2004-09-08
A midnight train when I'm 45
What is this that I am thinking of? A serene night with a symphony of crickets and dried leaves waltzing on the pavement; the palm of my hands, damp with sweat and clenching a white bag. Standing there, in a long, black wool trench-coat, I await a midnight train.
Oh where is the night train going?
That�s out of some child magazine to which my mother used to subscribe--she wanted to make me a better reader.
After some years, I still see the sketch in my head of the little boy looking out into the meadows and catching the sound and lights of a distant train--midnight trains have always fascinated me. Like the smell of sugarcane at dusk, they fascinate me, bringing back memories...or the memories of feelings now lost to my growing up.
Oh where is the night train going?...Would you please take me along?
Guantanamo�s ,Manuel T�mes...knowing that�s where I was born--in that spot of Cuba. All of these things lay dormant in the back of my mind, yet manipulate the majority of my thoughts and actions.
I wore a maroon uniform with a navy-blue scarf as a schoolgirl--a kindergartener. I forgot the teacher�s name, but I know her first name was Teresa. I remember our first trip to the library and the librarian reading a book--my eyes fixated on her moving lips. The title escapes me, but the context pertained to ladybugs--the first book I later read by myself. But it was a passion, from the moment I walked into that small library with the smell of old books. My notebooks were used for sketches.
You use up too many crayons, my mom said, laughing.
Of course, I can�t really hear a midnight train anymore--not like I used to. Living in the city, I wanted to go back to grandpa�s so that I could horseback ride. I also forgot his name--the first horse I rode. Sugarcanes, a midnight breeze, dusty stones underneath my feet, the chirping of crickets and an
Maria, dame �gua
Those things are who I am, but in this world where I�m only Cuban on paper and in documents but also Chinese (I get confused?), I don�t know where I belong within the Cuban family I left behind. I�ve been in this country for so long, I can�t even remember. Better yet, I can remember, but I can�t relate.
How to make them understand my life without getting polite nods and smiles, sighs, tears of joy, and a qu� bueno que est�s aqu�!.
But I�ve lost so much...and I can�t speak Spanish like a regular Cuban--I speak like a Spaniard. I can�t speak Chinese either...but that�s even more distant. Wait--should I try?
Xia-wu hao. Nin jiao wode mingzi Libet? Is that right?
So I stand, waiting for the midnight train and hearing the distant barking of dogs lingering through the velvet darkness. Melted with the surrounding humidity, the glow of streetlamps feel heavy and soothing.
It�s only on dusky evenings that I think about grandpa...my other grandpa--the one who gave me my surname. Chang...saying it aloud--The Chang Family sounds so...grave. They were all Cantonese, and landowners; they had others work the land for them. Most were Mandarins who did calligraphy and stayed up by candlelight reading scrolls. Upon reaching Cuba, he changed his first name, but not his last name--it would have been too dishonorable.
When I�m forty-five, I�ll be that person standing at the train station at midnight, softly humming some tune, and I may just wait for that midnight train.