Labels

Cindy Shuck 

My face is reflected in the glass cases as I peer into the endless mounds of truffles. Marveling at the hundreds of shapes and sizes of chocolate, my eyes scan the rows, each tumbling pile titled by small cards with beautiful Belgian names. I wonder at the boxes lining the walls, unable to understand the gleaming labels of gold except for the fact that they contain delicious morsels.

Bells clang as the door brings in a mob of tourists with the rush of cold air. As the bells quiet, a loud conversation emerges from the group. Suddenly I recognize the familiar sharpness of Chinese in the background as it drowns out the smooth cadence of the clerks’ Flemish. I am planted in my spot at the back of the store, listening intently to the tones of the group behind me for the hint that they speak Mandarin. In an instant, the translations flood my ears:

“These look really good.”

“Hmm…I can’t read any of the labels…”

“Oh my, there are so many kinds!”

I feel my chest quicken with the ability to understand something. Cautiously turning around, I face the speakers.

Their bright yellow visors merge with their dress socks and shoes that are prominently out of place to form the picture of the quintessential middle-class Chinese tourist. Silently, I observe as they poke around the store, noisily inspecting each wrapped box and pointing fervently at the various assortment of chocolates, their voices with an interrogative pitch as they try to decipher the Flemish that labels each item. Rigid and cemented to my spot on the floor, sweat collects in my palms as my stare remains fixed on the group.

I chew my lower lip as pieces of sentences meld in my mind to form a coherent sentence. Finally able to uproot myself from the tile, I creep over to a stout man inspecting the contents of a glass case. Without warning the phrase springs from my gut. “Ni men shi zhong guo ren ma?” I blurt. 

“Shen me? Ni shuo zhong wen!? Ai you!” His eyes snap open in surprise as he plants his stare, gaping in disbelief.

“Dui,” I respond quietly, the tension melting from my body as I feel a smile break out on my face.

After a few moments, he recovers from shock and instantly whirls around to his friends. As he hastily stomps off, I watch as he grabs them by their arms and brings them to my side of the store to share his excitement.

Soon I am suffocated by a small group of Chinese men and women, their bespectacled eyes wide with wonder at the Mandarin-speaking Caucasian in front of them as the man gushes his story of the discovery moments before. Immediately they drill me with questions, curious to know how old I am, why I am in Belgium, and most of all, how I know their language. As the group moves closer towards me, the pungent odor of green tea wafts from their garments. My mind churns as a rush of vocabulary runs through it, each word releasing another memory.

            Images engulf my mind as memories of my four years in China rush back to me. With each pronunciation correction I move closer to the world that I feared was left behind after we packed up and left Beijing. The Chinese tourists remind me that I can remove myself from the ingrained perspective of a sheltered American. My familiarity with their culture brings me closer to my new acquaintances as we reach a mutual understanding. I am able to connect with them, and with just a small conversation uncover a piece of my identity. I ground myself in this undeniable ethos, savoring the sweetness of Mandarin as it melts in my mouth.