(31) Mingzhao Xu: Flat Was Good
A few weeks ago, I got fired from my Technology Coordinator job in Seattle, WA, and had to move back into my parents’ house in Riverside, CA. Every morning, I’d look for work online, sending resumes to seedy recruiters and companies with generic names, expecting little.
My desk sat across from the closet, which overflowed with grown-up clothes, forgotten junk, and remnants of that seaside city. On its mirror doors, I saw my reflection—a pallid face, tangled black hair, and wrinkled pajamas.
Mom entered unannounced and asked how it went. Even indoors, she dressed in neat slacks with her hair tied back. I shrugged—bad economy or bad luck. She suggested that I ask some third cousin, twice removed from my dad’s side of the family, for leads. He wore suits every day and worked at a bank! I suggested that since other people’s kids fascinated her so much, she should mother them. She pouted for a second, but like a toddler eager to plow through, rambled on about whose kids got promotions, married, or bought their first house. Hovering above, she eyeballed me for imperfections—slouching, unclipped toenails, weight gain, etc. She’d later comment on the glaring ones. She’d theorized, since childhood, that these habitual remissions were linked to my repeated failures. She could’ve nagged me harder but didn’t, knowing how much Seattle meant.
I graduated from law school with surmounting debt into the Recession. Despite networking and countless resumes, no firm hired me. With little to lose, I trained myself to use esoteric legal software. When a Seattle legal software vendor offered me, a position managing their projects, I announced it on social media and told my law school dean. No more living at home or dateless nights job-hunting in front of a laptop. God had answered my prayers.
I could build a solid career, running as hard and fast upward as my short little legs allowed. The arc of my life bent toward worldly success. Once there, I believed that everything would fall into place. Seattle, my big break.
***
Before work started, I took a ferry to an island west of Seattle. Walking along its rocky beach, crunching the uneven path beneath, I looked across that great sea. Church spires and high-rises lined the main coastline. Their grandeur spelled promise. A single gray cloud hung in the sky. Friends and internet posts warned me that it’d balloon as the season got colder, eventually blocking the sun and bearing its full weight on my psyche. Eager and hopeful about my new life, I ignored them.
The company operated in a newly renovated, techno-colored warehouse at the waterfront. Admin had private offices, plebs, the cubicles. The kitchen offered unlimited junk food and a ping pong table. On my first day, several asked me whether I played. I said no and they walked away, miffed. My hometown wasn’t fancy but every Sunday, unassuming church folk would serve hand-made food. I loved their twice-baked potatoes.
My supervisor, Dee Dee, had no background in law, technology, or management. Whenever I asked her for clarification, she’d ask another and repeat their answers to me. At meetings, after saying something stupid, she’d chuckle and swivel her blond head around for affirmation. On the weekends or after-hours, if the team got an email before anyone had read it, she’d call expecting a strategic response. When I twirled my hair as an executive passed our cubicle, she pulled me aside and told me people here didn’t do that. She’d take the other teammates for fancy coffees. I asked about it once. She feigned shock that I even drank coffee.
One afternoon, she held an important telephonic meeting with a client and told me specifically not to attend since it wouldn’t interest me. Once it ended, I entered the conference room. Dee Dee sat at the table with an experienced team member, a man twice her senior.
“Did you guys talk about these?” I held the contracts up for reference. We needed the clients’ signatures, but Dee Dee was supposed to ask them first, but she kept forgetting.
“What?” Her eyes widened. She spoke louder and with a higher pitch when near someone important. “Why do you still have those?”
“Well, I thought you wanted to ask them. I’ve sent reminder emails.” Her face fell like a soccer player watching her ball fly past the net at a home game. She’d forgotten and looked to the senior for support. He kept his eyes on the table.
“You should’ve sent that weeks ago.” She chuckled with incredulity. “It’s standard procedure.” The senior, embarrassed, refused to look at me.
After that, I started missing deadlines and clients calls. The dark weather must’ve fogged up my memory. Maybe I grieved over lost potatoes. Dee Dee retaliated with negative performance reviews. I tried harder, but no spreadsheet was clean enough and no email “nice” enough. Eventually, I timidly complained to Human Resources. HR reported it to Dee Dee’s boss without my knowing. One morning, I walked past his closed office and heard her rapid-fire speech inside. He mumbled and she stormed out in a huff. Later I asked HR why it escalated.
The buxom HR Assistant just shrugged, “Standard procedure.”
I should’ve left the first month but feared that quitting meant defeat. Dee Dee's gloat about how right she was, how wrong I was for such an advanced position, her team, her city. My discipline and drive eclipsed my imagination.
A few months later, Dee Dee scheduled an impromptu meeting for us in the conference room. I walked inside, wary. The sea scent wafted in through the window, along with the wharf milieu: passing motorists, gull cries, and fishermen calls. The HR Assistant sat shoulder-to-shoulder next to Dee Dee; they formed a fortress. Was HR here because of my complaints? I sat across from them, a squat and dark figure whose heels don’t reach the carpet. You can tell I wasn’t born in this country—even the common furniture felt outsized. Dee Dee’s small blue eyes darted between HR and me. She shifted her coffee mug but didn’t drink. A fly landed on the rim.
Growing up, mom would whack flies in our house with a swatter against tabletops and shelves. She killed bad habits with the same gusto, using the tail-end to rap my hand for missed school assignments, bad language, or forgetting the dishes. At my college graduation, she asked why I wasn’t Valedictorian. I looked around to make sure there weren’t swatters within reach.
HR pushed a stack of papers toward me. Work separation documents. I suspected this day would come but still felt unprepared.
Her cue to speak, Dee Dee said, “Based on what we’ve talked about, I’m gonna have to let you go.”
