An immigrant's trouble

       It was well into my seventh year in the United States when I received a letter from the immigration office, cordially informing me that my stay in this country would soon be no longer welcome.

       Before this letter, my life was good. Almost happy, even. I was double majoring at Harvard College, studying chemistry and anthropology, and at the same time was taking classes in German literature. Possessing a small apartment, a few intelligent friends and a boyfriend, I could not complain.

       The letter came in December, the time when all was quiet and white at Harvard. I ran down to the student center to get my mail �" as I always did on Saturdays. There was quite a lot for me that day. I put on my mittens again, grinned to the student center receptor, and walked back into the world of white, breathing out icy fog into the vast openness of Harvard yard.

       After I sat down beside the window in the recreational center, I tore open the first letter �" the one from the immigration office �" and the world spun upside down.

       I was on the F visa back then, and it should not be expiring for another two years; yet the letter kindly reminded me that since I was not registered for the F visa anymore, I ought to pack my stuff and get out of this country in a month.

       Completely forgetting my coat, I rushed out into the snow, and jogged to the administration building.

       “This is not right. Something has to be mistaken. F visa is five years, and I’m only on my third right now.”

       “Mhm.” My advisor peered at the letter from his glasses, “yes, strange indeed. Leave it to me now, I’ll check for you.”

       I bit my lip and turned to go, but stopped at the door.

       “Please, sir…I cannot be sent back to China.”

       He looked at me surprisingly, and shrugged.

       “If you say so.”

 

       I called Anya later that day. She was a law student, a few years older than me, yet her behavior always suggested otherwise. I’ve always doubt if she can be a good lawyer; with that temper, she would probably smash the judge’s face in a courtroom if her side was losing.

       “What! Deported? You’re leaving?!”

       “No…”I rubbed my temple, “I don’t know. They say I’m not registered anymore, and I’d better leave in a month. I’m counting on my advisor to settle it.”

       “God, Chenxin, what good can that old man do? My God, this isn’t good…”

       “I know. Unless he settles it, or I get a job, or I marry an American in a month…I’ll probably be packing for China.”

       “You can’t get a position that can prolong your visa without a decent degree, y’know, and you’re still just a college junior.” She said with profound law-knowledge.

       “I know that.”

       “Oh, darn…I have to go. Keep me posted ok?”

       I put down my phone and thought of China. My home. The place where I grew up.

       When I left I swore I would never return, and the prospect of America seemed to confirm that certainty. For seven years now I scarcely thought of my home country �" it seemed so far away, dreamy, unreal, belonging to a long-forgotten past. Right now, however, its shadow rose up, hovered dangerously over me, beckoning me to go back.

       No. I shuddered. The place of hunter and prey, politics, games, unspoken rules, judgments, oppression…no. I covered my face �" I can’t go back.

 

       Murphy’s rule states that whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and it did. Two days later my advisor emailed me.

       “A mistake has happened with your sophomore year school report �" it was, apparently, not officially recorded or sent to the immigration’s office. We could send it in right now, but it will first take days to assemble the proper documents, then it will have to travel by mail, for the office only takes original documents in paper. The prospect, I believe, will be at least one month or more.”

       I ran to the administration office again, this time with my coat on. I argued with the advisor that I didn’t have a month anymore. If I’m not gone in exactly 28 days, I will be deported �" and because of my delay I will be banned from entering the United States ever again.

       He peered at me from above his glasses, offering vague consolation and suggestions. As the truth sank in bit by bit, my hands grew colder and colder. There was no use.

       I turned my head to look out his office window, located between the old-fashioned bookshelves. Harvard Yard looked innocent and pure in winter.

 

       I messaged Anya, and called auntie Wen to meet me in the café on 2^nd Avenue ASAP. Auntie Wen was the only relative I have in the US, being my mother’s younger sister. For as long as I could remember she was an US resident, and it was her I came to with my luggage seven years ago, beaten and sad, frightened by this new country of America so different from my own.

      After I presented to her the case, she sat solemnly, her hand on her forehead. The café was warm, dim and noisy, with the cappuccino machine roaring untiringly, yet she seemed engaged in another world.

       “What are your plans then, Chenxin?”

       “I’m not going back. There is no place for me in China.”

       “You can’t change to any other visa, because college students are only eligible for the F visa. But you can’t prolong it now. What if you let the school send them your papers but go back to China for the time being? And come back again when everything is settled.”

