ater that week, Ben invited my parents and me to his house for dinner one night. My good friend Betty Lou, who'd picked my parents up from the airport, would also be there.

That evening at Ben's, as soon as Betty Lou and I kissed each other on the cheek, she handed me a folded piece of paper. At first I thought it was either another review about our Nutcracker performance or a news article about my parents' visit to America.

The letter had been written on Christmas Eve. In the top right- hand corner I saw the emblem of the United States of America and the vice-presidential title underneath.

Dear Betty Lou,

Thanks for making me aware that Li Cunxin's parents, Li Ting Fong and Fung Rei Ching, were planning to apply for visitors' visas at our embassy in Beijing. I contacted officials at the Department of State and asked them to ask our embassy in Beijing if Mr Li's parents has applied for their visas. I was pleased to hear that their visas were issued on December 13. I hope that they have a safe journey and enjoy their visit with their son.

With warmest wishes,

Sincerely yours,

George Bush

Tears blurred my vision. My hands shook. I gave Betty Lou an enormous hug. I couldn't believe she had asked for help from the vice-president himself. I couldn't believe the vice-president would actually take the time to inquire about a personal affair of mine. I thought of the Minister for Culture in China. In China I wasn't worth one minute of his time.

I told my parents about the letter. They too were speechless. "Zhi, zhi, zhi…" was all my niang could say and she shook her head in disbelief. "Be serious, Jing Hao! An American vice- president inquiring about two Chinese peasants?"

My dia also shook his head and smiled in agreement with my niang. "Jing Hao is kidding. George who?"

I nodded my head and pointed at Betty Lou.

She smiled and nodded back.

Eventually it sank in. The vice-president! Of America! My parents rushed to Betty Lou and they too hugged her tight.

While I was at work over the next few weeks, my parents were often taken out to see the sights of Houston by some of my friends. Or they simply enjoyed staying home. My niang continued to sew, even though her eyesight was poor, and she cooked most of the meals while my dia cleaned and fixed things around the house. They had great fun gardening too. I had a large backyard and they ended up planting over fifty roses. They weeded and watered them every day without fail. Never in their lives had they even imagined the luxury of being able to plant flowers.

My parents were forever grateful to Ben for what he had done for me. One day my parents invited Ben over for dumplings and much to my niang's utter astonishment Ben showed up with a top- of-the-range Singer sewing machine. Just for her! She was deeply moved by such generosity and thoughtfulness. But she was too scared to touch it. Eventually she was persuaded to give it a try and she began to practise, following the instructions carefully. But she nearly fed her fingers into the machine instead. "I'm no good at this modern stuff. It took me a lifetime to learn how to sew. It will take me another lifetime to learn how to use this machine." But my niang did eventually take the sewing machine back with her to China—and gave it to one of her daughters-in- law.

My parents simply couldn't get over so many things about living in America: the fact that people had hot water in every home, that I had a dishwasher, washing machine and dryer. But still my niang insisted on washing everything by hand. She had hot running water, after all. What more could she want? Hot water was everything! One of my parents' most favourite things to do was to help each other wash their backs in the bath. And my dia spent a lot of time crawling in the attic or under the house inspecting the plumbing, the hot-water heater, the central heating, the air- conditioning units: he was like an awe-struck child.

The refrigerator was another fascination and my dia and niang were surprised at how long food could be kept fresh. My niang had to shop for food almost every day in China, but here shopping was completely different. "There is more Chinese food here than in China!" she said, aghast. "Many of these ingredients I can't even get in China at all!"

One weekend I took my parents to Macy's department store. "If this isn't heaven, I don't know what is!" my niang gasped. So many clothes to choose from! So much of everything everywhere! We stepped onto an escalator and she nearly lost her balance. Moving stairs!

• • •

The three weeks of my parents' stay were disappearing fast. I watched their reactions to America and re-lived some of my own reactions from when I'd arrived in America five years earlier. What a shock these three weeks were for them. They would reflect on this trip for many days, weeks, months, even years after they returned to our village in China.

I didn't want them to go back. I simply hadn't had enough time with them.

For their last few days in America I took them to Charles Foster's condominium, an elegant high-rise in Galveston about forty-five minutes from Houston. The condominium was part of a five-star hotel and the hotel staff serviced Charles' apartment. My parents felt so guilty having the hotel people do all the work that my niang and dia made their own bed every morning instead. The staff thought no one ever slept in it. And my parents would go to one of the local piers and buy fish or shrimp from the fishing boats and we'd cook them ourselves in the apartment.

