Touch and Contrast

The hallway was long, dark and lined with young girls each standing in front of a room with a pink cloth for a door. I cast my eyes downward as the tension of a new situation and the awkwardness of a strange place pressed in on all sides. I glanced to the side and one door was held open by the hands of a young girl as she talked with a gruff voice from inside the room. I caught sight of a hard looking man with no shirt on surrounded by the smoke of his cigarette. His eyes caught mine; embarrassed I turned my head and saw my hostess round another corner.
I was visiting Shenzhen, a new booming city, through the suggestion of my aunt, and though this was not my first time in China, I was equally as resistant about going as the first time. The defecating children on the streets, the non-discriminating phlegm projectiles, the acrid smells of overpopulation, and the deafening sounds of industry were all too much for a teenager happy to hang out at the mall with her friends. Somehow I had been dragged back to my motherland under the vague mandate given by my aunt to connect with my Chinese roots.
The constant twisting and turning came to an end at a pink door just like all the others. My hostess motioned me through the curtains and left as I stepped through; there was a girl just as old as I was, but a lot smaller standing by the bed. Her hair was swept tightly into a bun and held securely by small, sparkling clips. Her face was broad and her cheeks were flushed. I took off my clothes and shoes and quickly slipped under the towel on the bed as she shyly motioned that I turn over onto my stomach. My face was buried in an orange pillow and as I wondered about the cleanliness of the pillow, I heard her shoes shuffle around to my head. All the muscles in my body braced for impact.
It came, softly at first as if she were looking for a place to hold on to; then hard and constant like waves washing over my thin shoulders. I felt her fingertips trace out the muscles of my back plying and kneading. The more her hands worked the more my muscles resisted. I withered and writhed under the marvelous strength that flowed from her small hands and body. It felt as if the tension in my muscles was great enough to shatter my bones.
After what felt like hours I heard a familiar voice speaking to the girl, which brought me some relief. In the desperate struggle between my body and her hands I had not noticed my aunt slip into the room. I could not understand their conversation as I did not speak Mandarin. As the girl moved her hands down my arms I knew the end was near as all the other parts of me had been defeated. She sat down on the bed and took my right hand into her hands and began to massage my palm. Her thumbs slid up towards my fingertips and she slowly repeated this on each finger. She asked my aunt something and my aunt’s response made them both laugh. The girl glanced over at my face and I saw a look of wistfulness; when she caught my eyes she returned her attention to my hands. My aunt then told me the girl had asked if I had ever worked a day in my life. My aunt had told her I was from Canada and didn’t even need to lift a spoon to my mouth.
My face heated up and my ears burned with what began as embarrassment but quickly turned into shame as she continued massaging my hand. As she had read the story of my life from my soft and smooth hands I was now painfully aware that I could also read the story of her life through her hard and rough hands. Our hands worked as mirrors to each other reflecting our stories through touch and contrast; one of labour and disenfranchisement and another of comfort and privilege.

Elsa Poon