       I laughed bitterly. “Do you know how much the plane tickets cost? And where would I live in China?”

       “I thought your sister was there.”

       I made no reply, only sipped on my black tea. It was warm and soothing on my tongue.

       Auntie Wen sighed. “Well, I guess the only alternative is marrying an American citizen. But Chenxin, you’re too young to be married.”

       I suddenly sat up straight. Marry! Why haven’t I actually considered that? I did have a boyfriend right now, not the best one, but he was American, and was crazy about me, and was already 30…

       She saw the dangerous gleam in my eyes. “Oh no, Chenxin, don’t think about it. Heavens you’re only 21!”

       I smiled slyly.

 

       “I’m sorry. I really am. It was all my fault, love.” I cooed, putting on a tremendously sad and regretful face.

       Alex stood at the door of his house and gazed down at me, his dark curls a complete mess. Every time we fought, he would intentionally neglect physical requirements, such as combing, shaving, bathing, eating, sleeping etc. In short, he would make himself a mess to demonstrate how bad I had hurt him, in an effort to say: See, you should feel sorry that you did this to me.

       “I shouldn’t have drove down to the bookstore with that guy. I am so sorry.”

       “Are you?”

       I put my arms around his neck and smiled into his eyes: “Yes. Let’s not fight.”

       And, of course, he forgave me like that, as always.

       Alex was, by all means, an eligible bachelor. A 30-year-old assistant professor and researcher of Harvard Medical School, he wasn’t just a nobody, and his wallet was thick as well �" a good house, a nice Audi, and fancy dinners on Friday nights. I chased him all through freshman year out of a bet with my friends, and we got together sophomore year. He was concerned at the age difference in the beginning, but I managed to convince him that love is ageless.

       It was certainly love on his side, judging by his daily phone calls and dozens of texts, and his incredible talent of getting jealous whenever my eyes seemed to linger on a male creature. Whether it’s the server at the restaurant (“Why did you smile when he brought that plate? You like him?”) or people at school (“I saw you walk with a guy from your Lit class yesterday. Think he’s cute?”). We fought a lot on these details, simply because his rigid medical brain just couldn’t let them go. My love for him wore out a long time ago, but since he loved to take me out to dinner and instruct me occasionally in chemistry, I didn’t think about breaking up anytime soon.

       I went into his living room �" again, complete mess, with bottles of beer lying on sofas, wet stains on the carpet, and socks hiding under televisions. I struggled not to cover my nose.

       “You certainly need some help cleaning.” I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. He sat down and watched me.

       After the work is done we did what we were used to �" make love on the sofa. December sunlight peeked through the curtain slit, and stroked my bare arms lightly. It wasn’t a warm light though.

       We lied on the couch, his arms around my waist, his nose gently nuzzling the back of my neck. “You’ll make a good wife one day, Chenxin.”

       “Of course I would. Hey, I’m already marrying age too.” I laughed.

 

       It could be hard to get someone to propose to you, but I would never know. I used all the tricks I knew on Alex the next few weeks and dropped all sorts of hints here and there. I even recounted to him the tragic story of how I might get deported if I don’t find a way to stay, one night on his large bed.

       “So marrying can be one of the options, huh.” He spoke into my hair, locking me in an embrace. I disliked embracing at night, as a matter of fact �" I enjoyed spreading my arms and limbs out on the bed and sleeping freely, yet whenever I try to slip out of his suffocating clutch he’d hold me closer and say: “Just be a good little girlfriend and lie in your boyfriend’s arms, will ya?”

       “Yes.”

       His breath dampened my skin. “Do you love me?”

       “I love you. More than anything.”

       The next day he asked me out to dinner. After my German Lit lecture he drove to my apartment to pick me up, dressing unusually nice. I knew what was coming, so I took my time to change while he waited in the car �" at least attempt to look pretty for an engagement. Maybe I’ll get someone to take a picture and show it to my friends.

       But as I combed through my long, dark hair, the comb stopped dead at a knot. I tried to smooth it out �" it would not do. I grew impatient and yanked it, almost cursing at the sharp pain on my skull. Looking into the bathroom mirror, I frowned at the pale Asian girl in it.

       Soon, I’ll be combing my hair in Alex’s bathroom every morning. Every, single, morning.

