Smeared Type

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It’s hard to believe it’s been 10 years since September 11—the day that defined the “before” and “after” and the words “9/11” became a phrase that is loaded with meaning and emotion.

I looked out of my apartment window early this morning, and was touched by the rising sun, with golden beams coming through a thin layer of scattered clouds. All the trees, in deep green, stood still, and the gusting wind that had swept the city of Chicago every day last week suddenly halted. It looked so beautiful and peaceful along the shore of Lake Michigan.

No one can take a day like this for granted after 9/11.

I clearly remember this day ten years ago. I had arrived at Boston from Chicago for a business trip the night before. A colleague was supposed to pick me up at 9 A.M. at my hotel. My phone rang shortly before 9. A friend from New Jersey urgently asked me to turn on the TV. “A plane hit World Trade Center!”

I had worked in Manhattan for fives years before moving to Chicago. I had been to the World Trade Center numerous times and my neighbor downstairs owns a restaurant there. I turned on the TV and saw the dark smoke rising from one building. I felt the tremor through my body.

When my colleague arrived, we continued to watch the news in the lobby of the hotel, along with other guests and hotel staff. Despite the crowd, there was a deafening silence, and then cries of shock and disbelief when we watched the second plane hit the other tower on the TV screen.

As the time passed by the seconds and minutes that day, we learned two planes crashed had originated from the Boston Logan Airport. The city was in alert and the financial district and many businesses were closed. The city announced free subway rides to help people get home…. My colleague and I were grounded and ended up being glued to the TV most of the day.

I spent the rest of the week trying to book and rebook a flight back to Chicago. Four days later when there was still no news of when flights would be allowed to take off, I rented a car and started driving all the way to Chicago.

The day journey was the longest drive I had by myself. I kept my window down, longing to hear the familiar sound of a plane in the sky. I got off the highway from time to time, driving through some local neighborhoods to calm down, to observe people’s life and to ponder what had happened. It was then I noticed so many American flags waving in the wind on top of government and commercial buildings, and in front of residential houses. I was in tears. I had been living in the U.S. for 15 years at the time and had become an American citizen. But it was then, in the face of the attack and the display of defiance and patriotism by Americans that I strongly identified myself with America.

9/11, a day that changed us and our lives forever.

Jian Ping, author of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. Visit www.mulberrychild.com, www.moraquest.com. Mulberry Child has been turned into a feature-length documentary film by award-winning director Susan Morgan Cooper and will be released in 2011.

by Jian Ping

Chicago_Lakefront View

Spring finally arrives in Chicago, with a sudden leap in temperature from the 50s of yesterday to the mid 80 degrees today. I’ve been waiting for the weather to turn warm and ride my bike again along the lake front trail for months. Finally my chance came this morning, the first ride of the year!

At the 6:30 a.m., the sun was rising from behind a thin layer of clouds. The rain from yesterday left the trail wet, but without puddles of water. It was perfect for a bike ride. Since last October when I  scratched a thick layer of skin and flesh off my left knee from a bad bike fall (not to mention ripping off a patch of fabric, the size of my palm, from my favorite pair of jeans), I haven’t ridden my bike. Today, with the large scar still appearing raw, I was cautious and comprehensive of the trail.

Chicago Lakefront Trail

My slower speed gave me more leisure to enjoy the scene. Lake Michigan was calm this morning, with ripples of water gently rolling toward the shore. The lawn was turning green along the Lake, and the fruit trees, with dried small berries from last year still hanging on the branches, are budding with tender greens. The large elm or poplar trees still looked  dormant, their bare branches revealing the bird nests, some large and some small, in mid air. Only the daffodils stretched out their broad leaves upward, with a bright yellow bloom in the center of each plant, proudly announcing the coming of spring.

There were a few runners and cyclists along the trail. In the distance closer to the Lake, I saw a couple of people walking their dogs. I passed the two mulberry trees at the park at 53^rd street, my mulberry trees, and waved to them for their survival of another cold winter. Just them, two professionally dressed cyclists passed me, shouting “On your left.” I didn’t race to keep pace with them, at least for a minute or two, like I used to. I watched them speeding ahead. Their shorts and tops hugged their bodies tightly, revealing their slim torsos. The perspiration on their legs glistened under the rising sun. They looked so fit and healthy. I saluted to them silently before they sprang out of my sight.

I made my stop at the 63^rd street park, drank my water, and stretched before turning back. The 15-mile ride took me slightly over an hour, and I enjoyed every single minute of it.

