I pass on to my a-ba, my brothers, and other men in the village what I learned at the tea college. My plan—as was Mr. Huang’s all those years ago—involves separating our leaves into two batches: one for maocha, the semiprocessed tea that people will be able to drink as is or let age naturally, the other artificially fermented. For now, we convert the two largest drying sheds in Spring Well into fermentation rooms. The semiprocessed tea is built up into piles a half meter high. We sprinkle them with water, cover them with burlap, and let the natural heat of decomposition begin to do its work. I know all is going well when bees begin to hover outside, so attracted are they to the sweet and warm scent. There’s no evidence of mold or the sour odor of rot. Instead, the piles smell of earth and life, ripe apples and pollen. These two sets of tea will later be steamed, pressed into cakes, set outside on trays for another round of drying, and finally wrapped in our new Spring Well Village wrappers made of the finest rice paper.
Every evening, Tea Master Sun brews and pours tea for us. A-ma, A-ba, Mrs. Chang, Teacher Zhang (who is made to laugh in a way no one has seen before by my mother-in-law), and my brothers gather around the table along with Jin and me. We test the astringency of each batch of tea every three days to see how it’s progressing. These are happy times with my family, even though the sisters-in-law must remain apart, as custom dictates.
My favorite moments, though, are those spent with the women in my family, doing a task that I always considered the most monotonous—sorting every single leaf into different grades. Yellow or defective leaves can be made into a low-grade tea for retired teachers, factory workers, and farmers in other provinces that we’ll sell for forty yuan a kilo. The best leaves—and there are so few—are put aside for special batches I’ll be making. And then there are all the leaves in between that will eventually find a proper purpose and the right buyers. Sitting around baskets outside my house, we women sort—a leaf, a leaf, a leaf. I learn who’s in love—visiting the Flower Room, stealing love in the forest, getting married. I hear about petty squabbles. I’m told all the stories I missed during the years I was away.
And I get to see how much life has changed for young girls like my three nieces, who tell me about a new government campaign aimed at ethnic minority girls like them to achieve “independence, self-strengthening, intelligence, and dexterity.” They’re supposed to do things like learn to weave handbags with symbols showing their unique culture, but I don’t see how that will help them become village cadres, go to college, or start their own small businesses. But when First Sister-in-law’s daughter recites popular slogans, “Give birth to fewer babies, plant more trees,” and “If you give birth to extra children, your family will be ruined,” I understand that all three of them are thinking about and planning their lives in ways I clearly didn’t at their age.
As for A-ma, she presides over us in the same way she always did—with a stern but fair hand. She’s particularly tough on Deh-ja, who’s adept at tea sorting but has far more important responsibilities ahead of her.
“My daughter will need to eat beneficial foods when her baby comes out,” A-ma says, speaking to Deh-ja as though she’s a servant. “Every new a-ma needs liver to replenish her lost blood, green papaya to help bring in the milk, and pig kidneys to alleviate her aches and pains. She needs food that will cause warming—ginger, chicken, and pumpkin. You will make sure the new a-ma eats this way for three cycles, thirty-six days and not one day less!”
Deh-ja is illiterate, so she recites recipes to herself as she sorts tea. As for me, I have a different idea of what will happen when my baby is ready to fall to the earth.
Although our days are long and it isn’t monsoon season, I ask A-ma to help me make a proper Akha cap for my baby. Soon enough, all the women and girls in the household want to participate. Tonight, we sit together, a variety show on television blaring a pop song—“Fifty-five Minorities; One Dream”—in the background. The Olympics are coming and the campaign—to find fifty-five sets of twins—has inspired pride throughout the country. My three nieces giggle as they peer at my laptop screen, checking websites that post photos featuring “The Most Beautiful Girls of the 55 Ethnic Minorities” and peruse polls asking, “Which of the 55 ethnic minorities has the most beautiful and marriageable girls?” while my sisters-in-law try to remind me of skills I haven’t used in years.
