She was maybe sixteen. “
Nihao
,” I said. She nodded with a shy smile, eyes averted, then grabbed a spoon and sat down on a small plastic stool before the little girls. She started scooping food into the first three little bird mouths. The other children watched her, mouths open, waiting for their turn.

“Why are they tied?” I asked Mrs. Li.

“We don't have enough workers to control them,” she said.

“Well—do they have any toys to play with or anything?”

“Oh yes.”

I murmured to Mrs. Zhang, “Where are they? The toys?”

Mrs. Zhang asked. “She says they're locked up.”

“Why?”

“The children will break them,” Mrs. Li said.

“But—”

And then I shut up.

I knelt beside a small girl who wore a red string tied tightly around her tiny wrist. It was digging into her skin.

“Ow,” I whispered. I touched the string. She looked at me with pure terror.

“It's too tight . . . the string . . .”

“Her mama gave it to her. She won't let us take it off.”

I stood up, shaky on my feet. I tried to touch each little rough cheek or hand before I left. Pathetic gesture.

THE NEXT ROOM
was full of older girls—another twenty or so—maybe three to twelve years old. They were arranged around two large, bright-colored tables. The tables looked brand new—completely out of place in the otherwise dingy surroundings. A brand-new, seemingly never-touched toy had been placed before each child—plastic puzzle discs and stuffed animals and toy military vehicles, some still in packaging. No one played. I don't think the children had ever seen toys before that day.

They were a sad-looking lot. Unrepaired cleft lips and spastic limbs and bad haircuts on misshapen heads. Way too many bruises and scars for such a young crowd. Most of them were foggy-eyed, glazed. But a few watched us—especially me, the foreign freak, the first they'd ever seen. They were curious, and a couple were frightened when I came close. I took any emotion as a sign of life.

One sweet-faced little girl, maybe three or four years old, sat alone against the wall on a towel-covered stool. She watched me, and when I approached, I thought I saw a tiny fleeting smile.

“Hello,” I said, crouching beside her. “
Nihao ma?
”

I took her hand. Her skin was coarse, dry. She looked down at our fingers touching. She reached up and touched my yellow-brown hair.

“Why is she sitting here alone?” I asked, trying to sound friendly and nonthreatening. “Can't she join the other children?”

“She had a tumor removed from her brain. It was benign, but she lost control of her bladder.”

“But she's so young. Can't she be helped? Can't she have a diaper?”

Nobody had an answer for me. Something was growing tight inside me. My eyes were stinging.

“Would you like to see the babies?” Mrs. Li took me by the arm, her grip firm. I wanted to shake her off. I wanted to run away from this place. But I didn't.

THEN THERE WERE
the baby girls. Rows of them in squat wooden cribs. And these tiny creatures—stuffed two to a bed—they were tied to the railings.

Where could they go?

I walked up and down the rows, gazing at each. I tried to count them. I couldn't focus. I thought of who might have left them. Each one a different story. Each a tragedy that could not be spoken.

I touched the pale forehead of a tiny child, maybe two months old, with spindly arms and doll-size fists. I stroked her cheek with the back of my fingers. Her mouth didn't turn toward them. She'd forgotten every newborn's instinct to suckle.

I picked her up and held her close. She weighed nothing. The makeshift diaper, a rag really, that was tied to her waist sagged, soaking wet. I must have reacted. An
ayi
rushed up and snatched her away, then quickly grabbed dry rags to change her.

To be honest, I can't remember the rest. I wasn't really there anymore. I remember in my throat. I remember the tightness inside me, the rush of anger, pushing at my chest. The wanting to scoop them all into my arms and get them out of that place.

But I can't remember the faces anymore. Or when I do, when I force myself to remember, those dear little sad faces are multiplied into thousands I've seen since, like an impossibly miserable hall of mirrors.

THAT NIGHT, AFTER
the requisite evening banquet with a new set of officials, we finally arrived at a government hotel. The entire troop of hosts insisted on riding the elevator up to our rooms. It seemed as if the party would continue in the hallway, even after we got the bags sorted out and assured everyone that our rooms were just fine. The concept of private time was nonexistent. Finally, I apologized for my unfortunate jet lag, thanked everyone for the hundredth time, and closed myself inside the room.

I sat down on the rock-hard bed. I stared at the laminated chart on the dresser. It listed every item in the room and what it would cost if you were thinking of stealing it. Starting with the easy (ashtray—1
yuan;
towel—2
yuan;
tea cup—1
yuan
) and finishing up with the ridiculous (armchair—230
yuan;
television—1,100
yuan;
mattress—750
yuan
).

I carefully read the entire list. And then I fell apart.

I sobbed for those little babies who were in nobody's arms tonight and the children who'd never touched a toy and the toddlers who always had to wait their turn.

I thought of the lunch banquet and the dinner banquet, tables heaped with more food than could be eaten, and the reception room full of oranges, and the little bird-mouthed babies.

I despised Director Kong and his toupee and Mrs. Li and the lazy
ayi
s and even the nice ladies who did nothing more than pour tea and peel oranges.
How on earth would I get all those children out of that place?

Still snuffling, I undressed for bed, brushed my teeth, and tried to cook up a rescue plan. I'd set up a private-care home. We'd move to China and use the money from selling our house and we'd build something like a residential school and nursery. Or maybe I'd go back to that orphanage tomorrow and somehow gather them all up and . . . what?

I splashed water on my face and looked in the bathroom mirror (85
yuan
).

What if I did? How many could I save? What about their thousands upon thousands of sisters? Was it all truly impossible?

But maybe it's not Mrs. Li's fault. Not even the smarmy director's fault. Maybe it's the system that's rotten. There is no system. Broken. Broken. Broken. That's what has to change.

Don't fight the people. Join them. Fix it together. Write a new story.

Strangely relieved, I slept a solid three hours before popping up, wide-awake. It was 4:00
A.M.
That's 1:00
P.M
. in California; I called home. Dick was reassuring as always. “With you all the way, honey,” he said. “But I'd rather not run an orphanage in China.”

“No, me either. Put Maya on, okay?”

He tried. Came back.

“She doesn't want to talk to you. I asked her if she was angry with you for going to China. She said she wasn't.”

“Really?”

“Hang on—“

“What's she saying?”

“She says she's not angry. But she might be tomorrow.”

THE NEXT DAY
, as our minibus plowed through Beijing traffic, Madame Miao snapped her cell phone shut.

“Good news!” she said. “We have received permission to visit institutions in three provinces! You will go to the south! Now, in the capable hands of Mrs. Zhang Zhirong, you will have a big trip!”

“That's fantastic! And after we've visited, will they allow us to select which of the places we want to work?”