The Story of Chichi: He Called Me “China”, I Called Him “Hey”

I quit my job. It’s an e-commerce sorting warehouse. Packages, packages, packages. Sorting, sorting, sorting.

But there are some good memories there. There are some names that I will remember for some time. Chichi is one of them.

The two name-dumbs

It’s a genuinely wrong name because I never got his name right. Honestly, it’s my invention —Chinese tend to call a single-syllable in a repeating fashion to show a sense of intimacy. I guess it was close enough as he never bothered to correct me.

I always messed up with names at the workplace, with 200 or so co-workers rolling in and out at many shifts. It got worse after the Covid breakout. “Six feet apart” was the biggest sound in the bee-hive building. The breakroom was re-arranged to have people sit far apart. There was literally no talk at work, we shouted when having to make conversation. Sometimes we forgot it and got close, then a shrill yell pierced through the machine hum and hit us, “Six feet!”

Chichi told me his name a couple of times, but I always messed up. I called him “Hey” at first as I did so to many colleagues, before sticking to “Chichi”.

We were even. He couldn’t remember my name either. No surprise, my name had many variants at work. “Bong”, “Ben”, “Wang”(my last name), to name some of them. The magic was, over time, whenever a sound flew my way, I would notice it was calling on me and turn to the caller right away. The name is just a label. As far as it works, why bother?

He called me “China”. For quite some time. He was the only guy calling me “China”. Maybe because I was the only Chinese guy at work.

Actually, he shouted to me whenever he saw me from afar. Overexcited.

“China! Hi, how are you?”

“H~~Hey, how are you?” I replied, a bit sense of sorry. I tongue-twisted his name while he at least gave me a specific one.

“Good, China. …… See you, China.”

We had this conversation almost every day before work. The shout flew over several co-workers on the way before hitting me, causing a couple of giggles and staring eyes. I felt he liked calling me “China”. I was not sure whether he liked the name or me as a colleague better. We often worked at the same area — the stowing station. We scanned the packages before sending them to the right delivery bags.

It’s the most-hated work in the warehouse. It’s physical, nerve-wracking, pushed by hills of packages on the ever-running conveying belt. Above all, the scanners send the personal working data to the control center. Most workers consider it a privacy violation. But I liked it as I could check the data after work. I didn’t get extra pay for better working data but I was happier seeing it. Although it was a tough place, we could find something to celebrate. So I often volunteered to work at the stowing station.

Chichi often stayed at “Stowing”, too, for other reasons. As a tradition, the new hires would be sent to “Stowing” for the first two months. In addition, in a sense of punishment, some “tough guys” were sent to “Stowing”, too. In my observation, though, many “tough guys” were just the least favored by the managers, for God knows what reason.

Chichi met both criteria. He was hired in summer 2020 amid the Covid rampage. He was a stout young man with chin jutted out intently, or maybe lifted by the weird tattoos at his neck. He had staring eyes and a sneer that felt almost intimidating. I guess that was the reason why he still stayed at Stowing after the test time. He was not a good story at all. He moved really slow and seemed careless. Anyway, he and I often didn’t want to walk the long way back to the breakroom. We sat under the giant racks, talking — or rather shouting, throughout the 15 minutes break time.

Although we built a sort of camaraderie, we were two name-dumbs. He called me “China”, I called him “Hey”. Only he shouted “China” with a bit more excitement. I thought it was okay. It was better than “Hey”.

Is calling a guy with his original country racist?

One day Gina came to me. She had a serious face.

“What did he just call you? China?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s crazy. And you just let him call you that?”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s fixed racist. You don’t know it? They can’t call your country straight.”

“Really? I don’t know.”

“Report to the manager. He will be fired. It’s no joke about racist here.”

Whoa, the air got tense. I tended to believe it was driven by Gina’s tone rather than the term “racist”. Gina was a third-generation immigrate from Japan. I guess the Asian faces brought us close. She seemed to be always shivering about her surroundings, especially when it comes to race. Well, I’m a third-year immigrant. She gave me tips and tried to help me at work. But sometimes it was hard to understand her. Well, I guess she would think the same about me.

“Why? He is not teasing me,” I was confused. “He can’t remember my name either. We all mess up with names. I can him Hey.”

“Don’t be stupid. He can’t call your country and shout out all the time. Tell him your real name. If he still does that, you must report.”

Seeing her serious face, I started to doubt myself — Am I stupid? Are other guys laughing at me when he calls me “China”?

At break time, he came to me, shouted from afar, “Hi, China!”

“Hey, can you do me a favor? Stop calling me China, call me Bond, okay?”

“Ooh, sorry. Bond, okay, Bond. I will try to remember it.”