       My hands suddenly went numb, and I left the comb in my hair, propping my arms on either side of the sink, and staring into the mirror. Soon, I would not be lying around freely in my bed, toss and turning as I like �" Alex would be holding me tightly all night; I would not be getting up at 5:00 am to sit at the window and look at the stars, admiring Jupiter’s brilliancy �" Alex would scold me for being crazy and stuffing me back into bed; I would not be singing to myself in Chinese �" Alex didn’t like it when I spoke Chinese, because he felt “left-out and stupid” for not understanding it.

       All of this is the price to pay to stay in America.

       I lowered my head. A horn ran in the streets. I quickly picked up the comb again.

 

       We took our time with the dinner. My sirloin steak was perfect with black-pepper sauce, and I enjoyed it tremendously. It is a Chinese’s nature to love good food above everything else.

       “Chenxin.”

       I looked up at Alex, whose brown eyes were fixed softly on me. Apparently he was in an effort to create artificial, movie-like romance in this dark, heavily perfumed restaurant. I forced my raising eyebrow to stay put.

       “I have been thinking about this for some time, actually. Long before you mentioned your situation to me last night, I knew there was something special between us.”

       Well, of course. Special enough that you get mad at me every time I look at a guy.

       “And when you brought it up yesterday, I thought this was the perfect opportunity…”

       Here we go. I sat up straight.

       A red-velvet box was put in front of my plate. He opened it. “Will you marry me?”

       The diamond glistered happily on the silver ring set. But what struck me was that word. Marry.

       I never spoke it out loud before, and hearing it right now somehow froze my brain. “I…”

       Say yes, Chenxin. You got what you wanted.

       You would refrain from looking at any living man for the rest of your life, endure constant outbursts of jealousy, sleep and eat according to schedule.

       I saw myself in the living room cleaning up beer-stained carpets and dirty socks, and opening the curtains for the cold sunlight to swarm in. I would stay in America, yes, and I would accept my fate and appreciate my luck.

       Maybe one day, Alex would tell me not to go to work, just stay at home like a “good little wife”. But what does it matter? I get to stay in America.

       I gazed at this man of thirty. He overused hair product today; those dark curls gleamed greasily under the dim light.

       “No.” I replied clearly.

       His lips parted slightly out of surprise. I suddenly remarked how dry those lips were, and how disproportionally large under the nose. He clearly wasn’t expecting that answer.

       “Uh…” Alex strived for something to say, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

       But I’ve made up my mind. Standing up, my coat in hand, I took out the money for my steak out of the purse and set in beside the plate. “Sorry. Have a nice evening.”

       And with that I stepped out into the December night, glowing softly with warm orange street lights and flashing neon shop signs.

 

       “You did not marry him.” Auntie Wen repeated.

       “As you wished.” I smiled. The café was packed with people, buzzing with conversation as it usually is on Sundays.

       “And how long do you have before you have to leave?”

       “Three days.”

       “And what is your plan?”

       I looked directly at her. “I don’t seem to have a choice, do I?”

       She sipped on her coffee, “I thought you didn’t want to go back.”

       “I don’t. But at the time being, I’ll have to obey life for once. Then when I’m back in China, I’ll gather all the wits I have and outsmart it like I always do.”

       She looked at me worriedly.

       “Auntie, I will come back.” I leaned in towards her, “I can’t stay to live a life I don’t want. I will think of something. I always do.”

       She kept gazing at me for some time, then smiled sadly, “you are your mother’s daughter.”

       My vision blurred, I turned my head quickly. “I know.”

 

       Anya went crazy, as expected. She called me a fool, then said she was so glad I didn’t marry a random guy just for an American green card. She hit me, and hugged me.

       “Anya…I have to pack.”

       “Of course, of course. You, Chenxin, I will miss you…” she sobbed.

       I patted her on the head. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back. One day.”

       One day. I repeated to myself. One day I’ll find my happiness.

       And with blessings from my friends, on January 10^th, I boarded a Delta Airline plane to Guangzhou, China, the city where I was born. It was a late night flight, and looking out the airplane window into the darkness, I wished I was still at Harvard, scrutinizing chemical compounds, reading German Literature to my professor.

       But life looked at me straight in the eyes, and I stared back. Not fearlessly, because my heart was heavy and a touch scared by the unknown. What would I do in China? How would I survive in a country I’ve been away for seven years?

       I would find a way, and survive each day at a time, I told myself, as the plane glided smoothly into the air, leaving the bright lights of America behind.