Lotus Shoes, Page 2

I had not as yet been told. He approached and asked about my shoes, which were 3 inches long. Of course I knew only snippets of English, though I eagerly learned all that I could during the journey. One of my keepers spoke the tongue fluently enough and answered him.

  It seems that he showed great interest in why my feet were so small. My keeper told this American that I wore lotus shoes explaining that my feet had been bound from very early in life to resemble a golden lotus. The man rocked back shocked and amazingly, seemed to pale even further. He turned his gaze upon me then with new eyes wearing an expression that I had seen very little of in my tumultuous life, compassion. Immediately, he began speaking earnestly with my keeper.

  The next day I found myself in the presence of the tall pale man, the dusty wagon and my fellow captors and keepers gone without me. I had been bought. I felt suspicious then and now am quite certain that he could not afford the stiff price set by my keepers, but miracles do happen. I am living proof of that. The tall pale man always insisted that he purchased my freedom, not my person. But I refused to leave his side, so he allowed me to accompany him on his personal journey into the American West. I found out later that he was a Christian preacher taking the word of the Lord into the wild places of this vast new land.

  You are probably wondering how my English is so good, correct grammar and the like. Well, I may be Chinese born, but I am quite intelligent and very well read. I continued to learn English, painfully slow at first, but with diligence my understanding improved by leaps and bounds later, like a loaded wagon rolling downhill; slow to start, but impossible to stop once underway.

  I ceased to be the property of the tall pale man and instead became his wife. He wanted me to remove the fastenings from my tiny feet, but a lifetime of binding had done its work, the damage permanent.

  I smile a lot now and have even learned to smile on the inside at the same time. Though I still hide pain, I am learning to express it, but old habits die hard and I find that I have so little pain in my life now as compared with before that it’s becoming easier to just smile and be happy most of the time.

  We now live in San Francisco, California and run a mission for the people there. I speak with the Chinese whose numbers have swollen beyond count since the discovery of gold in what is being called the great gold rush. My fellow Chinese, like me, are a hearty folk. Those that immigrated from china and did not work did not survive. The ones that are left work like slaves which in some cases they essentially are.

  I sing for them and speak about the one true God and for their part they listen politely and basically treat me like a queen. For my part, I am so appreciative. Sometimes when we are giving supplies, food and clothing to those in need, many of the children will be looking for shoes that fit. More often than not, the shoes are much too big for their young growing feet. When I hear complaining, I simply show them my tiny lotus shoes that still fit so well on my three inch feet. Their wonder at my smallish feet always seems to turn to embarrassment until I smile and laugh letting the scamps off the hook. They always seem to laugh heartily as well, but I’ve noticed that the complaining evaporates like so much spilled water on a hot summer rock and does not return.

  I think of my father sometimes and wonder if he knew my true destination and purpose when he sold me into so-called marriage. I whisper a prayer of forgiveness when I think of him. Sometimes, I think I may even mean it.

  I often think of my mother now as well, surely long dead ground down beneath the plow and the near continuous bearing of armies of children. I remember how she looked at me and how I always wondered what I had done to deserve her resentment. I’ve begun to think that maybe what I saw in her expression in those few furtive glances belied the feelings that were truly in her heart. I have begun to wonder if she felt guilty, perhaps was eaten up with it? After all, we were both captives, in our own separate but unique ways. I try not to judge. What would I have done in her place? Would I have bound my beautiful child’s feet and sold her to slavery? Surely not. Then again, who can say? I say a heartfelt prayer for her often that her heart should be at peace, mine is.

  I also mutter a silent prayer for all of those poor victims tossed down those wretched wells. I ask God to have mercy on their poor souls. And though I know I should ask the same of their persecutors, I cannot as yet bring myself to do so. Perhaps in time I can find it in myself to forgive them as well, but it will be difficult, their crimes are great. But who knows, through the Lord all things are possible.

  But the strangest thing of all has happened to me. Throughout my life I have railed at the very idea of luck. But as I look at my husband, standing so tall and pale and speaking with such heartfelt compassion to everyone he meets, the joy and love in his heart overflowing into mine, cleansing the hurt and making me whole. As I look at him, I think of the word irony and how some words look simple, but have complex meanings. I had always before associated irony with tragedy which is often true enough, but now find myself thinking of the word irony in a completely new way. I’ve begun to consider the possibility that irony might very well apply to me. After all, I have focused my entire life on making my own luck and not accepting that which came my way. But somewhere along the way, as I showed nothing but utter contempt and disdain for the word luck, a significant change has occurred. I look at my life now and consider myself, of all the most inconceivable things, lucky.