This is a true story
Seven years ago, as I was getting ready to move to New York, my dad, hoping to connect me to a community of people who could help me out around the city, called a pastor he had randomly picked from his directory of Chinese Baptist churches. On the flop: a half-dozen-member congregation that desperately needed a pianist. Mean age (2003 estimate): 70. Mean age (2010 estimate): 77.
I stayed with them for a year and a half, playing piano on Sundays. Since then, occasionally I’ll get a call, exchanging pleasantries and inquiring after the health of my parents, wondering if I’d like to return sometime. The caller is always either the pastor or a certain sister from the church. A few days ago, it was the sister.
“Are you married now?” I am not quoting her in media res. This is how she opened the conversation, right after “Hello,” “Do you remember me?” and “Happy Independence Day... it is America’s birthday, right?”
I replied no (to the marriage question, not to the 4th of July), and she was dismayed. “Oh, I thought you would be married now. You have not found somebody to marry?”
Perhaps it’s an Asian cultural thing, or maybe she has Asperger’s. Either way, I humored her (although this story is getting less funny by the recounting). “I hope that you will find someone; I hope to go to your wedding soon!” Suddenly I am relieved I do not have any impending nuptials to invite her to (I’m not sure it would be moral to lie to her if she directly asked me for a date and location).
She says she wants to remain close (we are not) because we are so similar (we are not). She is Chinese and I am “American Chinese. How do you say it? China American?” And, she reminds me, she is only 12 years older than I am, "29." (I am 28.) We are practically sisters.
She asks me if I am still with the same company, at the same job. ( Sigh.) I jump at the opportunity to tell her I am at work. “Oh,” she says. “Doesn’t the Bible say we should not work on the Lord’s Day?” I thank her for her concern and tell her I have Saturdays off. (Whether I actually observe the Sabbath properly is not her business, I decide.) “But shouldn’t you rest on the same day you worship…” Touché. Point, nosy former church acquaintance. But if years of experience with church drama have reaped one blessing, it’s that I’ve grown confident enough in my spiritual maturity not to feel the need to defend it to those who do not actually know me. Even if we are apparently practically sisters.
Transparently, she asks me if there are no Mandarin-speaking young men at my new church. I tell her I’m sure there are, but I attend a multiracial congregation. It’s hard for me to pick them out among all the white and brown.
I try to wrap up the conversation. It has been amusing, and hopefully I’ll be able to exploit it for literary or dramatic purposes someday, but she is beginning to bore through my considerable patience for the absurd. She thanks me, again making my hairs stand on end, for a conversation that was “more than she dreamed of.” She promises (threatens?) to call again soon and hopes that the day she does, I will go out with her for coffee or to the old church. I ignore the first activity and say that I would be happy to visit the old congregation again. Emphasis on visit.
One more trip to the well, at the bottom of which is the bruised carcass of a horse. “I wish that I could help you to find somebody.” I wonder if dating is really that reductive to her (or to everyone): It’s just about finding the first warm body that wants to be next to yours. Mustering my last bit of indulgence, I tell her I will appreciate her prayers for this quest. She repeats her hope that I will marry, so that I can begin bearing children soon. She informs me that would make my parents (whom she has never met) happy. I am suddenly very thankful for my parents.
She leaves me with one last word of exhortation from Scripture-“Remember, the Bible says we should be prosperous and fruitful…”-before I can press that blessed red button to end the call.
I stayed with them for a year and a half, playing piano on Sundays. Since then, occasionally I’ll get a call, exchanging pleasantries and inquiring after the health of my parents, wondering if I’d like to return sometime. The caller is always either the pastor or a certain sister from the church. A few days ago, it was the sister.
“Are you married now?” I am not quoting her in media res. This is how she opened the conversation, right after “Hello,” “Do you remember me?” and “Happy Independence Day... it is America’s birthday, right?”
I replied no (to the marriage question, not to the 4th of July), and she was dismayed. “Oh, I thought you would be married now. You have not found somebody to marry?”
Perhaps it’s an Asian cultural thing, or maybe she has Asperger’s. Either way, I humored her (although this story is getting less funny by the recounting). “I hope that you will find someone; I hope to go to your wedding soon!” Suddenly I am relieved I do not have any impending nuptials to invite her to (I’m not sure it would be moral to lie to her if she directly asked me for a date and location).
She says she wants to remain close (we are not) because we are so similar (we are not). She is Chinese and I am “American Chinese. How do you say it? China American?” And, she reminds me, she is only 12 years older than I am, "29." (I am 28.) We are practically sisters.
She asks me if I am still with the same company, at the same job. ( Sigh.) I jump at the opportunity to tell her I am at work. “Oh,” she says. “Doesn’t the Bible say we should not work on the Lord’s Day?” I thank her for her concern and tell her I have Saturdays off. (Whether I actually observe the Sabbath properly is not her business, I decide.) “But shouldn’t you rest on the same day you worship…” Touché. Point, nosy former church acquaintance. But if years of experience with church drama have reaped one blessing, it’s that I’ve grown confident enough in my spiritual maturity not to feel the need to defend it to those who do not actually know me. Even if we are apparently practically sisters.
Transparently, she asks me if there are no Mandarin-speaking young men at my new church. I tell her I’m sure there are, but I attend a multiracial congregation. It’s hard for me to pick them out among all the white and brown.
I try to wrap up the conversation. It has been amusing, and hopefully I’ll be able to exploit it for literary or dramatic purposes someday, but she is beginning to bore through my considerable patience for the absurd. She thanks me, again making my hairs stand on end, for a conversation that was “more than she dreamed of.” She promises (threatens?) to call again soon and hopes that the day she does, I will go out with her for coffee or to the old church. I ignore the first activity and say that I would be happy to visit the old congregation again. Emphasis on visit.
One more trip to the well, at the bottom of which is the bruised carcass of a horse. “I wish that I could help you to find somebody.” I wonder if dating is really that reductive to her (or to everyone): It’s just about finding the first warm body that wants to be next to yours. Mustering my last bit of indulgence, I tell her I will appreciate her prayers for this quest. She repeats her hope that I will marry, so that I can begin bearing children soon. She informs me that would make my parents (whom she has never met) happy. I am suddenly very thankful for my parents.
She leaves me with one last word of exhortation from Scripture-“Remember, the Bible says we should be prosperous and fruitful…”-before I can press that blessed red button to end the call.