The Ballad of the Nameless Chinese Baby

When John and I were in Hong Kong last week, we spent a day at the Tian Tan Buddha Statue & Po Lin Monastery on Lantau Island. This 34-meter high, 250-ton Buddha is the tallest outdoor seated bronze Buddha in the world (I'm assuming there was a "Biggest Buddha" pageant at some point in history, and Tian Tan won the tiara and scholarship money). It was a fascinating, and spiritually uplifting, day. Even after climbing the seemingly-endless 268 steps to the Buddha's feet, I was still feeling nourished and calm (and if you read this blog only occasionally, you know those are two feelings I rarely possess).

But something just as fascinating happened on the way back to the ferry. John and I decided to take the city bus from Tian Tan back to the ferry terminal. Taking a bus in a foreign land is always an interesting experience, and the Hong Kong bus system was infinitely better than, say, Mexico's. Once, several years ago when backpacking through the mountains of central Mexico, I relied on the buses, a.k.a. caskets-on-wheels, to get me around. They only cost half a penny or something ridiculous like that, but the ride was a matter of risking your very life. Live chickens scrambled up and down the aisle, the smell of b.o. permeated the air, and the drivers could barely see out of the window because of the massive Christ-crucified-on-the-cross decal plastered over the front windshield.

The Hong Kong bus was thankfully less flirtatious with the grave, and the journey down the mountain was pleasant and cost-effective. At one stop, a young Chinese woman boarded the bus with her baby, swaddled in the Chinese equivalent of a Baby Bjorn. The only available seat was next to me, so she and the mummified child planted themselves in the open spot.

At this point, I (and probably John too, for I heard an audible sigh of frustration) was not feeling the whole baby thing. On our flight from New York to Hong Kong, the plane was loaded with about two dozen screaming Chinese babies, many of whom screeched and wailed for the entire 17-hour flight. I figured I would just ignore this baby on the bus and stare at the bald, liver-spotted head of the Australian octogenarian in front of me.

But as soon as I make rules like that for myself, I have to break them. There was no way I could convince myself to continue an Australian scalp check when a pleasantly-quiet baby was at my side. Babies are like Chia Pets to me: some makes and models are cute, but if you don't care for them properly, their beautiful green hair/foliage falls out. Well, you get my point.

And so, after a few minutes, I slowly, tentatively, turned my head to the Bjorn-ed baby. And hark this: the kid was smiling at me. Beaming, really. He had been grinning at me the whole time. Actually, she had been grinning at me (the yellow jumper threw me for a while, but the tiny pink shoes gave her away). Then she started to wave at me, and I, a quivering mass of sap at this point, waved back. I was a little surprised she was so taken with me, as babies tend to sense my Chia Pet phobia and don't concern themselves with me. (For the record, I'm usually fine with this chain of events.)

Yet Nameless Chinese Baby was different. She was cute, yes, and winning me over with her chubby smiles and lopsided waves, but she was connecting with me and touching upon that part of me that is typically dormant. That part of me that, despite my choice to be childless, is capable of great paternal feeling and affection. Yes, Nameless Chinese Baby sensed that, and said, "I will win you over." And that she did. Especially with what happened next.

She started to briskly pat her hands together, which I interpreted as an attempt at clapping. Since babies in movies are always clapping or playing peek-a-boo, I clapped lightly in response. Until I realized that she wasn't clapping at all.

You see, Nameless Chinese Baby was attempting to clasp her hands together. She was praying for me. At that point, I heard her mother say to her, in English, "That's right. Pray for each other." And with that, the baby smiled and folded her hands in a gesture of prayer, which is also the way (along with a slight bow) that Buddhists show respect. This baby, a stranger with sassy pink dwarf shoes, on a public bus in a strange land, was showing me reverence and respect. Not for what I have or have not accomplished; not for how much money I make or don't make; not for my nationality, religion, politics, gender, sexual orientation, or age. She was showing me appreciation for just being.

For a fleeting second when this was happening -- before the cold raw truth of poopy diapers and three a.m. feedings and endlessly torturous hours of Teletubbies and that freakish purple dinosaur set in -- I thought how it might not be so bad to have a kid after all. Obviously, Nameless Chinese Baby's mother was instilling some very important, very beautiful lessons in her daughter. I knew that if I had the same chance at parenthood, I would pass along those same lessons to my own child: respect everyone...for no other reason than we are all on this bus together.