Admittedly, it took a long time to get my bag, as the Beijing Capital International Airport at the start of summer vacation is like two JFK airports crammed into one. Imagine if the population of New York City were all fighting to claim their luggage. Or if a bank were suddenly just handing out stacks of free money to all their customers.
Sleep-deprived and on autopilot, I had to dart around multiple hugging families shouting enthusiastically in Chinese. I maneuvered elbows, flailing arms, and Louis Vuitton bags just to swing my bulky suitcase off the rotating carousels.
“Excuse me!” I hollered, but no one seemed to hear me. I felt a little bit sad and pathetic. Just like the mismatched, orphaned shoe at a Nine West outlet. I always wondered what happened to those shoes. Do they get thrown out or sent back to the manufacturer?
I actually don’t even know where I’m supposed to go. Everyone is running toward someone or something. In fact, I notice that airplane passengers are running up to signs. But I don’t see one with my name on it. But then I also don’t read Chinese. Would my uncle make a sign for me? My dad also didn’t say if my uncle would bring my aunt and cousin with him. I feel quite left out. I just want to race up to an eager, smiling person holding up my name. I want to be claimed, like overseas luggage.
What I want is to feel normal, but also special at the same time, which is what my mom always says is “Iris’s biggest life problem.” My dad insists it’s my flower-heart and shitty Tiger curse. But I honestly don’t see it as a problem that my inner life goals do not align with theirs. Mine seem to be flexible. Mainly driven by my peers and advertisements on social media, while theirs are about being hardworking with the purpose of affording super-nice cars and vacations. I like all these things, but the difference between me and my parents is that they seem to find school and hard work ridiculously easy. Their brains never seem to malfunction. Their wet-eyed disappointment hurts because they think that I’m a four-star restaurant in Manhattan, when I’m really just a box of Kraft dinner.
I really don’t know how to be better than I already am.
With a sudden pang, I realize that I should be here with my parents. Even if they aren’t my real ones, they should be visiting Beijing with me. The fact that I’m alone in a strange country terrifies and paralyzes me.
I can’t help but take being sent to China personally.
Before I left, we tried to talk about my dad’s decision. In our family, usually Mom makes everyone’s executive life choices, but Dad kept insisting on the trip and booked my one-way plane ticket. He has never seemed so certain of anything. Each time I tried to nervously bring up failing high school, everyone just started trying not to cry-yell and talking hysterically about what was for dinner (Panda Express).
Needless to say, the whole not-talking about my impending banishment was a Level 10 national disaster.
Eventually, I realize that I’ve been wandering around the International Arrivals section in Terminal 3 for a while. My arms ache from pulling my rolling luggage, and my sneakers are squeezing the sides of my feet. I just want to lie on the ground and possibly sleep.
My dad assured me that my uncle would pick me up at the airport, but I realize that I don’t even know what my uncle looks like. Am I supposed to look for a younger version of my dad? Am I supposed to stand on the escalator and scream my Chinese name over and over again? (The only Chinese words I know.)
To be honest, I am not even sure I know how to properly pronounce my Chinese name. It was just something that I never asked my dad.
I try to turn on my iPhone to text my dad to ask him how to find my uncle and how to say my name again in Chinese, but it still isn’t working. Disgusting toilet. I read somewhere that you’re supposed to resuscitate a wet phone by soaking it in a tub of short-grain rice or baking it in the oven like a ginormous brownie. I’m not sure what the proper advice is. I don’t know where I’m supposed to find a giant sack of rice at the airport.
Finally, I lug my suitcase up an elevator and then perch near a faux-gold-topped temple with potted ferns and silk lamps. I’m so relieved when I spot a Starbucks, I practically start sob-crying with relief. I really need another cup of black coffee and maybe a tasty piece of frosted lemon cake to make me feel better after a long, horrible flight.
But that’s when I see it. Near the Starbucks, there is a mobile phone booth. They can probably fix my phone! Aren’t Apple products made in China? My iPhone and I were originally manufactured in China, and it’s like now we’re coming home. With renewed determination, I grab my suitcase and head over, elbow-jostling through a crowd of a senior-citizen tour group.
The young pimply dude at the counter greets me in Chinese: “Zǎo shang hǎo!”
“Hello,” I say politely. “I dropped my phone in the … sink … and I’m wondering if you can fix it.”
“Chinese?” he asks, looking very surprised.
“No, um, English only.”
“Why?” he asks.
I don’t know. That’s actually a good question. I never needed to learn Chinese in New Jersey. Practically everyone speaks perfect English.
“I’m American,” I say.
“Chinese,” he says, sounding confused.
“I’m from the United States,” I say again.
“No, you Chinese.” He points to my face, then back at his facial features. We look nothing alike!
“I’m Chinese American,” I say to the cashier.
“Chinese!” he insists, looking puzzled. “Why you not speak? What is your problem?”
“No problem,” I say, suddenly exhausted. “Can you please just fix my phone?”
He’s extremely confused about my ethnicity, but at least he tinkers with the ON button, and tries to plug it into his laptop. He presses another button and fiddles with more wires.
The screen remains dark.
Shit.
“No fix,” he declares, shaking his head.
Oh god, I can’t afford a brand-new iPhone. That’s a mega expense that I didn’t predict. It’s almost the same price as a round-trip ticket to Paris or Beijing. And I don’t think my parents will want to buy me another one, especially since I’ve wrecked the garage and their most expensive car.
“New cell phone,” he suggests, pointing at the rows of assorted boxes behind me. Never mind that I know nothing about cellular devices that aren’t smartphones. I feel lost without Siri.
“I’ll take one!” I finally say, desperate to have access to technology and Google Maps. But then I realize I don’t actually know my uncle’s phone number.
“How much is an all-inclusive long-distance plan?” I ask.
“Seven hundred eighty-eight yuan,” he says. I hand him my American Express card and then, to my dismay, it’s declined.
“Try again,” I beg, wondering why it isn’t working, and then I remember that I still haven’t paid the exorbitant bill, which is collecting interest. I fish around in my purse for Chinese money, and finally locate the envelope that my dad handed me from the bank. I sort through the various colored bank notes, but then I realize I also don’t know my parents’ phone numbers. I’ve always just relied on my contact list. I do know the area code of New Jersey, thankfully, but what are the four or eight numbers that come after that?