stepping into new worlds, immigrant daughter
vignettes no. 2 // legacy and a lake house, and the strange privilege of being the charming guest in someone else's world
I’m at a lake. Just moments ago we pulled past a stone gate where someone waved us through, and now we’re driving on a winding road bracketed by lush trees. I’m chattering away with my friend’s dad who picked me up at the train station, and I’m asking him about what he used to do in a prior life before he filled his days with tennis and golf. I love meeting my friends’ parents, because then you get to see exactly where they come from, the people who made them.
He tells me a bit about his career, and I tell him that I only know about commodities trading because I read the book The World for Sale. He said he also read it, and could indeed verify that the larger than life events were in fact, true. I ask him how he knows this, if he knew all the characters personally, jetting about the world and trading billions of dollars of oil.
Yes, he says, I knew all of them. And the book exaggerated their personalities a bit, but it was mostly accurate. Mostly accurate! Incredible to me, that this mild-mannered man who is driving me is also a character in a world that was so grand and bizarre that it merited a book. I read things and I watch movies, but that’s different– I’m not really part of any of these stories, only an observer. I’m not an an agent, an actual character.
I wonder what it’s like to be a part of the world like that.
I’m shucking oysters. I’ve never heard of the word shucking before, but now I’ve been recruited into doing so after enthusiastically raising my hand to help. This was before I learned that it’s apparently an unpleasant task that no one else wants to do. But I don’t mind being helpful, I’m a guest after all, and I’m curious to learn what the task actually entails.
I’m led out to the back lawn where we bring the bin of oysters with us, placing it atop a stone ledge next to where we will be eating dinner lakeside. One of the other guests, the one who brought the oysters, is showing me how to do it. She’s a cultural anthropologist and teaches at one of the universities in New York, and I ask her about her research. I learn that there’s a branch of cultural anthropology that focuses on finance and economics, bankers and Wall Streeters. I tell her that I once dated a trader and that I too felt like a cultural anthropologist of finance. She laughed, and asked me what that was like. He was arrogant, but paid for a lot of nice meals.
She hands me the oyster knife, a blunt flat-edged instrument that you jam into the base of the shell to pry open. I’m honestly not so great with anything that requires strength, but I manage to shuck open four in the time it takes her to do fifteen. It smells like fresh ocean, and we steal a moment to gulp some down in between shucking.
Someone pours champagne, we clink glasses to my first oyster.
We’re eating dinner. I didn’t know what to expect when I first came, but it seems that all in all the party is about twelve, not too big and not too small. Couples line the table, blonde men in polos and dark-haired women who are tall, slim, and gorgeous. I ask them about their lives, and they tell me that they work in finance, commute into the city on weekdays, but come up here on weekends where it’s peaceful and there’s space. This is the life that I want, I think, but the path and the sacrifices seem unclear. Do I ask them bluntly, overtly– your life seems lovely and I want it, how do I get there? Seems like it would interrupt the flow of the conversations, so I smile and say nothing.
A pleasantly-pace dinner conversation ensues. Someone announces to the table that the cultural anthropologist has been selected to do something very prestigious (and pronounces the word like “prest-ih-gious”) and I know I’m in for a treat. Apparently she’s been selected to redesign the exhibit of one of those globally-renowned museums. I wonder again, what it’s like to be an actor in this world, do things that people know about, talk about.
Most everyone is international or third culture in some way, and half the table is conversing in Russian. Someone brought caviar and crepes, which apparently you’re supposed to load up with sour cream and fold into a hand-held roll. I say that it reminds me of Peking duck, and everyone seems to understand. I don’t know why I find that so surprising, but I guess I’m not used to being in a space where most everyone is effortlessly cultured, worldly.
They ask me about my job, and I’m grateful that it’s a recognizable name brand. When I first got the offer, none of my family or my friends back home had ever heard of it. But in this world here, somewhere upstate, everyone seems to know what it is. Perhaps one of the greatest comforts in life is not having to explain yourself; though I find more and more when I return home, the more I find myself explaining.
I say that the work is hard, but I feel like I’m learning a lot and that people are nice. I say that I’ve recently realized that real life is not like school, and people so rarely go out of their way to teach you things, which I find ultimately kind of unpleasant and disappointing. But my tone is fun and bubbly and people laugh. It’s good to be entertaining, optimistic, smile a lot. It’s gotten me this far in life, so I keep on going.
It’s night time, and we’re filing out on boats. The sun has long set, and fireflies come out like soft sparks gleaming gold. There’s going to be a fireworks show, and people are kayaking across the late to see it closer. I think it would be fun to kayak, but I’ve never kayaked before. So I sit out on the dock with my friend, and we talk into the night.
Later, I’m shown to where I’m staying. The house is wooden, beautiful, and at least three stories from what I can tell. There’s a mini elevator in the center of the winding stairs, and I learn it’s called a dumbwaiter and that back in the day it was used to transport food and cargo. I love old historical houses, there is so much quirk and character.
Incredible, I think, to be standing in a part of history in this way. Is this what I crave– story, narrative, legacy? I wonder why I’m so compelled, and if it’s because I feel displaced by being an immigrant, so far culturally and physically from my history, that I latch onto any semblance of something else that is old, that might connect me to the past, any past. Perhaps desire for legacy has something to do with fear of death, or maybe desire to be a part of something bigger. But I’m not thinking about that then, I’m just staring at the beautiful paintings on the wall.
At night, I look up my friend’s dad on LinkedIn. I realize that he co-founded a fund that I had applied to a couple of months ago and been rejected from. I can’t believe I wanted to work at this fund so badly– still do– and now I’m at the founder’s house. It’s strange, but I don’t think I can just ask him, hey can I work at your fund. I think you’ve met me as a person and think I’m cool, and I promise I’m smart enough and besides I’ll work really hard. Is that how it works? I’m not sure, and so I say nothing.
These social spaces always feel so foreign to me, but in some sense I’ve always felt foreign. From birth, with my immigrant background to growing up in the American South, to being a transplant in California, and now New York. I’ve always had a feeling that I never truly belonged, which makes me feel meek, afraid to take space. But then I think of my parents, how different their lives were in China, and what it took to learn English at thirty, start over. It gives me courage to try new things, meet new people, enter new worlds.
In the morning, I wake up much later than I’m used to. I’ve slept so well it’s unexpected. I go downstairs, pour myself some water, and duck past the french doors to walk about the property aimlessly. I walk all the way down to the lake, and it looks different in the daytime. The reflections of trees around it paint the edges green, and all the way on the other side I see houses that look like small castles. I wonder what it must be like to live here, have a small patch of grass to call my own, somewhere away from the hustle and bustle where time dilates differently.
The water is gorgeous, enrapturing to look at, the way it ripples with rhythm. The surface sparkles at the very top where the sunlight glazes the wave’s edge, but the water itself is a deep blue hue stretching out towards the forest. It’s so crystal clear, birds are chirping and the sun feels so warm against my skin. I jump in.
I don’t even know what you’ve done to make this so compelling (not the right word), but i’m reading this on the train home, a few beers deep, and it’s stirringg something inside me, which i guess is the highest praise i have to offer a writer so…thanks :)
Love!!!