Two days before my parents' departure another friend of mine kindly let us use his lakeside townhouse too, and to get around the complex my parents had to drive golf carts—the same kind I'd crashed into the ditch in Disneyland. At first I drove them to show them how, but my dia was quick to learn. He'd been working with trucks for so many years back in China, after all, so he was a natural driver. Even my niang reluctantly agreed to have a go. We spent only two days there but on the last day when I woke up I found both my parents gone. When I looked out of the window I saw each of them driving a golf cart and chasing each other around like children playing tiggy. They laughed and giggled and laughed and giggled and it was one of the happiest moments in their lives.

My parents were in constant shock during their stay in America, but they took everything calmly, storing it in their memories so they could savour it all when they returned home to China. They had never expected to see such prosperity. They had never expected such kindness from the people of another country.

I gave my parents some money before they left, so they could at least improve their lifestyle when they went back to our village. For all my brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces, my nephew, relatives and friends, I bought gifts. There was something for everyone, no matter how big or small. By the time they were ready to leave, my parents had many suitcases full of gifts: watches for my brothers, clothes for my sisters-in-law, picture books and nylon skipping ropes for the children, mugs and T-shirts with the Houston skyline on them for friends and relatives, a couple of bottles of Maotai for my grandfather and oldest uncle, and Ben's sewing machine too. "We left China poor, but will return so rich!" my niang exclaimed on their last night in America. "I don't mean the material things. It's the richness I feel in my heart. How well you're doing here and how much you're loved and respected! We will savour this trip for the rest of our lives. We're truly fortunate."

"Do you still remember the story about the frog in the well?" my dia asked all of a sudden.

I nodded. I remembered.

"Thank you for showing us what is outside our well. If it weren't for you I would die an ignorant man. We may be going back to our well but at least we've experienced the kind of life that Deng Xiaoping might lead us to in China one day. Now we will carry only fond memories and all the goodwill of your American friends home with us," he said.

We talked way past midnight. We were so afraid that some important things might be left unsaid. The uncertainty of whether we would ever see each other again weighed heavily on our minds. It was during our conversation that night that I suddenly realised my dia had become quite talkative.

• • •

I took them out to the airport the following day.

"I don't know when we will see each other again," I said, close to tears.

"But now we have seen you and met your friends we can lay all our worries to rest," my niang reassured me. "We will go home feeling happy about your life here in America. I only wish you'll be allowed to see your brothers again one day. They all miss you."

"I don't know if I'll ever be allowed to go back home."

"With Deng Xiaoping's open-door policy," my dia added, "you never know. Who could have imagined that we would be allowed to come here?"

"I will miss you," I said to him.

My niang hugged me tight. I felt her warmth, her love.

Finally I watched them disappear behind the customs checkpoint. I stood there for a long while afterwards, just staring at the wall.

After my parents' visit to America I could telephone them in China and write to them, freely, without fear of reprisal, and I could send them money too. But I was still not allowed to go back. There was a considerable amount of resentment among Chinese government officials for what had happened that night at the consulate in April 1981. But at least I had seen my parents and the heavy weight of sadness had lifted from me.

Now it was back to ballet and another competition was coming up, this time in Moscow in June. I knew there was a lot of politics involved in these competitions and my experiences in China had made me wary of going to Russia. But Russia had always had a certain allure ever since I'd watched so many brilliant Russian dancers in those videos back at the Beijing Dance Academy. I longed to go there. I was not a US citizen, however, and the Russian government had problems with me, a Chinese defector to the US who still held a Chinese passport and who wanted to represent America. The Russian government hated defectors with a passion. They had lost some of their best dancers to the West that way—Nureyev, Baryshnikov, Makarova and others too.

Faced with a dilemma, Ben and Charles started a massive campaign to lobby both Congress and the Senate to pass a special resolution, to change my status and allow me US citizenship a year ahead of the usual qualifying time.

The task was huge. To me it was inconceivable. Only rarely in American history had this been achieved before, mostly for Olympic competitors. Charles thought we had a chance though, because we had the George Bush connection, so we lobbied on the grounds of a possible gold medal at the Moscow International Ballet Competition. Americans love gold medals of any sort, even ballet ones, and I received many, many letters of support. Time was critical though, given the bureaucratic process. Charles contacted congressmen, senators, anyone and everyone who had any political connection at all and we eventually gathered enough support to have the bill passed by the immigration sub-committee of Congress. But we ran out of time to get the necessary approval in the Senate. Fortunately, however, the American International

Ballet Competition Association persisted and eventually the Russian authorities relented. They would allow me to represent the US. Ben and the Houston Ballet's pianist would go with me and before long I was on my way to Moscow.

I was of course aware that the people of the Soviet Union were still living behind the Iron Curtain, but nevertheless, once there I was surprised at just how much the Russian people were starved of freedom. It was worse than I had imagined. The fear of the KGB seemed to be on everyone's minds.

