talk to them to start processing the massacre and its aftermath.
I picked my pencil up off the floor and started to write, including as much detail as possible. This time, for example, when I told the story of going to Beijing, I included a bit more.
“We got on the train,” I wrote, “but the conductor didn’t make us pay for tickets. I did not get his name, nor do I remember anything remarkable about his appearance . . .” And so, I began again, scrawling out my life on paper. The minutes eked by, and I—once again—filled the empty pages with minutiae. I wrote about the people who gave us food, the contaminated water, Heidi’s sickness, and the train ride home. When I finished writing the story of Tiananmen Square, I couldn’t think of any more details. I glanced at my watch. Only noon? I began to write in slightly larger letters, hoping to make it look like I’d written more text. I also searched my memories for specifics the government might find interesting. A second straight day in that room made me feel slightly claustrophobic. So, when the hour hand on the clock finally crawled all the way to the six, I grabbed my backpack and practically ran to the cafeteria.
It was only about a five-minute walk, and the air felt crisp on my face. Being threatened by the police had sharpened mysenses, and I felt so thankful to be out of that room and out on the gorgeous campus. I passed a dorm and walked through the quad, which was decorated with beautiful flowers along the walkway. As I was admiring the rows of scarlet and yellow flowers, my eyes looked past the flower beds and landed on two men standing slightly off the beaten path. Their arms were folded, and they were standing completely still, like statues of intimidation. I recognized them immediately from the police station, and a chill ran down my spine. I knew I was going to be watched, but I didn’t expect it to be so obvious. So intentionally intimidating. I put my head down and continued quickly to the cafeteria.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve been through,” I said to my friends who were already eating at our regular table. I wanted to let the whole story spill out, to explain my unexpected absence from class, to ask what news and gossip I’d missed. I sat down in the empty seat next to Joseph and simply said, “Wait ’til you hear this!”
To my surprise, he physically recoiled when I sat by him, like I had a terrible sickness he didn’t want to contract. The others looked down at their trays, and then at each other. No one asked me what happened or where I’d been. No one even looked me in the eye. Collectively, they all stood, gathered their food, and left the table. They moved so quickly and without a word, like they were geese flying in formation to a more hospitable lake.
“They forced me to register as a counterrevolutionary.” I kept talking as I watched my friends gather their things. Slowly, I realized what had happened. They already knew. Now that I was “an enemy of the people,” I was an inconvenient and possibly dangerous friend. The last to gather her food was a girl from the English department who sat with Heidi in the front row. I caught her eye, only for a moment. She didn’t say anything, and she didn’t even smile. But her eyes were full and deep. It seemed like she was trying to convey, in that one glance, “hang in there.”
While I tried to collect my thoughts, I picked up my drink and took a sip. Not only was I trying to figure out what to do, I also wanted to look busy. I felt very conspicuous sitting there all alone in my humiliation. Was it my imagination, or was the whole cafeteria staring at me? I took a bite of rice to look casual, hoping my emotions would not betray me. Had I begun to cry—if one tiny tear had managed to escape—I wouldn’t have been able to stop. I would’ve sat there in front of all of my friends and simply wept. With much effort, I tried to look calm. I took another bite of
I picked my pencil up off the floor and started to write, including as much detail as possible. This time, for example, when I told the story of going to Beijing, I included a bit more.
“We got on the train,” I wrote, “but the conductor didn’t make us pay for tickets. I did not get his name, nor do I remember anything remarkable about his appearance . . .” And so, I began again, scrawling out my life on paper. The minutes eked by, and I—once again—filled the empty pages with minutiae. I wrote about the people who gave us food, the contaminated water, Heidi’s sickness, and the train ride home. When I finished writing the story of Tiananmen Square, I couldn’t think of any more details. I glanced at my watch. Only noon? I began to write in slightly larger letters, hoping to make it look like I’d written more text. I also searched my memories for specifics the government might find interesting. A second straight day in that room made me feel slightly claustrophobic. So, when the hour hand on the clock finally crawled all the way to the six, I grabbed my backpack and practically ran to the cafeteria.
It was only about a five-minute walk, and the air felt crisp on my face. Being threatened by the police had sharpened mysenses, and I felt so thankful to be out of that room and out on the gorgeous campus. I passed a dorm and walked through the quad, which was decorated with beautiful flowers along the walkway. As I was admiring the rows of scarlet and yellow flowers, my eyes looked past the flower beds and landed on two men standing slightly off the beaten path. Their arms were folded, and they were standing completely still, like statues of intimidation. I recognized them immediately from the police station, and a chill ran down my spine. I knew I was going to be watched, but I didn’t expect it to be so obvious. So intentionally intimidating. I put my head down and continued quickly to the cafeteria.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve been through,” I said to my friends who were already eating at our regular table. I wanted to let the whole story spill out, to explain my unexpected absence from class, to ask what news and gossip I’d missed. I sat down in the empty seat next to Joseph and simply said, “Wait ’til you hear this!”
To my surprise, he physically recoiled when I sat by him, like I had a terrible sickness he didn’t want to contract. The others looked down at their trays, and then at each other. No one asked me what happened or where I’d been. No one even looked me in the eye. Collectively, they all stood, gathered their food, and left the table. They moved so quickly and without a word, like they were geese flying in formation to a more hospitable lake.
“They forced me to register as a counterrevolutionary.” I kept talking as I watched my friends gather their things. Slowly, I realized what had happened. They already knew. Now that I was “an enemy of the people,” I was an inconvenient and possibly dangerous friend. The last to gather her food was a girl from the English department who sat with Heidi in the front row. I caught her eye, only for a moment. She didn’t say anything, and she didn’t even smile. But her eyes were full and deep. It seemed like she was trying to convey, in that one glance, “hang in there.”
While I tried to collect my thoughts, I picked up my drink and took a sip. Not only was I trying to figure out what to do, I also wanted to look busy. I felt very conspicuous sitting there all alone in my humiliation. Was it my imagination, or was the whole cafeteria staring at me? I took a bite of rice to look casual, hoping my emotions would not betray me. Had I begun to cry—if one tiny tear had managed to escape—I wouldn’t have been able to stop. I would’ve sat there in front of all of my friends and simply wept. With much effort, I tried to look calm. I took another bite of
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