Becomes Becoming: Day 4, 04 Nov 2012

He needed to change the train ticket and I had a closing ceremony to attend. We decided to meet again at my train station in the late afternoon.

On my way to meet him, I stepped out into the walkway. The sun still peeked through the incessant haziness of the Beijing skyline. My hotel was located in a university so the streets remained pretty quiet until you passed the main gates. Students passed by on bicycles. I could peek into the dorm life as most of the windows remained open. August heat, city-wide smog, and no air conditioning meant every window was always open. There were usually at least 3 beds in a room from what I could count. I could never make out where the clothes would go since the beds occupied the entire space. All I could ever see were bunk beds and laptops. Dorm life could be summed up as a place to sleep and a place for technology. Oh yes, and lots and lots of bicycles.

I walked down the university lane under the shade of the ficus trees. On the main streets, there was the usual combustion of cars, buses, and bicycles. The street vendors were posted on the sidewalks selling everything from litchi fruits to calling cards on rolling metal carts. I liked to buy flowers from the same old man once a week on my way home from work. It made the hotel room feel a little more like a home. Plus everything was dirt cheap; the flowers were no more than a dollar for a bouquet of lilies. I walked past all of these familiar sites with none of them the wiser of this new change in my life.

I reached the subway. No one was there. I checked the time to see if I was early. I was actually late. But I had no cell phone to call him. I waited… and waited. Thirty minutes had passed when he came sauntering out the subway doors with a bright smile on his face. A thirty minute wait in late summer smog and humidity had left me wilted. Even my annoyance was tempered by the heat.

“Sorry, it took longer to change the ticket than I thought,” he explained, kissing me quickly on the cheek. He proudly pulled out his changed train ticket as proof. “The time was going. So I had to pretend that I didn’t know anything and cut into the wrong line. I pretended not to know any Chinese and he got so frustrated that I wouldn’t leave that he changed the ticket for me. Otherwise, I would have been even later. Cheer up! I’m staying,” he said, laughing. I had to smile in return.

“Good,” I said, cheering up with the power of his laughter. I shook my head at him and pushed him playfully on the shoulder. “African people time, it’s worse than Black people. So I should get used to you being late!” I was only half-joking.

“Where did this African people time come from? It is not being late; it’s getting there when the time is right.”

“You sound like a proverb.”

“Then you should listen to its wisdom,” he joked back. “Come on, our train is about to leave.”

We were headed to his house. We entered the subway station and crossed the tiled floor quickly to catch our train. He played with my hair on the way.

“I’ve always liked girls with dreadlocks. It was one of the first things that caught my eye when I saw you,” he said, his fingers twirling a piece of my hair. I had been wearing twists all summer. Easy to maintain, long-lasting, and cute was the hairstyle I wanted before I left the states. I toyed with the idea of not telling him the truth. I would be gone in a couple of days, so it didn’t really matter. But my policy of honesty is the best policy won as always.

“You know it’s not all mine, right?” He looked confused. “This is weave. It’s not all my hair and they are twists not dreadlocks,” I explained further.

“I thought you were all-natural,” he said, slightly disappointed. “You dey fall my hand.”

“What?”

“It just means you let me down.”

“Over hair?”

“It’s a woman’s crowning glory.”

“Oh my goodness,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Let’s not bring Jesus into the mix. You weren’t throwing out scripture last night. Besides, it’s just hair. And my hair is all-natural. I just added some more to it.”

He decided to drop the matter but I also noticed he stopped playing with my hair and was now scrutinizing it instead. His round eyes were now squinting searching for God knows what in my hair. Men are so funny about hair, thinking to myself and sighing, and they are the ones with the least of it. Go figure.

“So how long is your real hair?” he asked after some time. Apparently, he had not dropped the matter. I looked at him daring him to ask the question again. “Seriously, I’d like to know since you are deceiving me with this hair.”

He was actually serious!

“You can consider me bald-headed,” I said, irked at his persistence.

“Don’t say that!” he exclaimed like I’d cursed him. This was too funny, I thought.

“Fine,” I conceded. I assured him I wasn’t bald headed and that within these twists lay a curly afro that would be the crown he wanted and more.