If you live in Chicago, take a run, a bike ride, or a walk along the Lake. You will realize how lucky we are living and enjoying this beautiful and peaceful surroundings!

Jian Ping, author of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. Visit www.mulberrychild.com or www.moraquest.com for more information.

By Jian Ping

Mulberry Tree

I’ve been riding my bike along the Michigan lakefront trail from Museum Park by Roosevelt to the 63^rd Street Park since early spring. It’s a beautiful route: starting by the Field Museum, going around Shedd Aquarium, passing behind the McCormick Place…. The trail extends for miles and miles. On the east side is the vast body of water, like an ocean, reaching into horizon. Its color turns blue, green or gray depending on the time of the day and the weather. It’s never the same. On the immediate west: trees, grass, and flowers, and then the stream of cars, buzzing on Lakeshore Drive. The scene is never the same either. I hit the trail two or three times a week, marveling at the ever changing sights and enjoying the view. Magnificent!

Last Thursday, I got on the trail later than usual and stopped at the park close to 53^rd street. As I put my bike beside a bench and stretched before turning back, I noticed purple spots of stains on the paved trail. My heart skipped a beat. I looked up and could hardly believe my eyes: a huge mulberry tree arching over me, beckoning in the breeze. Only a few berries were left on the branches, which explained the stains on the ground. I looked around and found another one next to it, and then, across from the trail, yet another one. For some reason, this mulberry tree was the only one still being covered with large, dark berries! I was thrilled. I couldn’t believe I had missed them all this time.

Berries

And more berries!

I went back with my camera the next day in mid afternoon when the sun was shining. The golden beam made the dark green leaves and purple berries sparkle in midair. I touched them, gently and carefully, thinking of the five mulberry trees of my childhood. These trees were much larger and healthier. As I took photos from different angles, my mind was racing with childhood memories and my mouth watering for these lustrous berries. I was overwhelmed with joy and excitement.

I knew then and there: mulberry tree, which had played a significant role in my childhood, would always have a special place in my heart.

I am and will always be a mulberry child.

Jian Ping, author  of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. Visit www.mulberrychild.com, www.moraquest.com

It’s another beautiful spring day in Chicago. Instead of working out at the small gym in the condo building, I pumped up the deflated tires of my bike that had been collecting dust all winter and hit the trail along the lake.

Many people were out there early this Sunday morning. Cyclists dressed in smart biking uniforms whisked by, and others in bulky jackets and long pants pedaled their bikes with leisure, and walkers and joggers dotted the trail at their own pace. I used to secretly race with the cyclists. When I heard their shout “On your left,” I’d gather all my energy and follow them as soon as they were ahead of me. Despite my desperate push, however, they’d spring forward, leaving me puffing and blowing far behind in a matter of minutes. I’d watch them disappear with envy, until the next shout came along. Today, I didn’t race with anyone. I was busy taking in everything in sight: the golden sunshine casting on the bare tree branches, the ducks swimming and diving not far from the shore, a single middle-aged man fishing on the concrete platform, and the different color of the lake water each time I cast my eyes on it. I felt the vibration of life and the start of spring.

I remember Joyce Carol Oates once answered a reader’s question at a talk about her writing process. She said she was a jogger and the best time for her to muse was when she was jogging. “I never listen to music when I jog,” she said. “It’s the best time for me to think.” Her words left a lasting impression on me. Today, I left behind my iPod and gave all my attention to the scenes and the thoughts—I’ve started working on the next book, with my daughter Lisa together. We want to examine her growing up in the US—the conflicts between a mother and daughter and the Oriental and Western cultures. Could we really dig into issues that set us on the opposite side of arguments? Or would it stir up our past frustration and push us further apart? What kind of role did I play in her most formative years, despite my best effort and good intention? Could I honestly treat her as a co-author, leaving behind my Chinese mother mentality that requires submission and respect from her child? “Mom, you don’t want to know what I was thinking back then,” Lisa laughed when I first proposed we write the book from each of our perspective. It took her a long time to make her decision. Now that we’ve started, I realize it is as much a self reflection and discovery journey for me as it is for her….

As my mind wrestled with various ideas and my eyes absorbed scenes coming into view, I reached the end of my 15 miles routine journey without my noticing the passing of time or the climbing of a couple of steeper slopes.

Jian Ping, author of Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China. www.mulberrychild.com