WHEN EAST MET WEST

I first saw my future wife as a splash of exotica on an otherwise uneventful April morning. I remember the day she stepped into our church, a petite Asian woman, with shiny black hair pulled back into a long braid, wearing a floral print dress and a sincere, nervous, smile. Ours was a small church that demanded much of a small congregation, which was why I, a nominal Lutheran and uncertain Christian, was leading the adult Sunday school class, which was about to begin when she quietly took a seat by the door. She was greeted with enthusiastic welcomes well-intended questions, about her hometown and her American experience. As the questions continued and became more complicated I realized her textbook grasp of English wasn’t yet up to the task. I cleared my throat and steered the class back to the topics of the day. She didn’t speak again, but she stayed. After class I stopped her at the doorway, and talked briefly with her, welcomed her, apologized for the noisy start of class. I learned she was Chinese, a doctor working at the nearby University Medical Center, had arrived a few months earlier, had come to the church to practice her English, liked America very much, and hoped to stay. When she left I hoped to see her again. The next two Sundays she did not come. I felt a mild sense of loss, that something that could have been special was not to be. Sometimes I blamed the class members for making her uncomfortable with relentless questions, but mostly I blamed myself. Maybe I’d showed too much interest when she wasn’t interested. She probably had a boyfriend or fiancé or even a husband. But she did return the following Sunday. This time the class members mostly left her alone. Afterward, I recall that she lingered in the doorway – she would say I kept talking with her as she tried to leave. In any event, we did talk. She thanked me for helping her in the class, smiled, and said goodbye. Somehow I knew – or maybe just hoped – it wasn’t goodbye for good. The next few Sundays were more of the same, polite conversation and pleasantries. I learned about China, she seemed to learn a lot about America. We smiled a lot. One Sunday the church had a typical Lutheran potluck meal, jello salad, sandwiches, and the like. I was delighted to see that she had stayed, and so, paper plate and plastic cup in hand, I walked over to the table where she sat, and asked if I could sit across from her. She smiled and said yes. As I settled in and we began to make small talk, our knees touched, briefly, accidentally, under the table. I felt an honest-to-goodness jolt, like a mild electric shock. I could tell by her expression she felt it, too. Neither mentioned it, and we settled back down smiles and salami sandwiches. But I gathered up the courage to ask her for a date the following Friday. I expected her to say no, and half-expected her to disappear again. But she smiled that inscrutable smile and said yes. I said something about dinner and a movie, she gave me her address, and we set a time. It was up to me to fill in the details. First, the dinner. Obviously not Chinese or otherwise oriental, that would be too obvious. Not classic American, either – too plain. Greek seemed best, a bit exotic for both of us. Next, the movie. Something light but interesting. “Groundhog Day” had just come to town, and Bill Murray could be funny, I hoped, in any culture. So it was set. At the door of the small apartment I was greeted by her mother, a tiny, sharp-eyed gray-haired woman. Perhaps greeted is too friendly a word. More of a muted glare, a suggestion that there was something the mother wanted to say, but didn’t know the words. My future wife appeared, said something to her mother in Chinese, and we were off. She said Greek food was “fine,” and smiled as we entered the restaurant. She politely surveyed the menu and, a few minutes later, she ordered . . . a single glass of milk. “You’re sure,” I asked, pointing out the various choices. She smiled again. “I am sure. I am not hungry. You eat.” I began to suspect we had come up against some cultural divide, wondered if she was being too polite to make me pay, or thought I lacked the money to pay for the dinner, or had some other Chinese reason for not eating, but I saw no point in arguing. Besides, I was hungry. So I ordered a gyro platter. I kept offering her bites, but she kept refusing. She just drank her milk and watched me eat. Then the movie. First, she refused any popcorn or soda. The movie seemed all I had hoped it would be, clever, sometimes touching, and sometimes funny. I laughed, but noticed a distinct lack of sincere laughter from the seat beside me. Maybe, I thought, Chinese think it’s rude to laugh out loud. After the movie I drove her home, where, after a polite exchange of goodnights, I made a quick nod over her shoulder to the glaring mother a few feet back of the doorway. Then I was off, into the night, wondering exactly what had gone wrong. The evening had been everything I’d hoped for (except perhaps the sharp glares of her mother), but my date obviously hadn’t had a good time. Well, that’s it, I thought, we tried and it wasn’t meant to be. I was convinced I’d never see her again, that she’d probably changed churches already. Why, I asked myself, had I not at least gotten her phone number? I did see her again. Many times. Two years later we married and had a pair of wonderful twins. But it was long afterward that I learned what had gone wrong that night. My wife-to-be had never heard of Greek food, and at that time couldn’t tolerate the idea of feta cheese, but was too polite to say so. And, growing up in China, she had never heard of Groundhog Day, so that the entire premise of the movie, so obvious and funny to me, was lost on her. For her, the evening had been one of sitting hungry, for two hours in the dark, watching characters she did not know doing things she didn’t understand for reasons she couldn’t comprehend. It was as though we were each lost in our separate worlds. Which of course we had been. But we somehow managed to find that universal language of shared humanity and, eventually, love, which made it all work – despite that rocky beginning. I now realize that our first date was the real test; if we could survive that night out, our relationship could survive anything. And it has.