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Katy Wimhurst, who lives in the
She
has worked in various jobs including teaching and publishing. She writes
both fiction and non-fiction and has been published in
The Guardian (Unlimited),
Interaction,
GlassFire,
DogVersusSandwich and
Serendipity.
Certain names and dates in "Very Stupid" have been changed to protect
identities
Katy Wimhurst
His name was Da Lam, which in Chinese means He who sits half-way up a mountain. Perhaps in keeping with this, he now lived on the 10th floor of a 20-story urban mountain, an enormous grey tenement block in Lower Manhattan. A small, graceful man whose dark eyes could sparkle like moonlight on water, Da Lam was 90 years old when I met him. But at that age, he still wrote books on Chinese philosophy, taught three classes of Tai Chi a week, and had all his own teeth without a single fillingI knew that as he insisted on giving me a graphic oral demonstration one day. The teeth were part of his proof that living according to his spiritual principles, even in New York, brought him health and longevity. He sincerely believed he would live to be 250.
Da Lam was also, I was told,
a bona fide guru. I wasnt looking for a
guru, although by then I had met a few phony ones, people who spouted New Age
philosophy and called themselves shamans when they were closer to shams. But Da
Lam, it seemed, was the real deal in guru terms. Billed as
the
man who had helped introduce Tai
Chi to the US in the 50s, he was also an expert on the I Ching and had a
regular stream of devoted followers to his
You very ugly,
he said one day to a poor woman who had come to tell him how much she admired
his teachings.
Why she cry and leave?
Da Lam asked me afterwards.
Because you called her ugly,
I said.
But she
very
ugly, he said,
looking at me perplexed.
I knew Da Lam as I happened
to work for him as a secretary and editor. I say
happened as I got the
job through no special abilities on my part. Indeed, it was probably the easiest
job interview I ever had. One day, after my second class with him in Tai
Chi, Da Lam approached me.
Someone
say you English, not American?
he said.
Yes, Im
English, I
replied.
Then you come work for me,
he said.
Not
would
you like to work for me?
or are you
available to work for me? As I would discover, Da Lam didnt
operate in those terms. But it suited me fine. I was living with someone in New
York I had fallen in love with and was trying to find work illegally; and
working for Da Lam was infinitely preferable to getting five dollars and as many
gropes an hour at some seedy diner. It later transpired that he offered me the
job because he assumed anyone English automatically wrote the language better
than anyone American, effectively dismissing several generations of American
writers, not to mention several million ordinary Americans.
Nevertheless, thanks to Da
Lams
peculiar prejudices, I entered the folds of the Green-Card busters in the US,
although I never considered myself an authentic Green-Card buster.
Not like Francisco, for
instance, who taught me Spanish, came from The Dominican Republic, and had been
in New York illegally for eight years, having been refused asylum on flimsy
grounds. Francisco had two cleaning jobs, worked twelve-hours six days a week,
and on his free day taught English. He had a shabby apartment on the outskirts
of Harlem and no health insurance. I once asked him what he would do if he got
stabbed (not uncommon in the area he lived) or contracted a serious illness.
Id probably die,
he answered with no sentimentality. Francisco was part of the millions of poor
illegal immigrants from Latin America who prop up the economic underbelly of the
richest country on earth. I couldnt
put myself in the same Green-Card-busting category as Francisco. My boyfriend
was fairly wealthy, so work was a choice for me. Francisco didnt have the luxury of choices.
I knew Da Lam was a refugee,
too, although a legal one, having fled the Communist purges of the 1950s in
China and having been granted asylum in the US.
If
I not run in 1955, I have bullet in head,
he once told me.
Im
glad you ran,
I said.
Me, too,
he replied.
Da Lam was thus part of a
generation of Chinese Taoists and Zen Buddhists who had arrived in the US as
refugees in the 50s and 60s and who, partly unintentionally, had fed the ideas
of counter-cultural movements there. It always struck me as ironic that one of
the most narrow-minded interpretations of Marxism in the EastChinese Maoismhad
helped engender the mind-expanding experimentations of the Beats and the hippies
in the West. But Da Lam himself had no time for hippies. Although I met him a
good thirty years after the hippies had had their flower-power day, he was still
dismissive of them.
What did you think of the hippies?
I once asked him.
Very stupid,
he said.
Calling people very
stupid, as I would soon find out to my detriment, was a favourite past-time of
Da Lams,
but in relation to the hippies, he had his reasons. After all, his was a life of
strict spiritual discipline and study.
