Freedom in a Cage

The young immigration officer looked at the onslaught of impatient travelers marching toward his tiny glass booth. He moved uneasily in his seat and felt some sweat trickle down his back. “Nerve, nerve!” he whispered to himself as the disorganized mass of people formed a thick, dense column and closed in on him at a quickening pace.

 

Watching this scene made him think of rainfall. Not long ago, each man was just like a molecule of water vapor in the sky, a drop of hopes and dreams descending, falling toward the earth. From behind the glass panes, it was all a bit like snorkeling, or plunging, diving into a sea of undulating faces and forms and colors that swayed like seaweeds and anemones before his wide open, incredulous eyes.

 

He swallowed hard, adjusted his tie and looked to see if his nametag was on straight. It was upside down.  He quickly turned it right side up, pricking his right thumb in the process. He had to use his left hand to check his pockets for tissues. Front left, right, back left, right - he was stretching and reaching in a way that made him look like a dog chasing his own tail, or better yet, an escape artist who had forgotten how to escape.  After all his twisting and turning he found no tissues, so he lowered himself in his seat, and stuck his thumb in his mouth to suck on the crimson blood trickling down his thumb.

 

At least now all the travelers will be able to read his name with ease and say to themselves, “That Lee, Chih-Ming is sure the most incompetent immigration officer among all the incompetent immigration officers at all the airports, in all the world. “We gave you this name because we want you to have a clear goal in life,” his parents used to say, but they never said what that goal might be. For now, Chih-Ming would’ve been satisfied with not having to suck his bleeding thumb like an overgrown baby.

 

The bleeding stopped, and he looked up again at the swollen river of faces - they were creased just like their clothes that had been slept in. It was Chih-Ming’s third week at his first job at the International Airport of Taiwan. By the end of his first week he could quickly read and label most of the passengers coming his way: there were the business people with their smug faces, wearing suits and a chip on each shoulder, smirking like they were privy to some dirty secret, some backdoor deal that others were ignorant of. Then, there were the digital nomads in their shorts and sandals, with their selfie sticks at the ready to be able to record their wondrous adventures for their fans. The group that deserved the most compassion was the families with their yawning, nagging, crying, drooling children.

 

On this fateful day, though, there was someone that Chih-Ming couldn’t immediately categorize and label -  a girl with long, curly hair squeezed between two suits and a heavily tattooed, dreadlocked backpacker. Chih-Ming did a quick calculation, and concluded that if the column continues moving at its current velocity, the mystery girl would be standing right in front of him in about three and a half minutes. That’s two hundred and ten seconds. Tick-tock, tick-tock. “No, no, I need more time! Two minutes is the mere blink of an eye! No, no, I can’t wait! Two minutes is a lifetime; an eternity!” He was frantically trying to think of something to say. “Think, think!” But, he couldn’t think; not with the girl of his dreams stretching her delicate neck above a sea of seaweed-like faces.

 

 In another chamber of his mind, however, time stood still while disembodies voices carried on a conversation about unanswerable questions. “Why should she be the ‘one’?

Explain it to me, go on! This is silly! He should be focusing on his work!” Another voice answered, “You just don’t understand! It’s not something you can calculate with one of your formulas, or prove with some statistic! If you had a heart you’d know, but you don’t, so you don’t!” It was all the parts individually: the curly hair, the big, brown eyes, the slender waist, the quirky, mismatched oversized clothes, the French painter hat, the way she stood which was both elegant and sloppy, the fact that she didn’t have a cell phone but a sketchbook in her hand, the fact that she looked like an abandoned little stray cat and yet seemed to be at ease in the world. There were all these things, and more. “In the case of all things which have several parts and in which the totality is not, as it were, a mere heap, but the whole is something besides the parts…Thanks, Aristotle.”

 

“A clear goal in life. If only she were at the end of the line, then I might have a word with her,” Chih-Ming’s mind was racing. He was already stamping passports. “Enjoy your stay,” “Welcome to Taiwan,” Where will you stay?” “Which one is Tommy, the one pulling his brother’s hair, or the one whose hair is being pulled? Oh, it’s the tiny, toothless one with spit all over his bib. Why, isn’t he adorable?” He couldn’t tell whether Tommy’s passport photo resembled his actual face or not. But, no one in their right mind would go into the trouble of kidnapping a child like that and then traffic him that halfway across the world. So, Chih-Ming only pretended to be looking at Tommy, Bobby, Susan, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall and the others, and every time he lifted his head, his eyes were seeking their “clear goal in life.”

