My father had spent most of our childhood traveling between two continents. Tucked away in American suburbia, my mother, sister, and I rarely accompanied him on business trips to Taiwan or China. Usually he'd be gone for a few weeks, sometimes months, but we got used to the rhythm of his comings and goings. Whenever he returned, he would inevitably be thinner, always weighed down by a cough (at best), and devastatingly tired. With the recuperative powers of San Diego sunshine, a relaxing home atmosphere, and plenty of time on the golf course, my father would gather his strength and then be off again.
The only visible sign we had that he was busy would be the late nights he'd spend on the phone, which coincided with the times the rest of the house was asleep. As we got ready for school in the mornings, he would often still be awake, sometimes preparing us breakfast, sometimes saying "good night" on the way to bed. To me, he had the greatest job in the world. Lots of intercontinental travel, a flexible schedule, and still plenty of time to spend with the family. As I grew up and started forming my own conception of a career, I decided I also wanted to be a businessman, just like him.
* * * * *
In the aftermath of 9/11, after I had soaked in the experience of watching the World Trade Towers crumble from across the Hudson River, I was ready to escape New York. That September morning, my friend was perched on our toilet when the first plane hit. He had woken me up and we'd run down to our apartment's boardwalk in time to witness the second impact. After thirty six hours of rumor filled panic and incessant television watching, we were convinced that any and all conspiracy theories were true. We made plans to flee to the safest place we could think of: Ann Arbor, the college campus we'd both just recently left. If there was going to be additional acts of terrorism, we were positive it wasn't going to happen in Michigan. In a burst of productivity, we rented a car, packed it up with CDs, and took off on the eleven hour drive, stopping just twice for gas.
After a week spent in the obscure safety of the Midwest, Sam and I returned to New York, both of us wary and disenchanted with the city. Living in Manhattan, or any other major U.S. city, seemed unbearably depressing. My classes downtown were cancelled, my magazine internship on hold, and I was left spinning my wheels trying to figure out what came next. Two weeks later, my father passed away overseas without warning. Within a few hours of receiving the call, I was on a plane headed home, to San Diego, making another escape from New York.
* * * * *
My paternal grandfather, a judge for most of his life, switched careers at fifty three and decided to purchase a woodwind instruments factory located in Taichung, the third largest city in Taiwan. The small factory produced flutes, saxophones, clarinets, piccolos, and the occasional trumpet. The factory soon became the responsibility of my father, the eldest son, and the whole enterprise also supported and employed two of my uncles. Over the years, the company grew and pushed my father toward America in pursuit of further business opportunities.
Expansion also eventually involved building a much larger factory in China, in a city an hour west of Beijing. Final construction on that factory finished in 1995. In the ensuing six years, my sister and I had never visited, with high school and college perpetually getting in the way. The first time we laid eyes on the factory would be to bury my father, who was found in his office, an hour after missing an early morning business meeting. Aside from the funeral arrangements, the immediate and overbearing question was what would happen to the company. That was the pounding thought that kept everyone focused amidst the grieving.
* * * * *
The China factory, built on a few acres of land, was one of the first in Langfang, a prefecture city. As defined by the government, a prefecture city is technically not a city as it lacks continuous urban settlement. It is instead composed of a main central urban area surrounded by large swaths of rural areas. The rural area often contains smaller cities, towns, and villages. During the years our factory was undergoing construction, Langfang was preparing for an economic boom. It hastily and optimistically threw up supporting infrastructure for a population five times its size. The boom hadn't fully arrived as we viewed the city from inside our cramped minivan, making our way from Beijing Capital International Airport toward the factory.
Mostly empty hotels towered next to the main highway, a six lane monstrosity that lacked car traffic but had plenty of bicycles. Pairs of sweepers shifted dust from one side of the road to the other using decrepit looking brooms, making no tangible difference. We passed by lots of new buildings, most constructed to be as ostentatious as possible. Roman columns jutted out from clean modern lines to form ghastly facades. One particularly bombastic entrance caught my eye, an administration building outfitted with huge marble steps rivaling any in Manhattan. There was a bustling downtown area we passed through but most of Langfang was clearly awaiting more occupants.
In contrast, my father's factory was understated architecturally, built to utilitarian tastes and painted in neutral colors, and nearly bursting at the seams. It employed almost two hundred and fifty workers and a third of them lived on-site. The ground floor was the factory itself, which included a large cafeteria for use three times a day. The second floor was office space, the managers' quarters, and a separate kitchen. The top two floors were residential and included a leisure room and practice space for workers who took complimentary flute lessons. A smaller building in the back housed machinery for the chemical process used to silver plate instruments. The rest of the grounds had plenty of space, including an unused basketball court and an oft-used soccer field.
For many of the workers, almost all of them uniformly young and from the countryside, this was their future.
* * * * *
Traditional Chinese culture dictates the passing of the family business to the oldest son. In my family, with no other male cousins, that was me. Even though our immediate family was thoroughly Americanized, the expectation was still there that the company would eventually be mine. Or ours, for my twin sister was my age, if younger by two minutes, and far more business savvy and accomplished. I switched from a business major to philosophy after collapsing in accounting; she was currently a successful accountant at a big five firm.
In the days after the memorial service, my uncles, the business managers, various advisers, and my mother gathered to hammer out a plan for the company's future. My sister and I attended all the meetings, struggling to follow along with our limited Mandarin. After one of these sessions, it had come time to decide what we both wanted to do.
"I'm in," I said simply. A life in New York was far removed from my mind at this point and my flittering forays into the film industry wasn't anything to stick around for. Despite the tragic circumstances, I was more than ready to get away.
After some hesitation, my sister said, "No. I don't want to."
I was stunned. Throughout all the preceding meetings and conversations, she'd given no indication that she was against moving to China. We had even discussed how our lifetime of being near-complete opposites might be advantageous in co-running a business. She was good at everything I was not and her weaknesses were my strengths. I asked her what had changed.
"They don't want me. They've been talking to you a lot more." This came as a total surprise. I thought we had both been treated as potential successors. "You don't see it," she continued, "but every time they ask a question or look for our opinion, they look to you first."
We were sitting on a bench outside the factory, both of us facing the soccer field, watching some workers race around in pursuit of the ball.
"Are you sure? I don't think so…" It took me a moment to process what she'd just said. I honestly couldn't recall them slighting her, but apparently I hadn't been paying attention. "Of course they want you. I don't even know what I'm doing," I added. "There's no way I'm going to move here by myself." The sudden prospect of living in China, away from my safe circle of friends, without having anyone trusted beside me, diminished my enthusiasm greatly.
"Seriously, I don't want to do it. I have a job back home anyway," she said.
"Don't you think it's our responsibility to move here?"
"I've been talking about it with mom. Putting all of our futures in one basket isn't a great idea anyway." I knew this tone of her voice. There wouldn't be much room for discussion. "You can do it, you should do it, but I just started my job and shouldn't quit now."
I could understand her point. She was in a career that she couldn't just leave and then jump back into later. Not without falling behind. My situation was, well, not even a situation. I could choose to stay without giving up anything. After some careful thought, I could even fathom how the patriarchal Chinese businessmen might have focused more of their attention toward me, and how I'd been too blind or flattered to notice.
"Okay, you go. I'll stay," I said.
There it was, the decision made. I would move to China and delve into the woodwinds industry. I would learn the family business. I would become a businessman, just like my father.
I thought I'd use the occasion of everyone up in the Bay going to the Janet concert to reminisce about my Janet experience. Not that I'm jealous or anything.
