The Treacherous Road To My Backyard

In 1998, I was living in D.C. I had followed Julia there when she went to work for a Chinese human rights organization. We’d been there about a year, living in a garden apartment that opened onto a little patio where we had a barbecue grill. This was a lifesaver, as D.C. could be a difficult place socially. It was expensive and full of upwardly mobile young people who wanted to be out partying with all the other upwardly mobile young people—but they were overworked and broke, and most of them were only there for the two-year political cycle before heading off to grad school or into the corporate world.

People didn’t know what their priorities should be—stay out all night doing the irresponsible things young people do, or be studious and dedicated in the way that got them to the rarified heights of Hill staffer or junior-junior-junior speechwriter in the first place. Hosting barbecues—daytime, weekend activities where people brought food and booze and you didn’t have to pay to get in—was perfect for a town like that.

So, on this particular day, we were waiting for some friends of ours to arrive so we could grill. These friends were David and Wang Wei, who Julia knew from other Chinese human rights outfits.

The phone rang. It was David. Turns out, there was this guy—a Chinese dissident who had pissed off his government so badly that, back in China, they had decided to kill him. Wisely, he left. He’d been smuggled out of Beijing in the undercarriage of a truck, then stashed in the bottom of a rickety sampan-style fishing boat and taken to Hong Kong, where he holed up in bug-infested safe houses until he got false papers and boarded a plane to D.C.

That had all happened the day before.

Now the poor guy was stuck in the Hinckley Hilton—that’s what D.C. folks called the hotel where Reagan was shot. He was just sitting in a bland, over–air-conditioned hotel room, watching X-Files reruns in a language he didn’t understand.

David asked, “Would you guys mind if we brought him along?”

And then—he was there. On our patio, with a lost and shocked look on his face. It was like someone had zapped him with a cattle prod and thrown him in a tub of ice water. Which, considering the Chinese justice system, might not have been far from the truth. It would be hard enough to wrap your head around your own government trying to kill you—much less the fact that they had failed, and now you were on the other side of the world, and all of this had gone down in roughly three days. He must’ve felt like he’d been fed through one of those mimeograph machines he used to print the leaflets that got him in all the trouble.

Now, here was the thing: everyone there spoke Chinese but me. The guy spoke no English at all. He also had the best story to tell, and he hadn’t had anyone to tell it to since it happened. And I couldn’t begrudge him that. His country had tried to murder him—if he needed to get some stuff off his chest, I understood.

So I made burgers while everyone else talked to him about his experience. That was my job—burgers, vegetable skewers, beers.

Meanwhile, he talked. Getting it all out. Julia, David, and Wang Wei asked questions—all in Chinese. Occasionally they remembered me, usually when I made myself known, like handing over a paper plate full of food—and they’d translate the last thing he said. Then they’d forget me again as he kept going.

For me, the narrative turned into hamburger. Chaos. He’d talk for twenty minutes, then Julia would turn and say, “The truck had no brakes.” Then he’d talk some more. I’d pull the skewers off the grill. Julia would glance up and say, “The woman had goats and he had no passport.” It was the conversational equivalent of trying to tune in the porn channel when you were fourteen. If you're under 45, look that reference up.

Eventually, I took a seat next to him, on the other side from everyone else. I decided to let the evening go. I’d get the recap later that night, and in the meantime, he could have his first real American meal. And I think I did a pretty good job introducing him to the wonders of the hamburger—so, in a way, I’d rendered a service to Chinese human rights.

I stopped paying attention. I’d become a foreigner in my own backyard. And like any foreigner, there came a point when I just got tired of making everyone translate for me. I started to feel like a social speed bump, so I retreated.

Then the guy stared at me. And then—he started talking. Fast. In Chinese.

I still didn’t speak Chinese.

Someone translated.

“Have I ever been to China?” No.

“Would I like to go?” Well, I hadn’t really thought about it—and they had just tried to kill my house guest, which wasn’t great advertising—but I said I guessed I wouldn’t turn down a free ticket.

And then—there was this shift. Something universal happened. It was in his expression. He got this sly grin and gave me a little nod. It was a human thing, beyond repressive governments and harrowing escapes. We’d hit something basic.

He said something in a low, sliding voice, and I knew an inside line when I heard one in any language. Everyone laughed. And while they translated, he gave me that slow, knowing nod.

What he said was:

“You’d be very popular in China, Blondie.”

And I think that measuring my chances of getting laid in his home country indicated that something in him had remained intact—through all the madness and terror and dislocation. He was still a guy in his twenties, and some priorities could survive anything.

You might find it crude, but I took it as a good sign for the species in general.

I never took his advice, though.