Free Little Emperors by JoAnn Dionne Page B

character for
woman
safely installed under the symbol for
roof
. Does this imply that letting women out of the house will result in the opposite of peace — total anarchy? And that a man can only be content if there is a woman at home, waiting for him under hisroof? Some of these characters are even, to my mind, shocking. The symbol for
wife, qi
, is the symbol for
broom
placed on top of
woman
! The symbol representing
Mrs
. or
Madam
is
tai tai
, which is the character for “too much, excessive,”
tai
, times two! The character for
slave
even has the symbol for
woman
in it! I read these and I want to throw my new book across the room.
    But then something else catches my eye. I see that the symbol for
bright, ming
, is composed of the symbols for
sun
and
moon
, the brightest bodies in Earth’s sky. From this comes the word for
tomorrow
or the
future
, and possibly the key to China’s five thousand years of continuous history, to the resilience of the Chinese people in the face of war and famine, poverty, revolution, and natural disaster. The word for
tomorrow
is
mingtian
, a combination of the characters for
bright
and
day
. Tomorrow —
the bright day
. How eternally optimistic!
    I go to meet Miranda tonight. As I walk to the bus stop, I realize that since we first met three months ago, these last two weeks have been the longest I’ve gone without seeing her. I miss her.
    She steps off the 522 dressed in tailored white walking shorts, a white jacket with four long tails, and perfect shoes. It dawns on me that I’ve rarely seen her wear the same thing twice.
    We go to a karaoke bar in a hotel farther down Huanshi Lu. There are few people in the bar when we get there, and I am the only foreigner in the place. Christmas tree–shaped cigarette ads hang as decorations from the ceiling, a disco ball rotates above the dance-floor-turned-karaoke-stage, its tiny mirrors blinking. We choose a table, order Cokes, munch on peanuts, and peruse the song menu. Miranda looks across the table with a big grin.
    â€œI told my parents,” she says.
    â€œAbout your wedding?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWow! How did you tell them? Did you sit them down or take them out to dinner or . . .”
    â€œNo, no. Just one night when we watch TV. I mentioned during commercial.”
    â€œWhat did they say?”
    â€œWell, they didn’t say anything to me for ten minutes. Then they didn’t say anything to me for two days!”
    â€œOh-oh . . .”
    â€œFinally, they tell me they can’t stop me doing what I want. They’re not so worried he’s American. More worried that he’s older and might be hard for us to understand the other.”
    â€œI see . . .”
    â€œMy dad said, ‘If the marriage breaks, don’t come looking to me!’ ” She laughs. “That is a very Chinese father thing to say in this matter.”
    â€œDid you tell them your plans for going to Tibet?”
    â€œYes, but they forbid me to go. Say it’s too dangerous. So I’ll go to Hunan Province instead.” She glances down at the song menu, still grinning. “Which song will you sing?”
    â€œUh . . .” I study the menu. The English songs are limited to a single page of titles, mostly from the 1970s, most of which I don’t know or can sing only the chorus for. I tell Miranda I don’t recognize many of the songs, but then point to a Barry Manilow tune that seems familiar. She quickly jots the number down and hands it to the passing waitress, who delivers it to the DJ booth.
    In a breath, I am onstage, microphone in hand, stuttering and squawking my way through “I Write the Songs.”
    When I return to the table, Miranda gives me a pained smile and says, “That . . . was . . . good . . .” Then she gets up and sings two beautiful Chinese songs. She has an amazing stage