“What do you mean?” Keeping my voice level, despite my escalating heartbeat, I tried to recall any recent talks we’ve had.
Dee Dee began a haltering speech about sacrifice and teamwork. She toyed with her mug, “We’re just not synching.”
HR smirked and explained that they were offering a month’s salary if I signed a release of liability, meaning I couldn’t sue them for any existing or not-yet-known future claims.
“That’s it?” I asked. I’d invested thousands to relocate, not counting the energy and time I’d sacrifice.
“I’m afraid this isn’t negotiable,” said HR.
“No, not negotiable” echoed the blond parrot, shaking her head.
HR explained the other documents. I heard nothing but didn’t show it, avoiding eye contact. I handed them my identification badge with my smiling face on it, taken the first day. I haven’t smiled like that since.
“We’ll be mailing the rest of your paperwork and if you have more questions, call us.” HR beamed: mission accomplished. She continued to shuffle paperwork.
On cue, Dee Dee rose from her seat, “I’ll walk you out.”
She followed me out the hall, to the desk for my belongings, and even to the bathroom, closing off any retreat. The open office set-up meant a gauntlet of stares, gaping mouths, and furtive looks. Someone giggled. No one rushed to my side to ask what happened or say goodbye.
On my way out, with my bagged belongings slopped across my shoulder, I kept my eyes on my feet. Mom always noted their flatness—no arches meant I’d never be as good a dancer as she. As a child in Communist China, she’d dance in red shoes. Teachers commended her patriotism and skills and recommended her for a prestigious performing arts school in the capital. The Party Leadership launched the Cultural Revolution, sending students to rural re-education camps instead. Because of those dream-breakers, she never saw those shoes again.
On my walk back home, rain fell. Sloshing through the waters, I realized that I’d have to dance back home because of my student loans and low unemployment pay-outs. To that childhood room, too small for my aspirations, and the pitiful looks of friends.
***
Outside the Sea-Tac Airport, gray carpeted the entire sky. White gulls pierced through and disappeared again. Previous storms blackened the ground. On the tarmac, I stood in line to board my flight home, trying to drown out the wailing babies, thudding engine, and hollering ground crew. Inching upwards on the stairway, I ran my hand along the cold, moist metal. I’ve no words to say a proper goodbye to the city. A pilgrim in reverse, filled with shame rather than hope, I’d never return.
***
To anyone who asked, I gave the usual spiel—retaliation, sucky weather, the Seattle freeze! The greater the pain, the louder I barked. Looking back, colleagues probably kept their distance because of the hostility between Dee Dee and me. By the time I learned how to ping pong, it was too late. I was like a dog that tried to lick someone’s leg, then got kicked instead.
For the first few days after my return, my parents gave me space and cooked me potatoes. From my calls back home, they sensed my misery. I didn’t tell her about my fuck-ups—the missed meetings or overextended deadlines. Then came the “When will yous.” When will you get another job? Get out of the house? Pay off your debts? Walk straighter? I resented it, but the truth was, I felt ashamed for not having the answers. During dinner, over the T.V. din, I asked mom why, if she cared about success so much, she didn’t dance in the U.S? She sat silent for a second, eyes glued to that T.V.
“You’re not the only one with dreams,” she said in a dour whisper. I just chewed my potatoes, pondering what she’d dreamt about all these years and whether she cared more about my success than me.
***
During church, my Pastor told us that we could ask God for anything. Be bold. Unbelievers because of their Communist upbringing, my parents never attended. I asked him if God could make my mom less annoying. He chuckled and said she wasn’t the problem. Behind frustration and anger, lied the hurt. Be honest and dig deep.
The trinity I relied on—hard work, drive, and determination—didn’t save me and couldn’t change the past. Unmoored from my life’s paradigm, I felt adrift. Some days, I’d just stare at the computer until my eyes glazed over the screen.
That night, before bed, I prayed in my room for the first time since my return. I’ve run out of options and excuses. Standing still, I rooted my bare feet in the floorboards with my palms upward like a 17th-century pilgrim. Life was much harsher back then. How did they survive, much less prosper? I conjured the image of a cold, hungry saggy-eyed man who emerged from steerage of a storm-wracked ship. In the New World, he found more rocks than soil. Against the wind, he cried for the Almighty to build a house from the rubble of his life. He thought he deserved better. Nothing could’ve shaken that sense of entitlement.
“Show me something.” I stood still and watched the dust motes in the room swirl before my eyes. “I’m asking You.”
The motes moved as I exhaled. I felt a slight ripple outward—head, chest, feet, door. I paused and looked around—the furnishings didn’t move, the walls stood still, and it remained night out. Something in the universe had shifted and lifted the weight from my heart.
Years from now, my failures and misplaced hopes would’ve lost their sting, but I’d still remember the motes, this surreal moment. I wanted to but couldn’t define or contain it with words. Should I? I’d grasped my fate with both hands, steering it toward my vision of success, only to fall short. We’d have such limited control over life. The pilgrims before me lacked certainty about their futures but ignorance didn’t deter them. Failures dodged them at every turn but didn’t break them. A naked impulse, also inexplicable, drove them. Maybe my purpose wasn’t to understand but to do.
I looked down at my feet. Pressed against the cold, wooden floor, they resembled flatten fish. These feet had leaped across a sea and back. They’ve taken me further than I’d imagined. They could take me further, still. I smiled at the revelation. Mom was wrong. Flat was good. Even when waves of bitter brine washed over me, I would stay standing.
Mingzhao Xu immigrated to the United States from China as a child. One of her greatest joys in life is using fiction to highlight the humor, challenges and pathos of her childhood. She currently lives in California.