When she was 4 and he was 5, they met for the first time. The boy’s name was Yong. The girl was drawn to his unbridled energy and the curious glint in his eager wide eyes. They began to play together, fashioning games out of random materials. Her favorite game was tossing pits. They would wet a patch of ground — sometimes with water, sometimes with pee — then take turns throwing plum pits, competing to see who could throw it furthest. The two quickly became inseparable and spent all of preschool together. After the year passed, the two parted ways to different elementary schools.
When she was 12 and he was 13, she received her first letter ever. Mailboxes did not exist at the time; written correspondence came in the form of a mailman’s sharp rap on the door. The girl was not home when her letter came. When she returned, her mother called her to the living room.
“You got a piece of mail today,” the girl’s mother said, holding the letter in her hand.
The girl was shocked and excited. “Really? From who?”
“It’s anonymous. What type of people are you hanging out with at school?”
“What? Why are you asking?”
The girl’s mother handed over the letter, the envelope seal torn. The girl shot an annoyed look at her mother before unfolding the piece of paper.
I want to go on a date with you. If you agree, take three rocks and arrange them into a 工 in front of the corner store that’s at the end of your street. Have it set up by 7pm on June 10. I’ll be watching you. If you don’t do it, you’ll be in trouble. Don’t try anything funny.
The girl looked up at her mother. “It’s June 10.”
“I know. I already set the rocks up. Who do you think wrote this?”
“I have no idea.”
The girl’s mother let out a huff. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough. You stay at home. I’ll catch whatever fool sent you this letter.”
Ten minutes to 7pm, the girl’s mother walked to the street across from the corner store. There, she waited, her eyes fixed on the rock arrangement she had set up hours prior. 7pm passed, then 7:30, then 8. No one came. The girl’s mother returned home, stopping by the neighbor’s on the way to ask if their daughter would walk with hers to school for the semester. The neighbors obliged.
When she was 15 and he was 16, the girl received her second letter ever. She was home to collect it from the mailman this time. It was addressed from someone named Yong. Could it be? She tore the letter open, the characters on the paper slanted and messily scrawled.
Dear Hong: How are you? It’s me, Yong. I know it’s been a long time. I’ve started working in the factory. My dad stepped down and I took his place. I live alone and am financially independent now. I’ve been thinking a lot about how we used to play together. They are some of my happiest memories. I miss those moments. I want to see you. It’s been too long. Would you allow me to see you? If we don’t meet now, when will we ever? In five years? Ten? Never? For old time’s sake, let’s meet. Let me know. Yong
The girl’s entire body flushed. The prospect of reuniting with Yong thrilled yet embarrassed her. Teenagers her age had shed the carefree skins of their youths and were beginning to understand the nuances, the awkwardness, of interpersonal relationships. The boys and girls at her school did not speak to each other, too uncomfortable with themselves and terrified of the opposite gender to form the connections that used to come easily. But here was Yong, her childhood best friend, now an adult by her standards — after all, he was living alone and supporting himself — asking to see her. The girl brought the letter to her mother. Her mother said it would be rude to not reconnect. A week later, the girl sat on the living room couch, waiting for Yong’s arrival.
When she answered the door, the first thing she noticed were his eyes. They were large like she had remembered, but the glint had faded. His face was thinner, stripped of its baby fat. Small whiskers peppered his upper lip, unable to form the mustache that distinguished man from boy. He was much taller than her, but his shoulders were hunched, his weight shifting from foot to foot nervously. She invited him in and led him to the living room. He plopped down onto the couch as she settled in a chair across from him.
He asked her about school. She inquired about his work. He boasted about how hard his job was and the freedoms of independent living. The girl listened politely as her guts churned. Each time he asked her a question, she could not help but blush when answering. Since when was she shy? Waves of excitement and nervousness overloaded her adolescent mind and body. She felt disgusted at how she was reacting, then at Yong, for making her feel this way. She did not understand how she was capable of feeling so many emotions at once. The way they were talking was completely foreign: like two children pretending to be adults. The girl could not believe she used to pee on the ground in front of this boy. She desperately wished for the ease that they used to have with each other to magically reappear, that they could skip all this uncomfortable chatter. An hour dragged by before he stood up, stating he should return home before sunset. He asked if he could come over again. She said yes. He smiled and said he would write another letter to her soon.
This was a story about my mother and her childhood friend Yong. Yong went over two or three times after the initial meeting. My mother can’t remember why he stopped coming — whether it was because he stopped writing letters to come over, or because she stopped responding. My mother never found out who wrote her the letter when she was 12, but my grandmother firmly believes it was from Yong.
Dating in present China is interesting and markedly different from American norms. Here are two articles that highlight a male and female perspective, respectively:
