Where did the Chinaman come from?

I graduated from Tsinghua School at the age of 22, and in the summer of that year, the entire class of dozens of students boarded the President Jack Sun from Shanghai and arrived in Seattle, USA on September 1. After landing, we rested in the YMCA dormitory, and most of us immediately took the train eastward, while only a very few of us stayed behind to wait for the train: those who were ready to go to Colorado Springs included Wang Guohua, Zhao Minheng, Chen Zhaochang, Sheng Shimin and me. Zhao Minheng and I were assigned to rest in a dormitory. There was a big bed in the dormitory, but it was naked without bedding, so we both sat on the bed, bored by being away from home, and very sad in our hearts. It was night time, and the air was cold. Suddenly Sun Qingbo rushed into the room and said loudly.

"I just went to the street, I found that the street is full of yellow-haired and blue-eyed people, there is not a yellow-faced Chinese!"

When Zhao Minheng heard this, she cried out from her heart and fell on her bed, choking. Sun Qingbo turned around and left. I watched Zhao Minheng crying, also felt a sense of desolation. Twenty-something people, not a child, but the first time to a foreign country, that feeling is exciting enough. After midnight, we were called to leave for the train, and at the station we saw black busboys carrying kerosene lamps and shouting, "All aboard! All aboard!"

The train passed Cheyenne, which is the capital of Wyoming and is well connected, and is considered a major station. From there, we changed trains and headed south to Denver and Colorado Springs. We were warned at home that you should not eat in the dining car on American trains, because the price is very expensive, often several dollars, it is better to buy snacks along the station or snacks off the train. We had a long layover in Cheyenne, so we got off the train together, saw a small restaurant and pushed the door in. We chose a table and sat down, the waiter brought the menu, we checked the inexpensive dishes and ordered one each. While we were waiting for our meal, we peeked over and saw an old man sitting behind the counter, with a yellow face and black hair, like a Chinese or a Japanese.

We had just finished our meal when the old man came pacing up and down. He took a pencil, half a length from his ear, and wrote on the side of a newspaper.

"Where do Tang people come from?"

Sure enough, he was Chinese, and he could see that we were Chinese, too. He must have been an old Chinese from Taishan, Guangdong. Apparently he couldn't be Mandarin, and probably wouldn't speak English either, so he started talking to us in book form.

I took the pencil and wrote, "From China."

His eyes widened and a small smile spread across his face. He continued to write.

"What are you doing here?"

I wrote, "To study."

Now his eyes got even wider, he curbed his smile and gave us a serious thumbs up, then he paced back to his seat behind the counter.

We went to the counter to pay the bill. He shook his head and waved his hand, as if refusing to charge, and he said something like, "It's all Tang people!"

After we thanked him, he stopped us and gave us a cigar from under the counter.

I went back to the car and lit up the cigar. As I was swallowing the smoke, I wondered why the old man didn't charge for the meal. Why did he give us a cigar? I guess he runs a small restaurant in Cheyenne and hadn't seen Chinese people for a long time, a group of Chinese youths for a long time, and even more Chinese youths who came to study. Our presence ignited his love for his fellow countrymen. After decades, I can't forget the don who spoke to us briefly.