I’d love to visit Red Stone Bridge again
If only my arthritic knees could still bend to squat
Over the 6-ft deep manure pool, still the daily toiletry activities
At my birth village nestled among northern China’s deep pine forest mountains
My heart longs for
That remote corner on the other side of the earth, the desolate side,
Too insignificant to even be registered on Google map
Where I insisted on bursting out into this life after my mother’s washboard attempt to abort me
I long to hear that lulling voice of the endearing village dialect
Women at their door calling their children to come home for mealtime
Men in the fields yelling at their slow-moving donkeys, horses and cows
Kids giggling and laughing, me as one of them, running wild on hills, by the dirt roadside
Growing up, I learned what my father and mother looked like
In a 1 x 2 inch black and white photo
Inside the frame on the sod wall of my grandparents’ one room house
Where Grandmother’s eyes side-swiped, her mouth scolding that I was nothing but a worthless female flat piece
My first eight years of life still made my happiest memories in the village
Giggling laughing playing with my blind great grandfather, and his son, my grandfather,
My milk mother who took over nursing me at two months old when my own mother left
And my first-grade teacher, Mr. Shi, with a big smile despite his three-feet-tall body
Forever printed in my mind were those tranquil warm bright sunny days with birds chirping
When I played alone on the rusty colored beautifully arched giant stone bridge
Which gave the name to the ancient village, Red Stone Bridge, 赤石橋
Reaching down to pick wild berries, and building sand dam barefoot in the creek under it
Why, you keep coming back
To this poor village, nothing but rocky hills and rolling stones
Goodness sake, you now live in the Heaven side of the world, America!
The villagers exclaimed
My life from age eight to eighteen was hell, my giggling and laughter silenced
Growing up in the blue-collar dirt yard in the faraway city
Walking on eggshells cooking and cleaning for four strangers I was told were my family
My explosive tempered father, silent-eyed mother and two entitled younger brothers
I can’t help missing my Red Stone Bridge, although it’s no longer beautiful today
The roaring South River at the foot of the majestic South Mountain is all dried up
The little clear creek that divided the village into east and west ends has long disappeared
And beautiful Red Stone Bridge was dismantled and replaced by dwellings for an exploding population
My 2015 visit of Red Stone Bridge was disappointing, unfulfilling
In my severe depression, I was overwhelmed, torn between generations of grudges and fights
Among the rivals of my childhood friends and neighbors in the ancient village
Everybody is looking for something, as a wise American song says
Stubbornly, I tried again in 2017, to find my sense of belonging
To make up to my cousin who resented me for neglecting her back in 2015
She turned out to be more naked in her desire: buy me an iPhone, give me your American dollars
Unemployed with a pretty face, my cousin thinks I was nothing but out of the same peasantry brood
Goodbye, China
I will now only visit Red Stone Bridge village in my memory
(my eyes tearing up at the thought…)
How fortunate my American friends are
They know no helpless feelings from forced cutoff ties to a half-world-away childhood I still love …
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