My Mother Was A Thief

My Chinese name, 梦裔, means "the offspring of our dreams." -- a typical One-Child Policy era big name. But with the (mis)diagnosis of brain damage at birth, the doctors vetoed that dream for my family. 

"What does that mean?" My mother, who didn't finish middle school, asked those in white coats.

"That means she will be stupid." The doctor said. Factual. Definitive.

No one ever told me the details of that fateful discussion following the “stupidity” diagnosis. And I suspect my mother doesn't know, either. As a newly postpartum woman in the late 1980s in China, she was kept in the dark about many family decisions. And the decision to have her baby given up for adoption certainly didn’t require her consent.

I have, however, imagined many versions of it. In one of them, everyone cried, agonizing over the decision to let me go. "We only have one chance of rising above poverty. If this child can't live up to our dreams, we have no choice but to give her up.” In another version, everyone just waved their hands and said: "Meh, will try again later." 

The truth was probably somewhere in between, as truth always is.

Whatever it might have been, a few weeks new into the world, I found myself in a locked-down adoption unit, among many other brain-damaged, “stupid” babies. Hopeless. Unworthy. Given up on.

If the night when my mother stole me out of the adoption unit would be made into a Kung Fu movie, her character would be played by the Oscar-winning Michelle Yeoh.

She would dress in ancient Chinese heroine style and enter the scene as a sword-carrying boss woman. With a tap of her toes, she would fly over the walls and land on the enemy's side of the evil castle without making a sound. And yes, she would be ready to fight.

The heroine defeats the evil medicine men and takes back what’s hers. From then on, it would be her baby and her against the world — how’s that for a Mother’s Day blockbuster?

In reality, she was probably bleeding from both her womb and her heart when she climbed over the walls of the adoption facility to get to me. It must have been messy, clumsy, and NOT glorified. She was most likely scared, fighting back tears (or crying), and unsure of what she was doing or what might happen next.

But that was not the version of the story she chose to tell me. And I have full intention to believe what she says. I’ve always believed her.

My mother was athletic. 5 foot 7, she was considered tall by Chinese standards at the time. So much so she was selected for the volleyball team. She made it all the way to the municipal team and went on to win many gold medals for the city of Beijing. But the real reason why she was so valued on the team was her determination to get whatever she set her mind to. “Once, I wanted to go with the team to another country for a competition but wasn’t selected for some trivial reason. So I sat in the middle of the volleyball court under the brutal sun for hours to protest. The coach threw a ball at me and made my nose bleed. I didn’t budge. I let the blood stain my face and my shirt. Finally, they let me go. I played like a mad woman in the competition and helped us win the championship.” When my mother told me this story, I could see her young, chubby face with short, dark hair and her squinting eyes under the poisonous sun. I almost felt the fume coming out of her and taste the blood in my mouth during this silent protest. I was so angry on her behalf.

“After I climbed over the wall, I still had to find the room where they kept you. It was very dark in the hallways.” She said.

“Then I heard a baby cry, and I knew it was you. You heard my footsteps and you recognized me. So you called for me.”

It was her footsteps. And my cry for her. Factual. Definitive.

When the police caught her trying to steal a baby, she told them I was hers, so it wasn’t stealing.

“Ma’am, why are you doing this? Your daughter is going to be stupid.” They asked her.

“My baby is not stupid.” She tried not to cry (or maybe she was crying). To her, it was as if they asked her, “why do you even love her?” Is there anything more absurd than a mother having to explain why she loved her child?

“That’s not what the doctors said.” They told her before handing her a deck of paper to sign.

My mother swallowed her tears and stood up straighter, holding me close. “Well. Out of all the babies laying there, only 梦裔 recognized my footsteps and cried.” She looked over to the red ink dish and stuck her thumb onto it. “A baby will always recognize her mother’s footsteps. Now, give me those papers.”

When I imagine how my mother pressed her thumbprint on that “Against Medical Advice” document and the confession paper, I hear the sound of a sharp sword flying back into its scabbard, where it belongs. The battle has been won.

“She is not stupid. And she is mine.” She threw the papers back at the officers, and walked off.

Then the whole neighborhood gossiped about my mother and her stupid child. But the child grew up, anyway.

“She will never understand mathematics.” — these were the words that drove my mother to peddle faster under the sun as she carried me on her bicycle each weekend, taking me to after-school science lessons.

“She will never make it to college.” — these were the words that brought tears to her eyes when I presented her with my acceptance letter to Peking University, China’s very best.

“She will never be able to take care of you.” — these were the words that she forever erased from memory when she saw me walk across the stage in my medical school graduation gown.

With each milestone we accomplished, we proved the world wrong. But more importantly, we rewrote the story of our lives — a story that was told by so many other people but us, before it even began. From now on, only we get to define who we are.

Over a decade ago, at twenty years of age, I left home for the United States for school. With an ocean between us, my mother and I saw each other only once every few years. Two years ago, we finally got to spend Mother’s Day together. And I was determined to spoil her with a surprise dinner and gift.

I told her we needed some green onions and sent her to the grocery store. Acting with fury, I displayed the secretly prepared picnic in the yard and took out the gift — a turquoise-colored crystal necklace. Then I waited by the door.

“Surprise!!” Before she could reach for the doorknob, I opened the door and shouted: “Happy Mother’s Day!!”

“How the heck did you know I was just going to open the door?” She asked.

“Well. I recognized your footsteps.”

My mother’s footsteps sing a song. And my heart dances to it.