By Way of the River

I stepped off the crowded bus onto the sidewalk with a handful of others. It pulled away, its fumes lingering momentarily and interweaving with thoughts of my urban life back in Seattle. But the smells dissipated along with the conversations of passengers who shouted back and forth in the language that felt both familiar and unfamiliar to me.

Outside, in the heat, bodies hurried past me, most toward the apartment buildings nearby. Of course, there has been new development near the river. It’s always been captivating.

I took in the skyline, noting its changes, then dropped my gaze to the reason I had come: the river. The rushing sounds of the river which I knew began hundreds of miles to the north were entirely familiar, its waves flooding me with memories. I’d forgotten the expanse of it, the buildings on the other side barely visible. Under the blinding sunshine, it shimmered.

Sweat formed along my forehead and under my blouse as I adjusted the strap of my bag and moved toward the water. The path to the water’s edge wound upwards and ended suddenly. The tall reeds nearly hid the abrupt drop-off between land and water. Had it always been that way? I reached into my bag for bottled water. Had it always been so hot?

I scanned the area for shade. More specifically, for the tree I had played under, the one where I’d scraped my Chinese name into its bark. Yes—its unmistakable silhouette appeared just feet from the water’s edge, unchanged yet changed. It towered now, its branches reaching wide enough to give shade to an entire classroom of small children, but today only one sat under its cover of leaves—a girl.

It was like looking at myself, two decades before. The short black hair in pigtails, the gray and red school uniform. Her hands worked stalks of reeds into a basket or mat or maybe a crown. I approached her slowly so as not to frighten her.

“Hello… excuse me. Are you here alone? Is anyone with you?”

The girl glanced up, flashing me a friendly smile. “Not today. Sometimes my friend comes, though.”

“Do you live close by?”

“There!” She pointed to the tall apartment building a short walk away. The structure struck me as cold and unmemorable compared to the lush river’s edge.

“You come here a lot?”

“Yep. Only after homework, which is easy,” she shrugged. “Then I can play.”

“I used to play here too.” The lightness of the memory felt almost euphoric. “Mind if I sit with you?”

“Okay.” She scooted over a bit, moving the beginnings of her basket of reeds with her.  

“Tell me about your school?” I asked, almost afraid to hear her stories. Did she endure cruelty as I had? 

The girl scrunched her face with distaste. “I don’t like it.”

“No?”

“My teachers are really mean, and my classes are—boring.”

“Oh! I’m sorry about that. But here, you can just relax and play, huh?

The girl continued, even as she worked at her weaving. “Big people don’t like this spot, ‘cause it’s usually too muddy. I like it though.” She stopped and met my eyes. “Did you love it here too?”

“I did, yes,” I answered honestly. “But that was some time ago.”

“You don’t play here anymore?”

I laughed at this, remembering the work I’d brought with me on the plane and still more that awaited my attention at the hotel. “No, I moved away and grew up. Now I have to do, you know, grown-up stuff.” We both paused, and I shifted uncomfortably, ashamed of what she might think of the “boring” life I’d settled into. “What do you want to do when you’re older?”

“I’m going to be an astronaut! I read how astronauts can walk on the moon, so at night I look up at the moon and think about what that would be like. Being grown up can be fun too, right?” She stopped to study my face, looking for assurances. I had none. “What do you do for work?”

“Oh, I work on the computer,” I answered. “It’s not as fun as being an astronaut,” I added with a laugh, “but my parents are pleased.” Is this job still enough, or am I afraid of challenging myself?

“You miss the water.”

I nodded and breathed in the scents of water and grass and decomposing leaves. “Back then, I played here at the river for hours. Now I only fly over water—the ocean—to my home in the United States.”

“What’s it like there?”

“Where I live, there are mountains and so many trees. It’s peaceful. But it rains a lot, which is kind of a bummer.”

“Oh.” The girl’s expression became thoughtful. “My parents say that if I want to become an astronaut, I should go to the United States—the program there is the best.”

Early on, moving to the US had also been my dream. “You’ll have to get top grades in school and leave the river, like I did.”

“Leave this?” she exclaimed, objecting to my vision of her future. “I’ll study hard, become an astronaut—but still come here, like always.”

“Of course, you will.” I felt guilty for imagining she would carry the weights I did.

“Besides,” she added, “my parents are here.”

“Tell me about them!” I insisted, glad for a change of topic.

“My father works on a computer too! And my mom makes the best food and rides me around on her bike.” Here she laughed with delightful abandon. “I’ll be able to ride to places myself when I’m older.”

“Maybe we both just want to be—free, you think?”

“I am free,” she said matter-of-factly. “Aren’t you?”

I stared at the river, my thoughts tumbling like the waves as I struggled to put them into words. “I have weights on me that I carry now. My work takes lots of hours and my parents need me."

“Oh,” she started, looking down at her weaving as if afraid to ask the question that had begun to bother her. Afraid of my answer. “Do you think I’ll be like that too when I grow up?”

At that moment, highlights of my youth flitted in and out of my mind—the dark two-room apartment that felt so safe, the pile of books about space on the floor by my makeshift mattress of quilts, the smell of pork rib soup when I came in the evening from playing, the feeling of being loved for being rather than doing. 

“No, I don’t,” I said, feeling the truth of it. “I believe you can be anything you want. The river has given you courage, and you are free to choose to take all this with you wherever you go.” My eyes fell on my name inscribed—indelible—on the tree trunk. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

The sun had begun to set, casting a waxy orange glow over the water. Noting the dimming sky, the girl said, “It’s time for me to go.” Without hesitating, she gathered her half-woven creation and threw me a smile and a wave as she skipped toward her home. Soon, her small figure disappeared over the hill.

By the river alone, I watched the sunset in China, the land of my childhood. It would always be the home of my heart, but I would not cling to it. Instead, I would travel back across the ocean, thinking of a little girl at the river who reminded me of who I was—and still am: confident enough to try big things; free enough to choose new paths; and content with a life of quiet simplicity. A life lived by a woman with two names, determined to find happiness on both sides of the ocean.