Third Sister-in-law still does the best handiwork, and she’s as sharp with her lessons as ever, moving from gentle to cross in seconds, depending on how well I’m doing. “Needlework shows a woman’s diligence and virtue,” she reminds me. “You’ll want to add coins, dried red chili peppers, and animal teeth to your baby’s cap to drive away evil spirits. A well-protected baby should wear at least ten kilos of silver.” (Which is not going to happen, but I don’t tell her that.) “And don’t forget to add some tiny mirrors,” she recommends. “Spirits hate to see their own reflections.” But when it comes to my embroidery? Waaa! I’m supposed to incorporate a frog, rabbit, monkey, and cat to show that my baby will be as smart, fast, vibrant, and vigilant as those animals. “My eyes sting to see such ugly work,” she scolds. “You would let your baby be seen in that? Everyone will know his a-ma doesn’t love him.”
As I pull out my stitches, the other two sisters-in-law try to distract Third Sister-in-law from her ongoing criticisms by discussing the way the baby is lying within my body.
“The baby sleeps on Wife-of-Jin’s right side,” First Sister-in-law observes. “Surely it’s a boy.”
“No, no, no,” Second Sister-in-law objects. “The baby rests on the left side. Sadly, it’s a girl.”
Third Sister-in-law can be easily swayed and her opinion can shift, depending on her mood. One night, my baby is a boy. The next night, she’s convinced it’s a girl. Tonight, though, she shrewdly asks A-ma, “What do you think?”
A-ma answers, “Anyone can see Girl is going to give her husband a son.”
Later, when Jin and I are alone, I tell him the news, but his reaction is as expected. “Boy or girl,” he insists, “I’ll be happy. A healthy baby. That’s all we want, isn’t it?”
With each passing day, I love him a little more. My family admires him too, because, even though he’s a member of the Han majority and I’ve married outside our tribe, he’s respectful of our traditions.
Hard work, mutual respect, and a united goal are the threads that now bind Jin, my baby, my family, the people of my village, and me together.
* * *
After consultations with the headman, ruma, and nima, an auspicious date is selected for the annual rebuilding of Spring Well Village’s spirit gate, which includes carving new protective figures of a man and a woman with their giant sex organs, as well as a dog and birds, all made from wood selected by the ruma for the strength of the trees’ souls. The top male of each household participates, and A-ba takes Jin along as the head of the household in which I live. We women stay behind, as is required, but the ruma’s voice carries to us through the trees.
“Let our spirit gate divert all bad things and make them go around the village,” he trumpets. “Let our spirit gate chase away the hawk and the tiger. Let it bar seizures and leprosy. Wicked spirits, vampires, and werewolves, see how our male has the strength of iron between his legs to drive you in another direction! Gods, see how fat we’ve made our female figure. She’ll make sure lots of babies will be born in Spring Well in the coming year.” Last, he addresses the carved figures directly. “Powerful man, powerful woman, let all goodness and purity enter. Dog, bite all robbers and those who would wish us harm. Birds, allow riches to come in but not corrupt us.”
The men are done by noon. We celebrate by sacrificing a pig, so the entire village—whether they are of Ci-teh’s faction or mine—can share a banquet. Only on the next morning are we women allowed to visit the new gate.
But this will not be our only security measure. Jin and I drive to Laobanzhang to see what the people there are now doing to protect the authenticity of th
eir teas. The headman shows us guard gates and tells us that three years of future harvests will be confiscated if someone is found selling counterfeits. So, in addition to our traditional spirit gate, the men of Spring Well install an electronic gate with a sentry post so that every vehicle that arrives can be inspected to make sure that passengers are not carrying in “outside tea” and every vehicle leaving is inspected to make sure that no outside tea has been fraudulently wrapped with our label. Every cake we process is also packaged with a newly required protection ticket, proving where it came from and what it is.
* * *
After two months, all the tea has been processed. Tea Master Sun returns home. I hire Teacher Zhang to run the business and oversee things when I’m away. He promises to write to Mrs. Chang. Jin, his mother, Deh-ja, and I must go back to Guangzhou so my husband can resume his business without the inconvenience of distance, I can test if the teas we’ve made are as good as I think they are in my new shop, which I’ll open upon my arrival, and Deh-ja and my mother-in-law can fight over who can fret over me more.
