When school started again after the Lunar New Year, pressure for the 8th-graders was mounting even higher. In addition to scheduled exams, we were being grilled with mock tests every two or three days until we were almost browned. Not until the graduation exams were over and vacation started did we sigh with relief. The teacher said: “This time we will pass Taichung to visit Mist World and Sun Moon Lake.”
We said while in Taichung we’d want to climb the mountain to see the “Roses That Can’t Be Crushed.” The teacher smiled and nodded.
That day we got off the buses at Tunghai University and followed a path along the small river for four or five minutes. Then we saw roses everywhere covering hills and vales as far as the eye could see. An old gardener was watering the flowers with buckets on a carrying pole.
The teacher said to him: “We are middle school students from Kaohsiung, three classes, over 100 people. Sorry for bothering you. We’ve just finished a lesson on ‘Roses That Can’t Be Crushed.’ So, here we are to see you in person!”
The old gardener smiled: “Oh, no bother, no bother at all. However, roses have thorns. So just see with your eyes. Don’t touch. The other day a gentleman came and reached to pick the moment he stepped in. He was pricked so, oh, you should have heard him cry out in pain.”
“Hahaha, didn’t even know roses have thorns. What a stupid bull!” Over 100 middle school students burst out laughing, which shook the entire garden.
Ten years later several of us female students came to the United States to study biology.
Last year on the anniversary of “9/18,” the University of Chicago held a big rally against the Japanese government twisting facts in their history textbooks. A newspaper story said one of the speakers would be the old gardener who had been invited to attend the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program. The topic of his speech was “Children Under the Japanese Rule.” This news opened the floodgate to our memory. So we went to the rally.
When the rally was over, many eager people swarmed around him to chat. We had to act decisively. Two grabbing his arms left and right, one pushing from behind, we got him into our vehicle and got under way.
“Do you recognize us?” We asked.
The old gardener shook his head: “I’ve heard Chicago used to be haven for the Mafia don, who was as powerful as Shanghai’s Du Yuesheng.[13] Even the President of the U.S.A. couldn’t do anything about him.”
“Aiya! You used to call us ‘little girls’. Now that you’re in the States we’ve suddenly become kidnappers!”
“’Little girls?’ You’ve been to Tunghai Garden?”
“Yes! You gave each of us a rose twig and told us how to cut and plant . . . ”
A classmate gave me a look not to say any more.
The old gardener seemed puzzled. I could barely hold the laugh bursting inside me.
Finally our vehicle arrived at a residence in the suburbs. We helped the gardener out of the car and led him toward the house. Before entering, he paused by the front yard covered with roses, amazed. Once inside the living room, I guided him to the floor-length window with my arm around his waist. There he saw even more roses in the back yard. He seemed even more amazed.
My classmates patted him on the back and said: “Surprise! This is a new generation of Tunghai Garden!”
“Ah!” He exclaimed, joy blossoming on his face.
(2006)