 

“Some people believe in love at first sight, others doubt that it exists. What is your opinion on the subject, and why?” This was one of the questions he had to answer on the language exam to get the job at the airport. He said he didn’t believe in it. Chih-Ming has never been in love, so he made a compelling argument against it. “People cannot love what they don’t know. That’s infatuation, not love. Love starts out like a seed that needs a lot of care and attention so that it may grow into a strong, resilient, healthy, and pure flower.” It’s so easy to talk about things one knows nothing about. The examiners listened with tired, unimpressed faces. Chih-Ming wished he could kick the door in on them this very instant, drag them downstairs, point to the girl with the long, curly hair and shout, “I BELIEVE!”

 

Mr. Jones, followed by Mr. Smith, and then by Mr. Takahashi. “Thank you,” Chih-Ming said. “Thank you,” they replied. Most conversations are meaningless formalities. A minute and a half left.

 

Mr. Higa, Ms. Sato, and Mrs. Rodriguez were traveling together. Ms. Sato dropped her passport, and apologized profusely. “It’s no trouble at all,” Chih-Ming’s feet were tapping three hundred beats per minute; his heart was at three thousand RPM. “Not at all, not at all,” Chih-Ming said. One can appear perfectly calm and collected while on the verge of a major meltdown. “Words are the tools that separate us from the fools. Language is what makes us human.” Whoever has said that? Those philosophical, scholarly types are full of it. Words are like makeup - they camouflage what we really think and feel; they smooth out and mask our blemishes.

 

Mr. Wang, Mr. Chang, Miss Liao came and went like they were never there. Chih-Ming’s hand was an automaton stamping passports. It was a robotic arm, a bionic limb, an intelligent appendage that was fully functional and operational independent of its owner who was now levitating above his seat one second and sinking beneath the floor the next. “Some people believe that life is a wild rollercoaster ride, while others think it’s like being trapped in an elevator. You’re always going up or down, and sometimes you’re not even the one pushing the buttons. What is your opinion on the subject, and why?” Miss Yu, Miss Cheng, and Mr. Tang didn’t get a warm welcome. They didn’t get anything other than a quick, decisive stamp in their passports and a goodbye. Sorry, love is blind.

The passports Chih-Ming was opening and flipping through became storybooks in front of his delirious eyes. Green passport covers were grassy fields in the middle of which a curly-haired cowgirl sat on her black, beautiful steed. She took off her hat, shook her long curly brown hair just as her horse shook his jet black mane. She smiled and waved at Sheriff Chih-Ming. Blue passports morphed into a sparkling sea cradling and hugging a little boat that swayed gently in the summer breeze. A curly-haired mermaid was sunbathing on the deck. She opened her eyes, sat up, smiled and waved at Captain Chih-Ming who was busy with the sails, but never too busy to smile and wave back at her. Opening red passports was like opening doors to smoke-filled clubs, where a VIP room was always kept available for Don Chih-Ming to enjoy a private dance from an exotic curly-haired dancer.

 

“What’s going on? Why is he not calling the next in line?” Chih-Ming looked up and his glassy eyes were met by the quizzical faces of two business men and a tattooed backpacker. In between them, there was a cascading flow of curly hair.  “Next!” Chih-Ming croaked, and he didn’t look up at all at the two business men. He stamped their passports and mumbled a “Sorry for your inconvenience” to them. They didn’t seem to hear, or if they did they didn’t think it was worthy of a response. Chih-Ming’s heart burst, he died, went to heaven and was kicked back into his body all in the same instant. There was a barely perceptible faint scent in the air. It smelled like grass, hay, seawater and cigarette smoke. Chih-Ming was about to faint. His lips separated and formed the word, “N-e-x-t,” in slow motion. He mustered up all his courage and was about to look up to face his fate that had come to him at last. It was 4:22 pm, June 2, 2021.  He knew this because he saw the time and date on his computer screen. It was also the last thing he saw there, because at this moment his computer died.

Chih-Ming swallowed hard, and tapped the computer on the side. He gave it a gentle nudge, and then two hard smacks. The machine remained stubbornly dead. Chih-Ming looked to see if his nametag was alright. It showed no sign of noticeable change in its status since the last time he had seen it two and a half minutes before. He noticed, however, a tiny red spot of blood on his white shirt. “Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard, though silently.” He looked up and there she was. Big, curly hair down to her shoulders, pale skin, two big, warm brown eyes that reminded Chih-Ming of the horse he used to ride as a kid. “Cinnamon,” the word had slipped out before he could stop himself. “Excuse me?” she said. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Chih-Ming has decided that he might as well tell her the truth. It wasn’t a strategy or bravery on his part. He simply couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Cinnamon was a horse I used to ride, and I just thought of her,” he said. She raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, and looked up and off to the right. It was like saying, “Weird” nonverbally. “Anyway,” she said, “is there a problem?” “Technical difficulties. I’m sorry. It just died,” Chih-Ming said pointing at his computer. “Someone should be here shortly to take a look at it.” There was another moment of awkward silence. “It’s my first time in Asia,” she said casually, and placed her passport on the little tray in front of Chih-Ming.

