UNDERGROUND AMERICA.
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The Voice of Witness series of oral histories focuses on illuminating human-rights crises around the world. By allowing the victims of social injustice to speak for themselves, each book provides an unadulterated, ground's-eye view of the events, told in the unique and captivating voices of the people closest to the story. The third book in the series, Underground America: Narratives of Undocumented Lives, explores the lives of immigrants struggling to carve out a life in the U.S. Today we present one of the stories in this book.
Born in the southeastern Chinese province of Fujian, Mr. Lai fled his native country in fear that his family would suffer consequences for violating the "one child" policy. He paid smugglers to bring him to the U.S., arriving in New York after a yearlong journey. He began working as a cook, moving around the country for jobs he found through an employment agency. Eventually, he made his way to the Kentucky restaurant where the following excerpt takes place.
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Maybe This Is
Just the Way It Is.
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It was a typical morning. There were several workers going in and out of the kitchen to the alley. The kitchen was small and cramped, so we'd use the alley for things like peeling vegetables, washing dishes and pots, that kind of thing. I went out there a few times to throw out some hot water. There was another worker nearby, a woman, who was washing dishes. I didn't really take much notice of her at the time, but I remember that at one point she left the tub of dishes. I wasn't paying attention. She must have gone inside the kitchen or restaurant to get something. After throwing some water out, I went back inside the kitchen to my stove. Suddenly everyone heard screaming—the woman came inside the kitchen, holding her hands up and screaming that her hands were burning with pain.
Then she ran inside the restaurant and came back with the manager. He had a really angry look on his face. He started talking to the workers. I could understand "Bleach ... water." So I guessed he was saying that somebody had put bleach in the woman's bucket of dishwater and he wanted to know who'd done it. Nobody said anything. Several times he pointed to me, saying, "Was it you?" I could understand that much.
Of course I just kept saying "It wasn't me" and "I don't know anything." But he kept pointing and asking and I knew then he'd decided it was me. I didn't understand why, I hadn't done anything—but I noticed the woman had her eyes to the floor. The manager saw me looking at her and he waved his hands about and said what I thought was "No, she wasn't the one who accused you."
Still, he kept pointing at me and asking, "Was it you? Was it you?" Maybe he thought if he kept at me I'd eventually admit it. But I kept saying no, which made him angrier and angrier. He started pushing me around, but I didn't fight back. I just turned away and went back to my stove. I just wanted to get back to work.
The next thing I knew I was getting struck from behind—at first I didn't know what was happening, but then I turned around and it was the manager hitting my back, my arms. I tried to defend myself, push him away, but it was difficult—the kitchen was so cramped I had no space to move. I couldn't get out. I was scared. It seemed like a long time that he was hitting me. There were five or six other workers in the kitchen. Some of them stood and watched. Others were carrying on with their work as if nothing was happening. I think they wanted to help me, but were too afraid. Even when you see something bad happening, you have to think of yourself. These are just people you work with. You get along just so you can work. All you really care about is keeping your job.
Then the manager grabbed a cleaver and started attacking me with it. I couldn't believe what was happening. It seemed like he really wanted to hurt me, but when he actually cut my hand open and saw all the blood, he just looked really scared and ran away.
Maybe I passed out, because I can't remember exactly what happened next, except that the police arrived, and then an ambulance, and then I was in a hospital bed. Everything after that is pretty vague, even now, months later. I just know that the whole time I was in the hospital I was afraid that I'd lose the use of my hand. At the same time, I was hopeful that the law would help me. I thought, "The police, they'll do something."
The people at the Kentucky hospital were very kind. They didn't ask me to pay any medical bills. They said it was a terrible thing that happened. The doctor there cut my hand open and reconnected something, maybe the bone. He warned me, "If you're not careful, you could lose the use of your hand. And when it gets better, it's still not going to be 100 percent normal."
While I was in the hospital, someone, maybe the police, arranged for a Putonghua-speaking lawyer to come and see me. This lawyer said that the police had gone back to the restaurant and couldn't find the manager. He also said the manager had a previous record, for assault, and that the police were still looking for him. I wondered if I wasn't the first worker he had attacked. The lawyer said that, for now, there was nothing else that could be done.
After about two weeks, my hand was stabilized, but I still couldn't move any of my fingers. I was in a bad situation. I had no job, and the police still couldn't find the manager. This made me feel hopeless about getting any kind of compensation; it also made me feel unsafe. I didn't know what the manager was thinking, if he wanted to get revenge or something. So I had no choice but to get my things together and buy a bus ticket for New York.
Back in Chinatown, the first thing I did was go and see a man called Mr. Chen. He works for a foundation that's known for helping Fujianese people a lot. I told him about my problem and he said he'd try and do what he could. Hopefully he can help me somehow. Since the attack happened, three months ago, I've been out of work. I can't handle a wok; I can't do anything.
I don't know if the manager was ever found, or if he was charged or not. I admit I still have some anger toward him. I don't understand how you can treat another human being like this. I have thought about finding my own lawyer here in New York. So maybe I'll ask Mr. Chen. Or maybe this is just the way it is. Maybe you just have to accept things and get on with your life.
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OTHER McSWEENEY'S FEATURES:
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Underground America
The Monroe Family Bed Wishes to Die By John Jodzio
Giants of Poetry By Tyler Stoddard Smith
Sisyphus Enters Analysis By Jeff Albers
Rules for "Stacey and the Hippies" By Rocky Morrow
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