in unison, as if they were doing a class recitation. It was followed by giggling.
“Why was that funny?” I asked.
A girl with big eyes and long hair answered, smiling, while the rest peered at me shyly.
“Because we never heard such a name before. It sounds like a grown-up’s name.”
“A grown-up’s name? Why?” I asked my cousin.
“None of the local children has a real name until they get to marriageable age, about fifteen. Then they are given one. Before that, they were named after animals or objects. For example, she is Piggy, he is Little Eel, the boy carrying your hat is Oyster Shell, and the pretty one with long hair is called Clear Moon.” Each blushed as his or her name was called.
“How do they get names like that?” I wondered.
“The father picks the name of the first thing he sees after the baby is born.”
I shook my head and thought of Old Mountain. The poor dad must have seen his wife’s tummy right after Old Mountain was born.
“Let’s go,” Yan said.
Laughing, they lugged and dragged our bags as we started to climb the steep steps made from uneven slabs of stone, some of which still had oyster shells stuck to them. There must have been a hundred steps ahead of us.
“The school is right there.” Yan pointed to a small building perched high up the hill. I felt a bit dizzy as I craned my neck to look.
The sun had dropped behind the sea by the time we finally climbed to the little school that was built on rocks. It had stone walls with a gray, clay-slabbed roof. While the surrounding sea was dark and forbidding, the whole island was dotted with lights that shone from the houses. One by one the schoolchildren bid us good-bye and ran off to their homes. We were both exhausted and retired early.
That night, I lay in a strange bed and thought about all the exciting things I would do the next day. Staring at the stars through a wide skylight, I heard the lulling sound of the ocean. The rhythm of its waters sounded like an old man telling an ancient legend as the waves lazilywashed against the shore. I listened to the tale until I fell into a dreamless sleep.
The morning sun exploded in my eyes. I got up and ventured into the next room, surprised to see a large crowd of girls surrounding my cousin, who sat on a tall chair. She was handing out colorful combs, plastic butterfly hairpins, and little ribbons that she had bought at Yellow Stone. She read from her roll-call book, making sure she gave the right gift to each girl. There was a smile of authority and contentment on her face. On this island of forty households, Teacher Chow, as she was respectfully addressed by the locals, was a woman of knowledge, wisdom, style, and wealth. She was probably the first person they had met who had been to the Paris of Asia, the great city of Shanghai, not once or twice, but every year, to visit her parents.
The women of the island sought out her ideas about everything—from their clothes and marriages to food and child rearing. Her students would not nod their approvals if Teacher Chow didn’t seem to like their choices. Unhappy wives often came to her with domestic complaints: like a civil judge, Teacher Chow would go to their husbands and straighten them out.
Yan had a strong personality and handled the role well, but there was a downside. Family planning was being implemented in China. Her only colleague, a forty-five-year-old man, became quite jealous of her popularity and spread the word to government officials on the mainland that she was responsible for several marriages between fifteen-year-old youngsters. The truth was that it was the custom on the island to wed at such a tender age. Fifteen was ripe, while eighteen was rotten, as the saying there went.
During her five-year tenure, there was one especially unpleasant experience. A young son of the island’s party secretary of the commune had proposed to her through a matchmaker. He was three years younger and a head shorter. Though the
“Why was that funny?” I asked.
A girl with big eyes and long hair answered, smiling, while the rest peered at me shyly.
“Because we never heard such a name before. It sounds like a grown-up’s name.”
“A grown-up’s name? Why?” I asked my cousin.
“None of the local children has a real name until they get to marriageable age, about fifteen. Then they are given one. Before that, they were named after animals or objects. For example, she is Piggy, he is Little Eel, the boy carrying your hat is Oyster Shell, and the pretty one with long hair is called Clear Moon.” Each blushed as his or her name was called.
“How do they get names like that?” I wondered.
“The father picks the name of the first thing he sees after the baby is born.”
I shook my head and thought of Old Mountain. The poor dad must have seen his wife’s tummy right after Old Mountain was born.
“Let’s go,” Yan said.
Laughing, they lugged and dragged our bags as we started to climb the steep steps made from uneven slabs of stone, some of which still had oyster shells stuck to them. There must have been a hundred steps ahead of us.
“The school is right there.” Yan pointed to a small building perched high up the hill. I felt a bit dizzy as I craned my neck to look.
The sun had dropped behind the sea by the time we finally climbed to the little school that was built on rocks. It had stone walls with a gray, clay-slabbed roof. While the surrounding sea was dark and forbidding, the whole island was dotted with lights that shone from the houses. One by one the schoolchildren bid us good-bye and ran off to their homes. We were both exhausted and retired early.
That night, I lay in a strange bed and thought about all the exciting things I would do the next day. Staring at the stars through a wide skylight, I heard the lulling sound of the ocean. The rhythm of its waters sounded like an old man telling an ancient legend as the waves lazilywashed against the shore. I listened to the tale until I fell into a dreamless sleep.
The morning sun exploded in my eyes. I got up and ventured into the next room, surprised to see a large crowd of girls surrounding my cousin, who sat on a tall chair. She was handing out colorful combs, plastic butterfly hairpins, and little ribbons that she had bought at Yellow Stone. She read from her roll-call book, making sure she gave the right gift to each girl. There was a smile of authority and contentment on her face. On this island of forty households, Teacher Chow, as she was respectfully addressed by the locals, was a woman of knowledge, wisdom, style, and wealth. She was probably the first person they had met who had been to the Paris of Asia, the great city of Shanghai, not once or twice, but every year, to visit her parents.
The women of the island sought out her ideas about everything—from their clothes and marriages to food and child rearing. Her students would not nod their approvals if Teacher Chow didn’t seem to like their choices. Unhappy wives often came to her with domestic complaints: like a civil judge, Teacher Chow would go to their husbands and straighten them out.
Yan had a strong personality and handled the role well, but there was a downside. Family planning was being implemented in China. Her only colleague, a forty-five-year-old man, became quite jealous of her popularity and spread the word to government officials on the mainland that she was responsible for several marriages between fifteen-year-old youngsters. The truth was that it was the custom on the island to wed at such a tender age. Fifteen was ripe, while eighteen was rotten, as the saying there went.
During her five-year tenure, there was one especially unpleasant experience. A young son of the island’s party secretary of the commune had proposed to her through a matchmaker. He was three years younger and a head shorter. Though the
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