ARRIVAL IN JINHUA

金华奥林匹克花园, 8:08 pm, Sept. 7th 2016

I’m in shock. In actual shock. I’m overwhelmed and appreciative and blown away by the kindness of the people I have just met. This entire evening has felt like something out of a dream, one I couldn’t even begin to imagine because until now I had no context for it. I’m not sure what happens next, or, really, what has just happened—it’s been less than a half-hour since we got back from the visit, and I’m still trying to process it.

But let me back up.

I’m finally in Jinhua. I’m sitting on the window seat in my room as I write this, looking out into the lamp-lit darkness beyond. This corner of the apartment complex is tucked away and quiet, down a dead-end lane off the single, curving street that circles through the entire residential area. I arrived a few hours late (having missed my first train in Shanghai), and I haven’t gotten a chance to explore, but it seems designed for beauty and privacy; there are gardens, a lake, a gazebo. Two official gates, supervised by blue-uniformed security guards, mark the only points of entry for pedestrians and vehicles. I came in through the North gate instead of the South one by accident, but my host’s father found me with only minor confusion.

It feels surreal to be here. Knowing that this was the city I was born in, where I could have grown up—it means a lot more than I thought it would. There’s a weight on my shoulders, and my heart feels like it’s twisting inside my chest. Maybe it’s pre-emptive to say, but so far I like it here; it’s not as hot as Huangshan or Guangzhou, more mild, and not as loud and bright as Shanghai, though I like that too. The taxi ride was a blur of colors more than concrete images—tall gray and tan buildings, vivid green plants, a gray sky, a gray river tinged with blue, red-brown dirt overturned. All earth tones, and reassuring. The air feels like rain.

I arrive late enough that once I settle in and get shown around, it’s time for dinner. I eat with the family, a delicious assortment of smaller dishes, paired with fresh rice, that I’ve never had before. There’s a salty canned meat, peanuts cooked in a black, oily sauce (black bean?), and a few different types of vegetables, including a slightly sweet, slightly crunchy chopped white root that I love. (Later discovered: Lotus root.) I can’t really communicate with the family verbally; the father and I tried earlier, but his dialect sounds strange to my novice Beijing-dialect-only ears. Still, the mother and sister can speak a little English. We make the best of it.

I was able, in my conversation with the father, to convey that I was born in Jinhua, and that I wanted to visit the orphanage where I stayed before being adopted. I think this is why my hosts did what they did, next.

After dinner the mother takes me to a family friend’s condominium. It could not be more different from the spacious, light-colored space my host family lives in—instead, everything is dark, full of richly-colored wood, gold threading, and red brocade. He and his wife have both lived in America for several years (he in Chicago—a businessman/translator), and they speak extremely quick, fluent English. It’s been so long since I had a real, lengthy conversation in English that it takes me a moment to jump back into things (and how strange it is to hear English after mostly hearing Chinese for five weeks!), but he is smart and patient and kind as I struggle to explain myself and what I am doing in Jinhua. And do I ever struggle.

Explaining to a native speaker that I just want to explore the city where I was born, not try to find my birth parents or engage with my adoption in that emotion-weighted way, is difficult enough. Explaining to a ESL speaker, even one who is basically fluent but has been several years out of America, is even harder. I think part of it is that, for many people, it’s impossible to imagine an adoptee coming all the way to a foreign birth country, alone, with astoundingly mediocre language skills, and NOT want to find their birth parents. I’ve been aware, for a long time, that this part of my narrative does not match up people’s idea of an adoptee’s story. When I explain it to him I try to choose my words carefully, because I’m not sure how to verbalize it myself. It’s like trying to calmly discuss the pros and cons of walking through fire while you are actually walking through fire. The conversation is overwhelming and fast.

“We will do our best to help you,” he says, over and over again. He speaks in rapid-fire Chinese to my host, who listens intently and nods. “Their family—C. family—they help you too.” He questions me about the information I have, tells me it will be challenging. “You have to be ready for difficulties,” he says. “Many families, they may not want to speak up. The policy was hard.” He doesn’t elaborate further, deftly steering the conversation in another direction. “You have the address for the orphanage? We try to help you visit.” This is something that I do want, and I nod, thanking him. He waves my thanks away. “It is no problem,” he says. “We want to help.”

So now I’m back in my host family’s apartment. Mostly shocked, hugely grateful, slightly overwhelmed. Writing this short essay/journal entry before I go to bed. I've been given a mosquito coil, which I’ve never actually seen before, and it smells like smoky, chemical incense. Not wholly unpleasant, when it mixes with the scent of the rain.

I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. I think I was able to convey, at the very least, that I want to look around Jinhua, and that it’s okay if they don’t help me look for my birth parents, or at the very least if I don’t find them. But I guess we’ll see.