Following what has become an unspoken tradition, A-ma and I visit my grove on my last day on Nannuo Mountain. As A-ma picks among the parasites on the mother tree to make her remedies, she has me scrape the yellow threads from the bark into a tiny container. When we’re done, we wander through the grove and I confess to her my wish.
“I’d like to come home to have my baby,” I say. “I want you to deliver it.”
She doesn’t take a moment to consider. “I must say no.”
“Because it’s taboo?” I ask. “You brought Yan-yeh into the world.”
“It’s not that. I’m honored that you’ve asked me, but all outside people go to a hospital or clinic to have their babies.”
“I’m not an outside person—”
“I don’t want you to go to just any hospital. I’ve discussed it with your husband, and he’s promised to take you to America to have my grandson.”
“What about the taboo of not visiting another village or else I might have a miscarriage there?”
“You’ve already traveled a lot with the baby inside you.”
“But Spring Well is my childhood home, and I want you to deliver—”
“Girl, you need to have your baby in America for two reasons. First, so you’ll be near Yan-yeh. Maybe in her heart she’ll learn she has a brother. And second, to give your son American citizenship. Anyone who can afford it, does it. Even I know that.”
“Will you come with us?”
The silver charms and coins on A-ma’s headdress tinkle and twitter as she shakes her head. “I need to stay here in case someone gets sick. And a baby is due to arrive soon in Shelter Shadow Village. I could never let that bride go through delivery with just her mother-in-law to help her.”
Later, A-ma gives me things to take to the American hospital in case they don’t have proper medications: monkey callus for the doctor to rub on my back if the labor settles there, pangolin shell to massage my stomach to help contract my womb after the birth, the filings off a bear’s paw in case I bleed badly, and a special weed to put between my legs after the delivery to heal up my “end.”
“If your baby gets an eye infection, squeeze a little of your breast milk into his eye,” she advises. “Do they have malaria over there? You already know the treatment, but I made a weak poultice for a newborn, just in case.”
* * *
The opening of my new shop goes splendidly well. Within days, my three tea men are back too. It’s wonderful to see them again, and they banter with me about the size of my belly and which of their names I will choose to name my baby. (Sweetly funny.) Obviously this wasn’t the best time to start a new business, but so many people are relying on me and tea picking and selling follows its own schedule. So, just two weeks after saying goodbye to A-ma in our grove, I leave the care of my shop in the hands of my mother-in-law. The next day, Jin, Deh-ja, and I take a flight to California.
One week later, on the morning of May 15 in the Western calendar, I go into labor. When we arrive at Huntington Hospital in Pasadena, Jin fills out the paperwork and I’m wheeled to a labor room. Deh-ja promised A-ma not to leave my side, but within minutes she’s out in the hallway arguing with Jin, who promised me not to leave my side. “If a husband sees his wife give birth, he may die from it!” I hear Deh-ja squealing like an irate sow. My husband’s voice comes through the walls low, calm, and insistent. In the end, they both stay with me. I’m glad for their company and support, but this is so far from Akha tradition that together we vow never to tell A-ma.
The hospital staff is patient with us, but how can anyone argue with Jin and win? “If my wife says she needs to drink hot water to help the baby come out,” he tells the nurse, “then get her some hot water.” “If after the birth my wife needs to have a shell rubbed on her abdomen,” he tells the doctor, “then this is what will happen.” But when Deh-ja lays out a piece of indigo cloth on the side table and places a knife, some string, and an egg on it, Jin pulls out his wallet and tries to palm money into the doctor’s hand.
“I’m just trying to see to your wife, sir,” the doctor says stiffly. “That kind of thing is not necessary.”
The contractions become more intense. Jin keeps saying, “Breathe, breathe, breathe,” because it’s something he’s seen in movies. I love him, but in the worst moments I rely on Deh-ja. She helps me into a squatting position. I feel very high on the bed. The doctor and nurses try to crowd in, but she elbows them out of the way.
