Miami by Fujian

Sometimes, I wonder who I really am.

You're thinking, Hey, Mariel, you're a short, skinny fifth-grade girl with long, black hair and almond eyes. You live in Miami. You love arroz salteado. Your abuela scolds you for eating too much, then gives you a huge hug since she made it.

But some of my classmates think they know about me just because I look the way I do. They think I play violin and study all the time. I play volleyball. I make good grades, but I hang out with my friends, too.

Some think I can't speak Spanish. “Hecho en China” — Made in China — I once heard someone whisper. “¿Que tiene ella? No es una de nosotros.” Who do I think I am? I'm not one of you? Not entirely.

I know where my family comes from. My abuelos talk about Cuba: the beaches, the silky jazz bands, and the gorgeous people of all colors. “Even some who look like you, cielita. But none as beautiful,” my abuela says.

So when my mom told me we were going to visit where I came from, for a moment I imagined a village in Cuba.

“No, mi vida. We're going to China. To the place where we adopted you. It's important that you see where you were born.” Her voice trembled.

“Mami, don't worry. You will always be the only mother I have.”

My abuela added, “Not the only mother you have. You have to put up with me, too.”

When it was bedtime, my mom kissed me. “We don't have to go if you don't want to, but we want you to feel sure of who you are....”

“OK, Mami. I want to go. But there's one thing I am worried about.”

Mami's concerned look made me smile.

“I really hate Chinese food.”

She smiled. “Don't worry, the Chinese food there is better than here.”

I couldn't sleep. I kept wondering what my birthplace looked like, what kind of people lived there, and how I would feel about it all.

The flight lasted twenty hours! As we flew over Hong Kong at night, the city lights looked like stars that had fallen onto the hillsides. The ride to the hotel amazed me. Cars and motor scooters darted everywhere. How could so many people crowd onto the sidewalks? Everybody had black hair and dark almond eyes like mine.

We walked to the markets in Kowloon. At the Temple Street Market, my father bought me a jade coin necklace. I put it on next to the little charm necklace I always wore. My abuela had put the charm around my neck when my parents first brought me home.

Then I had my fortune told. When the fortune teller saw me, she tried to speak Chinese, but soon gave up and spoke in English. She coaxed a little bird out of its cage with a nut. It hopped to a row of bamboo tubes with tiny scrolls inside them and pulled one out.

My fortune was that I would be happy with myself the way I am.

We ate at a dim sum restaurant. Carts wheeled everywhere. A low buzz and pleasant smells filled the air. I liked Chinese food after all, if hecha en China.

On the flight to Fuzhou, I looked down at mountains different from any I had ever seen. They rose from misty river valleys, some egg shaped, others like tall mushrooms or green-topped haystacks. Maybe fairies from these mountains left me at the orphanage.

After we landed, the car ride to the village took all day. Mami smiled while she cried. She was remembering when they had first come to the orphanage to get me.

Papi explained, “Princesa, we were going crazy because we couldn't be together. We had waited so long. The paperwork took forever. All we had was a little photograph of you.”

My parents had shown me pictures from the first time they met me. I thought I was a cute baby. But not cute enough for my birth parents to keep me. The orphanage workers didn't tell my parents why I had been put up for adoption. Papi guessed that my birth parents could not afford to care for me.

We drove past farms as we climbed into the mountains. After we left the asphalt behind, the children were poorer, but still played hard in their shabby clothes. In one village, a truck broke down ahead of us. While we were waiting, I looked beside the road. A couple and their teenage daughter were raking a huge pile of rice. When our driver honked his horn, they glanced up at me.

They could be my parents and my older sister.

I thought I might recognize the orphanage — I'd lived there until I was nearly two years old — but nothing looked familiar. We were met by the director, Ms. Guo, who fussed over me.

“Min Zhi! I wondered would we ever see you again. You were a baby when you left. But Xing Hua has not forgotten you.”

The nursery's white walls announced “institute.” The floor was covered with soft foam puzzle tiles. A row of wheeled bassinets lined a wall, where an older woman rocked a crying baby. When she saw us, she spoke excitedly.