“Thanks,” feeling a bit guilty, “what’s your name again? I can’t remember yours either.”

He told me his name, something sounding like “Chichi”. I got it right just a couple of times before landing on “Chichi”. He never bothered to correct me.

A bad guy

We got to know more about each other. He was 21 years old, from a Mexican immigrant family, having a baby daughter for about one month. He had a regular job at an auto garage. Having the unexpected daughter got him to this second job. He needed to provide for the family.

One day I tried to cheer him up. “You are only 4 years older than my son. I feel my son is still a child, but you are already a dad and working two jobs. It’s great!”

“Shit! It just happened that I had my daughter,” he sighed. “I am a family man now.”

“How is your college now?”

“Chill, man. I stop going to school after elementary.”

“What? What happened to your childhood?”

“I don’t have a childhood,” his face suddenly fell dark. He repeated the sentence a couple of times, before saying,

“I’ve never seen my parents. I don’t know where they are. I grew up with my grandma, my mom’s mother.”

“I was a bad guy on the street for some years. I got some trouble, my grandma saved me. I went back to live with her. I moved to my girlfriend’s family since she was pregnant. But I keep calling my grandma, telling her I am a good guy now. I do all this for her.”

I saw the rough face turn a bit soft, though he was literally shouting to me over two rack carts. I guess it was perhaps the distance that made him talk more openly — this damn Covid will change our communication forever. I was flattered that he told me so much. I responded,

“I am so happy for you, Chichi! You are a lucky man now. Do you know you have another reason to be a good guy — your daughter? I tell you, the baby is a gift from God, they come down to make sure we are good guys,” this was from my heart. “Do you see it? No matter what trouble you have from outside, you come back home seeing your baby’s face, there is no trouble at all.”

“Yeah, I see it…… I see it.” The smile got bigger. I guess it was perhaps too soon for him to see it, he was still a kid himself. But he will.

It was not easy for him. He often looked very tired at work. Sometimes I heard him swear, kick boxes and racks. One day he told me he almost fell asleep while standing there.

“I didn’t sleep at all last night. My daughter cried all night. I am so tired. I want to go home. I want to go back to my grandma.”

“Hey, hang on there. Do it for your grandma, do it for your baby daughter. Okay?” I shouted to him. It’s good now that we can’t tell it’s an angry shout or a Covid shout. I just shouted, and shouted.

He didn't get along well with colleagues either. There was an untold rule at the stowing station: help busy co-workers when you are done, so they will come to help you when you are busy. He often sat down or went to the breakroom alone when he finished earlier, so more often he was beaten up while no one came to help him. I came to help him. Slowly he started to help me when I was busy, then started to help others.

He called me Dad.

One day I saw Chichi with a young lady colleague at the entry of my aisle. They talked to each other while staring at me. The girl laughed time by time.

“Hey what’s wrong?” I shouted.

“Do you know he wants to call you dad?” the girl shouted back.

“What dad?” My mind flashed Gina’s stern face. Are they teasing me? These young, silly basters.

“He told me he never met his parents, but there is one guy here that he wants to call Dad. He brings me here.”

WTF. Gina’s warnings still around, I was confused.

“am I so old?”

“No, Bond. I know you would think that way,” Chichi shouted. “But I just want to call you dad. I have never called anybody dad.” He sounded really weird, like an adolescent son talking to his dad. Soft, shy, a bit timid.

“I wish you were my dad.”

I was blown. “Well, it’s my pleasure. Thank you, Chichi.”

“What did you call him?” shouted the girl. “Chi…chi? What is that?”

She must be thinking she was watching two aliens. As the saying goes, “Two different ones can’t get into one family.”

He did it ever since. Whenever seeing me, he shouted from afar, “Dad!” It would cause more laughs than when he called me “China”. Gina didn’t come to remind anymore, maybe she saw that we two were really close. I guess many would think it was a joke between co-workers. Some guys jabbed to Chichi, “Is Bond an old man?” He didn’t respond, just kept calling me dad, louder and louder.

I was often amazed how people would think worldly different to one single name. Some thought a “tough guy” was messing up with an old man. While the “tough guy” was perhaps relishing the sense of calling somebody “Dad” that he never had in his life. The “old man” was happy— with a bit sore of being called “Dad” by another adult, that we always had something to celebrate no matter what.

I wish he becomes a good dad himself.

I left the work in a rush. I sprained my knee at work so I took a couple of weeks of sick leave. Then I decided to quit. I never had a chance to return to work to say goodbye. I called and texted some of my co-workers. Then I realized I never had Chichi’s number.

The warehouse is a high turnover place. I wish he will soon meet another guy that makes him soft and shy, even have the desire to call “Dad” again. Maybe he will become a good dad to his baby daughter, too.