Da Lam was my initiation
into how gurus can have remarkable powers but can be
human,
all too human. The man had genuine healing abilities.
If I had a headache, Da Lam would go to window, hold his hands up to the
light, chant something or other, then return, putting his hands on my head. And
I would feel the pain simply draining away. No kidding. Prior to meeting him, I
had seen a number of complementary therapists, including spiritual healers,
about my headaches, none of whom had helped me. But Da Lam had undeniable
healing and spiritual powers. There were also occasions, however, when he had an
ego the size of the Empire State Building. And this manifested quite early on in
our work.
On my first day at work, he
told me what the job entailed:
I talk. You
write,
he said.
Da Lam was not a man who
could ever be accused of verbosity, even if the work didnt
prove to be as straightforward as his explanation suggested.
We would begin the work with
him dictating what he wanted to say. I would then try to decipher what the hell
he was talking about, write it down, and type it up. Despite his undoubted
intelligence and the fact that he understood English perfectly, Da Lams
spoken English washow can I put this?unusual. I had taught English previously
to non-native speakers, but nothing could have prepared me for Da Lams linguistic
vandalism. On his tongue, verbs vanished, pronouns prolapsed, and adjectives
were axed. While his version of English wasnt
without its charmsI
very smiling today
was one of my favorite expressions of hisfor me, who found myself trying to
understand and edit what he said, it wasnt
easy. And I soon gathered I wasnt
alone here.
What
did he say?
was the most whispered phrase at all his Tai
Chi classes I attended.
After I typed up his words,
or what I understood his words to be, I would edit them, print out the text, and
then give it back to him to read. He would either say,
Yes,
is good or
No,
I not say that.
On one particularly trying day, when he had had to say
No,
I not say that
three times, he became frustrated and shouted at me:
You very
stupid.
Pardon?
You very stupid. I very clever.
Ah, I thought. The Ego had
landed. But I let it ride this time. And the second, third and fourth times he
shouted that I was
very stupid.
But the fifth time, I flipped and replied.
Your
English isnt
very easy to understand.
What? You very stupid. I very
clever,
he yelled.
Your spoken English is poor
sometimes.
No. You very, very stupid. I very,
very clever.
Actually, your English is bloody
crap sometimes.
This erupted into a
full-blown fireworks barny, both of us taking verbal pot-shots at each other, at
the end of which Da Lam just marched out of the room. I was shaken, close to
tears, but I was also extremely worried that, at 90, he might have a heart
attack or stroke. Plus I thought Id
completely blown it as his
employee. But a
few minutes later, he reappeared in the room as if nothing had happened, handed
me my money for the day, smiled warmly and said.
I
think better we work do tomorrow.
He then led me to the door of his flat and gave me an affectionate pat on the
shoulder.
Fire in
you. Is good, he said, beaming.
So that was Da Lam: one
minute he was shouting in your face that you were stupid, the next he was
smiling and giving you compliments. In an odd way, he was a refreshing person to
know, even if he wouldnt have won an
award for
Diplomatic Employer of the Year.
And although the shouting matches became regular interludes to our work, any
annoyances I felt towards him were always smoothed over by the way he would
surprise me with incredible gestures of largesse. Once, when I felt very ill, he
took me straightaway in a taxi to see a Chinese medic and paid for the
consultation and medicines. On another occasion, he told me to arrive at his
flat at midday not 9 a.m., and when I arrived, there was a Chinese banquet laid
out for us.
And then there was his Tai
Chi itself, which he would practice while I beavered away at the computer. Tai Chi is a
system of movement, somewhere between a dance and a meditation. Watching Da Lam
doing Tai
Chi was like watching a river flowing, a prayer in motion, a 90 year old man
moving with the grace and agility of a Siamese cat.
But after six months of
working for Da Lam, I decided to return to the UK. My relationship was breaking
up and I had been offered work in London, so I said my goodbyes to Da Lam. I am
sorry to say I never saw or heard from him againneither of us were good letter
writersbut I did Google him from time to time. It was during one of those
Googling sessions that I discovered, in an obituary in the New York Times, that he had died in 2005 at age 96. Reading the
obituary made me desperately sad.
I recalled one argument wed
had before I left.
Through Tai
Chi and Taoism, I live to age 250,
he had said.
Sorry, but I dont
believe you,
I had said.
You very stupid,
he had said.
And
very wrong.
Now, reading about Da Lams
death I wished I had been very stupid and very wrong.