Ms. Guo translated. “Xing Hua can't believe how big you are. She remembers when you were smaller than this baby. Only you would never cry like that.”

Mami laughed. “She made up for that after we got her.”

Ms. Guo continued. “You were always quiet. Except when another baby laughed. Then you would, too. That's why we named you Min. It means gentle and sweet.”

Xing Hua scolded Ms. Guo.

Ms. Guo added. “Xing Hua says she named you. I wanted to call you Xing Cha, ‘lucky tea.’ We found you in a basket full of tea.”

My mom asked, “Why would her parents leave her in a basket of tea?”

“They gave us a gift to help pay for taking care of the baby. They probably felt shame they could not.”

I thought to myself, I'm lucky. My birth parents were probably dirt-poor farmers. Instead of hard work, crummy clothes, and not enough food, I lived in a nice house with plenty in the fridge.

Ms. Guo led us into a classroom jammed with kids. One boy had crooked, thin legs. His split mouth hung open, and his crossed eyes didn't focus. Kids with Down syndrome played on the floor. A blind girl sat on a sofa with a Braille book. But other kids looked completely healthy. They paid attention as the teacher wrote on the blackboard, in English.

Ms. Guo said, “Many will be adopted here in China, but a few will go to America.”

The lesson finished, and after a few friendly stares, the kids raced to the playground. A girl about my age hung back. She was shorter than me, and her black hair was tied up in ponytails. She was totally cute and smiled shyly. Why had I been adopted and not her?

I asked, “What's your name?”

“Mei Jing.”

“Are you the oldest here?”

“Yes. Ten years old.”

“How long have you been here?”

Her polite smile showed that she didn't understand — or didn't want to answer.

I had a million questions, but I didn't know where to start. She hesitated, then asked, “Your school fun?”

“Yes.”

“You like?”

“Sure. Do you like your school?”

“Yes. But I want go school in city.”

“Why?”

“More children ten years old. More learning.”

I felt for Mei Jing. She was stuck. I asked her, “Do you want to be adopted?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Too old go America. Better stay China. If here parents want me, I am happy.”

I hoped she would find parents like mine.

A ball rolled by, and I picked it up. “Want to play?”

She nodded. I tossed the ball up then tapped it to her with my palm, like a volleyball. She caught it and tried to imitate me. At first she struggled, laughing. But she was a natural, and soon everyone was watching us bounce the ball between us.

After recess, the kids went to the garden. Mei Jing showed me how to harvest some vegetables for lunch. I didn't know what all of them were, but back at the kitchen she taught me how to cook them.

Then Ms. Guo gathered everyone together. The kids were very curious when she introduced my family, speaking first in English, then Chinese.

“This is your sister Min Zhi and her parents. They came a long way to visit. I hope she will remember us. She will always be welcome to return.”

Ms. Guo asked us. “Do you want to speak?”

My parents shook their heads, but I sat down in front of the kids. “I will answer any questions they want to ask.”

Ms. Guo translated, and I did my best to answer. Some of the questions were funny. Somebody even asked if I was friends with the president. Ms. Guo was about to end the session when I noticed Mei Jing had not raised her hand.

“Do you want to ask anything, Mei Jing?”

“In America, you happy?”

“Yes. I'm really happy.”

She simply said, “Good.”

Next morning before we left, Ms. Guo was waiting to say goodbye. We all hugged. I was about to get into the car when Mei Jing ran toward us. She handed me a piece of paper. Scrawled on it in English was the recipe for the vegetable dish.

“Cook this. Remember me.”

I almost cried. I didn't know enough Chinese to tell her all the good things I wished for her. I couldn't tell her that I was sure she would be adopted. Instead, I took my charm necklace off and fastened it around her neck. Neither one of us said anything more. We hugged each other, then I left.

Back home, my abuela took me to a Chinese market. She liked the bai cai I cooked. They tasted great with arroz salteado. Mami is a hopeless Mandarin practice partner, so I'm glad I like the boy in my language class at the cultural center.

My fortune has come true, by the way. I am happy the way I am — a Florida chica china by way of Fujian.