Wish You Happy Forever (28 page)

“It's here?” I asked, noting the toilet paper peddler stationed in front of our hotel. I wondered if we should stop and buy some.

“Here in Zhoukou!”

“May we visit?”

“Oh, it's gone.”

“Are there ruins or anything?”

He shrugged. “Here is Zhoukou Guest House. You must be very tired. We will eat now.”

THERE WERE AT
least six new faces at dinner, all of them male—lower-level county officials. I'm pretty sure there was no such thing as a female official in this part of China.

I sat at the mayor's side. He had studied English in university twenty-four years earlier and wanted to see what he could remember. Nothing, as far as I could tell—not that it mattered. After we discussed the reason for my visit, and how much we really wanted to do whatever we could to help the children, but couldn't possibly afford to contribute four million
yuan
to help Zhoukou finish construction of a new civic center that had been partially funded by a Hong Kong businessman who had
guanxi
with the vice party secretary but ran out of money, the mayor lost interest in talking to me.

The rest of the evening disintegrated into a
baijiu-
and cigarette-fueled argument about which county had the most AIDS cases. It was the opposite of a government cover-up. Each of my dinner partners was claiming top prize.

Quietly, beneath the smoke and din, ZZ suddenly turned to me.

“Jenny, there is one thing I should tell . . . ,” she said, struggling for the right words. So unlike her. “Today . . . they say when you touch someone with . . . the AIDS sickness . . . you may yourself—”

“But . . . that isn't how you get it, ZZ. Ah, you are worried because I hugged Mrs. Rao?”

“Hu,” she said. “It is Hu who worries about this.”

“Let's take a walk,” I said. “I'll explain what I know about the disease. You can share with Mr. Hu.”

IN THE MORNING
, Mr. Hu took us deeper into the backroads. “Now we will see a Sunshine Village for the AIDS orphans,” he said.

“Mr. Hu, I appreciate from the bottom of my heart that you are making these difficult visits possible. I want to make sure you know that. I only hope that we can repay your trust by finding a way to help the children.”

“You will,” he said, lighting one cigarette from another. “You will.”

The car turned into a whitewashed cluster of single-story red-roofed buildings. They looked like army barracks.

“It used to be just a home for old people,” Mr. Hu said. “There is a primary school just a few hundred meters away. The children are welcomed there.”

We got out of the car. Two local officials greeted us. ZZ and I followed Mr. Hu's cloud of smoke down a path lined with neatly clipped boxwood shrubs. The place was silent. Not even birds peeped.

We stopped at an open door.

Standing in military formation, wearing red, white, and black sports uniforms, were five somber rows of children, eight to thirteen years old. Forty-four children. When we walked into the room, they spoke in perfect unison.

“Good morning, Teacher Jenny. Welcome to our home.”

I tried to smile. “Good morning, children. Thank you.”

From somewhere, tinny music started to play. Still maintaining their formation, the children sang and danced. None of them smiled.

I could feel the China Smile fixing itself on my own face. We applauded. Then we all stood there, looking at each other. I knew I was supposed to say something. But I just couldn't. Finally I croaked, “Will you show me around your home?”

EACH OF THE
dormitory rooms was nearly identical. Two narrow, hard beds with blond-wood headboards, each stamped in red characters that said,
SHAODIAN SERVICE CENTER FOR THE ELDERLY
. Between the two beds, two matching bedside tables with a single drawer. Atop the tables, two identical blue plastic electric fans and a shared hot water thermos. The girls' dorm rooms had bright-pink bedspreads with a bamboo mat and bamboo-covered pillow. Nothing else. The boys had the same in orange. The children were separated by age and gender. They did not live with their siblings or, if they survived, their grandparents.

“Who looks after the children?” I asked Mr. Hu later, as we walked to the car.

“A local farmer's wife comes each day to cook for them.”

“That's it?” I said. “And the kids can never go back to their real homes?”

“Oh yes, they do. For holidays and at harvest time. If they have living relatives.”

I SAT LIKE
stone in the back of Mr. Hu's car. The road went on and on.

“It must be hard for them,” I said finally. “Those children only know life in families. Even though they were poor, they had someone. I wish the siblings could live together.”

Mr. Hu didn't answer. We drove on in silence and smoke.

I had no answers. I was lost here.

My California-sunshine-can-do attitude was gone. I slumped in my seat, depressed beyond words. The flat fields outside looked dead to me now.

After a long quiet while, the car stopped. We were nowhere, as far as I could tell. Mr. Hu got out and told us to follow him.

In the middle of a barren field, there was a truckload of gravel, several piles of brick, and a big green sign displaying an architectural rendering of a large military compound. At least I thought it was.

“Red Ribbon Family,” read ZZ. “Sponsored by All-China Industrial and Commercial Federation.”

“What is it, Mr. Hu?”

“Home for AIDS orphans,” he said with a hopeful smile. “By next August, seventy-five orphans will live here. All of them are under ten years old.”

“Little kids. In some sort of families?”

“There will be
ayi
s, of course. And a cook. And teachers for the school. Everything the children need—all here in one place.”