“Remember what your a-ma said about the fish,” Deh-ja reminds me. “Just let your son slip out.”
One more push and wherp.
“Will you please let me see the baby?” the doctor begs. “I’d like to clear his airway.”
“Is it a boy?” I ask.
Jin answers, a big smile on his face. “Yes, it’s a boy.”
I edge away from the baby and ease myself back onto the mattress with my legs on either side of him. He’s covered with slime, of course, but he’s got a full head of black hair, his skin is pink and full of life, and between his legs are the three swollen things that will make me a grandmother one day. Deh-ja’s lips move as she silently counts: Ten toes, ten fingers, two arms . . .
“Will someone tell this woman to move?” the doctor demands.
Deh-ja doesn’t speak English, and Jin doesn’t know what must happen next.
“In a minute. Please,” I manage. “A baby is not truly born until it has cried three times.”
The doctor sighs and backs off a step.
With each of my baby’s strong wails, Deh-ja speaks the ritual words: “The first cry is for blessing. The second cry is for the soul. The third cry is for his life span.”
Then she motions for the doctor and nurse to come forward. He clips the umbilical cord and allows Jin to tie the string we brought below the clip. Then snip. A push and the friend-living-with-child comes out in an easy whoosh. Deh-ja hands me the heart-forget egg to eat, but already I’m forgetting the pains of childbirth. I feel tired but euphoric. The doctor takes my son to another table, where he and one of the nurses check his Apgar score. He’s perfect.
When I’m allowed to bring him to my breast, I whisper into his face. “The four great spirits are the sun, moon, sky, and earth, but you also must learn about the lesser spirits who guide the wind, lightning, waterfalls, lakes, and springs. Everything on earth has a soul, even a single rice kernel.”
Jin punches in the number for A-ba’s new cellphone and hands it to Deh-ja, who makes the announcement in Akha: “The family will have game to eat now,” meaning I’ve given birth to a son. A-ba’s hollers come all the way through the phone to my bed.
In the middle of the night, Jin goes down the hall to watch as our baby is circumcised by Dr. Katz, a pediatrician recommended to us because he sees lots of Chinese children. Two mornings later, we’re ready to be discharged, but we can’t leave the hospital until we’ve given a woman on staff a name to wri
te on my baby’s birth certificate.
“Paul William Chang will be his American name,” Jin announces.
Baby Paul—wearing the cap I made—is tucked into his car seat, and we go home. Deh-ja follows us upstairs and into Jin’s and my room. He pulls back the covers and props up the pillows so I can rest on the bed with the baby. Deh-ja clucks and frets. But when Jin climbs on the bed next to me so we can gaze into our baby’s face together, she starts darting from one side of the room to the other in agitation.
“What’s wrong, Deh-ja?” Jin asks.
She refuses to look at Jin and sends her words to me in rapid Akha so he can’t possibly follow. “The rules say that a husband and wife may not sleep on the same mat together for ten cycles—one hundred and twenty days—because if you get pregnant again and another baby is born within a year, it will be considered . . .”
She’s so distraught she can’t finish the sentence. Remembering the taboo, I’m filled with sorrow for her. A baby born within a year of an older brother or sister is considered a twin.
“Deh-ja, come.” I pat the mattress, and she sits down reluctantly. “I understand your worry, but I’m not going to sleep apart from Jin.”
“What about the intercourse?” she whispers.
“I just had a baby!”
“Men are forbidden from trying to attempt the intercourse at this time for the reason you know and to give the wife time to recover in her parts,” she persists, “but a man is a man and ten cycles lasts a very long time . . .”
I smile. “Don’t worry. Jin and I will be fine.”
She finally relents . . . up to a point. She goes out for a walk and comes back with lengths of ivy ripped from Rosie’s yard. “I can’t find magic vine, so this will have to do.” She drapes the leafy strings on our front door and on the door to the nursery to bar baby-attacking spirits. After this, she shyly returns to my room. She pulls out from under her tunic a clear plastic bag with something red and squishy with a long eel-like thing floating inside.