Surname: Rogers

Given name: Tracy

Nationality: United States of America

Date of birth: 05 Oct 1995

Place of birth: California, U.S.A.

Date of issue: 25 Dec 2019

Date of expiration: 24 Dec 2024

 

He looked up, their eyes met, and he quickly dropped his gaze. He looked up again. She was fidgeting with her necklace that had a medallion in the shape of a bird hanging from it. “If you travel down south to Tainan, you should visit the Bird Lady,” he said. She looked at him in a way that suggested, “Go on.” “She keeps a lot of birds, but not in cages. It’s sort of a temple dedicated to birds, and she is sort of their caretaker. I visited there after I had…” At this point something came over Chih-Ming. It was partly the desperate desire to keep the conversation going, and partly a strange compulsion to share something personal. And so, he began:

 

One fateful summer day, while out for a walk, I found a baby bird lying helplessly on the ground near some tall trees. It looked so fragile I dared not touch it. But, leaving it where I found it wasn’t an option, either. It was one of those fateful situations in life where whatever you do you might not come out of it unscathed.

 

I was already wounded just having seen her. I’ll either hurt her while trying to help her, or hurt myself trying not to hurt her. I couldn’t find the nest. It was as if she had fallen out of the sky so that I may find her. Was she neglected? Was she pushed? Did she think freedom awaited her beyond the nest? Was she thinking? Was she put there in my path to test me, to teach me something?

 

I can’t remember what became of her, though. All my memories are about this tiny creature lying in the grass - or was it the dirt of some dusty country road? All that remains is the feeling of helplessness, shock and an overwhelming feeling of wanting to care for her, of wanting to protect her. Maybe it was a dream - though I don’t think it was - but even if it was, it doesn’t change anything. It made me see that there’s no freedom, there’s no escape. We can only seek out a cage that makes us feel at home.

 

Falling is liberating. We have a split second of pleasure and feeling of satisfaction; we’re just like a fish that takes the bait and tastes whatever was offered him that he just couldn’t resist. Then, its skin is pierced and it’s dragged out of its element into a world where it can’t breathe.

 

Against the soft touch of something so small, the hardest armor I could get fighting my way through life could not protect me. She pecked and pecked till I had a hole in my chest where she could feel safe and warm for a while. Now, she’s out there looking for the next cage, and I’m sitting here in my little room in a dark corner of the universe with a view on infinity.

 

It seems to me that these little cells are designed with specific inmates in mind, so all I can do is keep the doors open and wait for her to fly back in on her own accord. It’s one of the paradoxes of life: to find what you seek you must give up the search.

 

Tracy’s eyes searched Chih-Ming for a while, but she said nothing. Then, she opened her sketchbook and began to read.

 

Every day

The world dances

On the edge of the abyss

Yet, we find the strength

To carry on

Is it false hope?

Wishful thinking?

We’re standing

On the shore

Watching ships disappear

Beneath the horizon

Soon, the sun sets, and

Our journey’s done

But, ….

 

It was at this moment that a technician tapped the glass on Chih-Ming’s cubicle. Chih-Ming stood up, unlocked the door, and let the man in. After a very brief examination, the technician discovered the source of the malfunction. Apparently, Chih-Ming’s nervous feet kicked the cable out of the socket. His system was now rebooting; the technician snorted and slapped Chih-Ming on the back. Chih-Ming returned to his seat. Some people in the crowd applauded, others whistled, and a few, “Let’s get moving!” were heard. Chih-Ming had the stamp in his hand, and was staring at Tracy’s passport. He looked up at her. She was gathering her things and was not looking at him. Chih-Ming scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper, slid it into Tracy’s passport, and handed it back to her. “Welcome to Taiwan,” he said with a faint smile. She nodded, smiled and, after a moment of hesitation, started walking away. Chih-Ming kept staring straight ahead watching her reflection in the glass pane of his booth until her shape became one of the blurry smudges of colors moving, undulating like seaweed or anemones on the ocean floor.