Beautiful Country: A Memoir by Qian Julie Wang

Author:Qian Julie Wang [Wang, Qian Julie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Cultural; Ethnic & Regional, Asian & Asian American, Personal Memoirs, Family & Relationships, Life Stages, General
ISBN: 9780385547215
Google: SgkgzgEACAAJ
Publisher: Doubleday
Published: 2021-11-15T00:21:29.457523+00:00

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The subway was the reason people-watching became instinct for me. I learned quickly that the underground tunnels held many trapdoors that would swallow me up if I didn’t stay observant, if I didn’t keep my distance, if I let just anyone stand next to me.

The first time it happened, I did not know what I was looking at. I wondered if it was just a fat, weird finger poking out of a coat. I told myself it was, but a sick ache in my tummy said otherwise.

It was as if a switch flipped on after that first time. There was no telling where the finger would pop up. Here it was, by the crosswalk on my way home from school. And again, here, standing next to me on the platform. It started following me everywhere I went. I knew somehow that it had to be my fault. Each time, it was my fault. I should have kept my eyes to myself. I should not have looked up from the two square inches on the ground just in front of my feet. I should have known better. I was a bad, shameful girl.

I felt grateful that when it appeared, the finger lasted only a few seconds. Then it snuck back behind the zipper. Sometimes it happened so quickly that I convinced myself that I had only imagined it all, with my bad brain and my bad thoughts.

Then there were other kinds of trapdoors. More dangerous ones.

I almost fell into one.

I was seated in my usual spot near the car door, reading a Baby-Sitters Club installation, when I felt my skin prickle. Keeping my face directed at the book, I spun my eyes around in their sockets and surveyed the car. They fell upon several fellow passengers who survived scrutiny: an old lady chewing on the edge of a red-bean bun; a smiling man engrossed in his boom box, bopping his head to the beat; a tourist looking constipated and unsteady.

None of this was reason for my skin to prickle, so I continued my examination until my eyes hit upon a man at the other end of the car, pale and slovenly, his shirt yellowing with age, his hair sticking out in random directions. His face has since faded in my memory and merged with those of the many other men I’ve encountered in the subway since.

The train was just pulling into York Street station. The man kept his eyes on me. The doors dinged open and the usual commands from the operator followed. A Chinese woman hurried out with her son, about my age, in tow. In sauntered a grown-up couple, hands all over body parts, oblivious to the rest of us. I looked over at the man, who returned my gaze. His eyes had a glint I had never before seen. That glint set my body into action before my brain realized what was happening. As if controlled by someone else, my legs straightened and carried me out the door.

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