By this time, we had reached his stop. I exited a little deflated from how I’d entered the train. But a couple blocks of hand-holding to his place got me back to where I wanted to be: un-annoyed and happy. His residence was surrounded by a guarded gate, similar to mine. I guess college preparatory schools needed security too. But his home was much larger than mine and it was an actual 2-bedroom apartment in comparison to the studio hotel room I occupied. The tour was fast and ended at his bedroom. Feeling awkward again, I suggested we check out the kitchen again to get something to eat since it was getting late.

The fluorescent tubes flickered to life as I surveyed the kitchen. The walls were made of tiny white tiles. The double sink was clear of dishes minus one coffee cup. The tiny four plate stove was spotless. Everything looked clean; clean and unused. I opened the refrigerator and confirmed why.

“So you don’t cook much?” I asked, staring at the refrigerator. I saw eggs, some spices, bread, and an almost-empty carton of juice.

“Not really. I eat out.”

“I was going to cook but should we just eat out?”

“I’d really like you to cook please.”

I looked again in the refrigerator, my expression wary. I had offered to cook. I liked cooking and had not been able to all summer living in a hotel. But this was not exactly what I was thinking of when he accepted my offer.

I looked again and turned to him. “I hope you like toast and scrambled eggs.”

He started grinning like a kid with candy. “I don’t know if I’ve had them but I’m sure it’ll be good. Do you have what you need?”

He showed me where the pots and pans were and I got to work. I didn’t know half of the spices in the refrigerator so it quickly became an experiment of sight and smell. There was no salt in the house, so I tried soy sauce. There was no black pepper, so I tried the African pepper. And I added whatever else smelled decent. Ten minutes later, dinner was served. Those were the nastiest scrambled eggs I’ve ever made. He didn’t complain though and ate up his share entirely while I picked at mine.

After dinner, I mentioned that we should watch a movie.

“What about the dishes?” he asked, gesturing toward the sink.

Aww hell no, was my first thought. But I decided to be more diplomatic and said, “I cooked, you clean,” instead.

“What is that?” he asked.

“The rule we had growing up. Whoever cooked didn’t have to clean. Besides I’m your guest.”

“Well growing up in my house, you ceased being a guest if you stayed for more than 5 minutes. And we didn’t have your rule growing up. So why not be a nice girl, and help clean.”

Misogynist behavior was one of my few buttons and he was stomping on it.

“Are you serious?!” I erupted. “First of all, I AM your guest and I AM not cleaning your dishes! And I’m not a little girl to do what you like, I am a woman!” Although my tantrum left me feeling anything but woman-like.

“I’m just asking you to be nice and do the dishes too.” His smile now seemed idiotic and infuriating to me.

“Are you serious with this shit?! I’m done!” Good girl decorum was out the window and I stormed into the living room. I grabbed one of the magazines to try and diffuse my anger. I was so angry that I could feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. Why is this affecting me so much?, I thought, I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway. I tried to reason with myself but there was no balm for this anger.

I could hear him in the kitchen washing the dishes. I was still stewing when he sat next to me on the couch. I could feel him looking at me but I had curled myself deeper into the leather with my back to him.

“I didn’t know it was going to upset you that much. I’m sorry,” he said remorsefully. “I was pulling your legs a little. I didn’t think you were going to take it that seriously.”

“Well I did,” I mumbled, nursing my anger unwilling to accept his apology.

He sighed. “C’mon, don’t be upset the rest of the night. I brought you out here so I could spend more time with you. I don’t normally invite girls to my home but I wanted you to see it. I don’t want this little thing to ruin the rest of the night.” He nudged me.

His touch softened some of my resolve to anger. Damn, still attracted to him, I thought as I felt the familiar current starting to spark.

He nudged me again. I turned halfway to look at him. He dazzled me with a smile. I gave a half-smirk in response. I already knew I wasn’t angry anymore. I turned to face him and pushed him hard in the chest.

“Don’t do that anymore. Just cause I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m supposed to clean up after you. I’m not your momma and don’t want to be.”

“I hear you,” he responded sincerely.

“Okay.” It was years later before I learned that "hearing me" was not the same as agreeing.

“I’ll try to remember not to pull your short legs anymore,” he teased, smiling mischievously at me. I grinned back. He pulled me to his chest. All my anger dissolved as I melted back into what had quickly become so familiar.