“But—” I said. And then I couldn't hold the flood: I burst into tears. I sobbed. I embarrassed us both. I begged him to reconsider. “See, those little kids are traumatized, Mr. Hu. They watched their parents die. Now you—I don't mean
you
, but . . . well, somebody wants to take them from their brothers and sisters and leave them here with nobody to hold them at night and smile at them in the morning and . . . Look . . . Please let us help, Mr. Hu. . . . Oh, wait! I know . . . I know—Half the Sky . . . in Jiangsu Province, a town called Gaoyou—we're piloting a new program! Family Village! It's for orphans with disabilities—the ones who won't be adopted. A way for them to grow up in families. We could do the same thing here! I mean, I don't know how we can pay for it, but we'll figure it out—we always do—please, Mr. Hu—excuse me for this . . . damn crying. . . . What do you think?”

By now I was both crying and laughing—maybe a little bit crazed.
We can do this!
Mr. Hu looked shaken. I am sure I never seemed more foreign to him than at that moment.

A WEEK LATER
, the fax machine rattled in our Beijing office. ZZ translated as she read:

The Henan Provincial Government has recently made a decision that they will not expand the building of Sunshine Villages, instead to accept the idea of foreign expert Jenny Bowen of Half the Sky to build the Sunshine Family.

At the beginning it can start with temporarily renting houses from the families who've had both parents die—a courtyard with about five rooms. Each new family can foster five to six orphans. . . . Twenty foster parents, five teachers, and five staff have already been selected.

ZZ looked up and grinned. “It's a good start—do you think so?”

I jumped up and hugged her. “It's great; it's wonderful! But ZZ, I sure wish they wouldn't call me an
expert
. They know I'm not, right? Did
you
tell Mr. Hu I was an expert?”

“Certainly not. But why should it matter?” she said. “We say, ‘Why add legs to the painting of a snake?'”

“Huh?”

“You say, ‘Leave well enough alone.'”

WE SAID GOODBYE
to our Jingli that summer. A month before she left us, she met her new family on the telephone. Although she'd known that they would find her one day, we didn't share the whole story with Jingli until just before they called. We waited because we didn't want her to worry. We didn't know if that was the right way . . . or if there
was
a right way. She'd been our daughter for nine months.

We gave her the box they sent—a dress that matched her new sister's, a stuffed animal, pretty hair things . . . most precious, a photo album introducing her new family.

We watched her brave little face as she heard her mother's voice for the first time. She didn't understand all the words, but she got the message. When it was all over and we had all cried, Jingli said, “I so much happy.”

She moved to Pennsylvania and soon forgot how to speak Chinese. A few years later, the little girl who taught me that what is best in us may be hidden, but can never be destroyed, became my friend on Facebook.

Dear Jenny Mama:

I am sixteen years old now and about to turn seventeen. I know I'm getting old by the minute. Can't you believe it?! My life with my family is great. I love them no matter what but not always show it. Well, at least that's what my parents said. They think I should be a lawyer because I am good at arguing. One most important quality that is special about my family is that it is filled with love.

My favorite things to do during free time are pretty much anything that has to do with art. I'm not much of a sporty person. A lot of my friends are involved in some school sports. For wearing the brace, it's really hard for me to participate in the fun like everybody else does. At times I really wish I could run and be able to do those things like any of my peers can. I hate to admit things like the fact that it's really hard for me to make friends.

There are times where I do think about China. Sometimes I ponder at the thoughts of it. If you didn't take me into your family, will I still be in the orphanage? Who knows where I'll be? There are memories of China that connect me to there. There are shadows here and there about the orphanage I lived in. I have to say there's not one thing I missed about that place. I love my family to pieces.

Thank you out of my whole heart,

Jingli
                                             

Chapter 16

One Who Rides a Tiger Cannot Dismount

Chongqing
Autumn 2005

The buses snaking in convoy through southwestern China's backcountry were crowded with government officials, orphanage directors, a handful of directors of foreign adoption agencies—and ZZ and me. We were on our way to visit one of Chongqing's “model” orphanages, and then to board a ship and cruise down the Yangtze River. The occasion was China's First National Social Welfare Institute Child Care Training Conference. Either somebody in high places was finally beginning to pay attention to orphans, or this was one mighty expensive junket.

Whatever it was, Half the Sky had been invited! It was our very first invitation from the Chinese government. Even though they pretty much left us alone now, we still weren't legally registered, and nobody from the Ministry of Civil Affairs had officially endorsed what we were doing. If we were ever going to make a real dent in the problem, we needed the government on our side—a tall order for a foreign organization in China.

The invitation called me a “foreign expert.” The title made me squirm, but if playing that role might get kids the love they needed, then that's who I'd try to be. Luckily, Dana Johnson, my board colleague and a
true
expert, had been invited to be the keynote speaker.

We arrived at the model orphanage. Its balconies were decorated with curtains of bright-green plastic bamboo leaves, kind of a happy karaoke feeling. Inside, the place looked like most other orphanages in China. Full of children left alone. What made it a model was Baby Bubbles.

Small groups of conference delegates squeezed in and out of the Baby Bubbles demonstration room. ZZ, Dana, and I squeezed in last. We all agreed: Baby Bubbles was certainly something new.

On one side of the bathroom-tiled room was a row of six bright lamps aimed at a long table. Under the lamps lay six naked babies. They were being gently and efficiently massaged by six
ayi
s in crisp white uniforms. On the other side of the room were six transparent inflated tubs—sort of double-decker inner tubes—filled with water.

Designed by an army doctor and patented by his friend (who happened to head the Chongqing office of CCAA), the tubs were decorated with cute baby designs and the Baby Bubbles logo. Inside each tub floated a naked baby girl with a dazed expression on her face, wearing a tiny inner tube around her neck.