One day I went to Red Square to see Lenin's preserved body, not because I was interested in him as a communist forefather or anything, but just like the other tourists I went out of curiosity. By then I had totally abandoned my old communist beliefs.

I entered the mausoleum, following all the other tourists in single file. As we descended into the depths of the tomb, I noticed the polished black-and-red granite that covered the floor, the walls and the ceiling. It was awesome. Guards everywhere stood motionless, as though we didn't exist. And there was Lenin, lying in his sealed glass coffin. A ghostly white figure. He didn't even look real. He was so small: how surprising that just this one small man could have such an impact on the world. His communist ideals formed the background I grew up on and his influence was felt in nearly every corner of the earth. I looked at him and remembered Chairman Mao. I had seen Chairman Mao's preserved body in its glass coffin once also, on a trip organised by the Beijing Dance Academy, and I remembered thinking he looked pretty ugly. But Lenin's distorted face was even worse. I thought of my na-na, displayed in her coffin in the middle of her living room, when I was just eight years old.

I was surprised to see how many similarities there were between China and Russia. The harsh lifestyle, the lack of food, the drabness of people's dress, the discrepancy between the official exchange rate and the black market. The food at restaurants was limited too. I'd had Chicken Kiev in America on a couple of occasions and I thought, since this was Russia, Chicken Kiev would have to be much better here—like having Peking Duck in China. But I was terribly disappointed. It was nothing like what I'd had in America. The only thing that wasn't disappointing was the marvellous Russian caviar. I smeared it over toast, I ate it all the time. To me it was inexpensive but for the Russians it was nothing but an extravagance.

For the competition in Moscow we competed on the historic Bolshoi stage. It was huge, but it was also raked. When I jumped up the stage it felt like I was pushing uphill. When I did my turns my weight fell towards the audience. Becoming accustomed to this type of stage takes two to three weeks but this entire competition only ran for two weeks. American stages were all flat. Most European stages were raked but the Bolshoi was famous for its very steep rake and it proved disastrous for me. Two minutes before the curtain went up on my first round, I slipped just as I was taking off for a grand jeté. My body crashed to the floor and I landed hard on my back. Stars flashed in front of my eyes. A sharp pain travelled down my neck and lower back. I knew at once that I had a serious injury, but when I thought about the huge efforts Ben and the Houstonians had put into getting me to Moscow, I knew I had to continue. I couldn't possibly let them down.

I tried to regroup. I tried to concentrate. But before I could really assess my injury, I was called to places. The performance was about to begin.

My legs felt weak, especially when I pushed off for jumps, and my turns were wobbly. I heard the music but my mind could think only of the pain in my neck and back. All I can remember was trying to get this first solo over with. How I wished I'd had some painkillers with me. But I'd left my anti-inflammatory pills at my hotel, and anyway, I doubted there was enough time for the medication to work. The Giselle solo went like a blur and before I knew it I was on stage for my second solo—from the Coppelia wedding scene.

I got through the first round but in the second round my back worsened. I went to see a Russian doctor. He said I just had a muscle spasm—it would go away with some massage. But it didn't. I'd had muscle spasms before. This wasn't like anything I had ever experienced. I couldn't even tie my shoelaces. I tried to remember the pain of my torn hamstrings during my Beijing Opera Movement classes back in China. I tried to remember that at least here I had the freedom to choose whether I would perform or not. Here I could simply stop the competition, pack up and go back to America.

Because of the injury Ben had to modify my classical solo for the second round. It was so simplified that the judges must have thought I was deliberately avoiding the difficult steps. However, for my contemporary solo, I had never received so many curtain calls in my entire dance career. But then the Russian judges complained that this ballet was politically motivated. It was anti-communist, they said. Ben and I were astounded.

By the time I finished the second round I was having trouble even getting up from my bed in the mornings. The pain had started to travel down my legs and the heavy-duty painkillers I was taking did nothing but make me drowsy and my muscles numb. I challenged myself to finish, despite my injuries, but decided this was going to be my last ballet competition. I'd had enough of the politics and dramas and, although the medals gave me some international recognition, they would never make me a better dancer or a better human being.

There were other things to worry about during that competition too. Disturbing things. During the course of that week both Ben's room and my room were trashed. Some of Ben's belongings went missing and my alarm clock had been smashed to pieces. I remember feeling uncomfortable, unsafe. It was as though we were being watched.

Then, just as the competition ended, the Russian authorities asked to check the entry visa in my passport. They said there might be problems. The US delegation said they thought it would be safer for me to go with them to Leningrad and leave Russia from there rather than from Moscow.

I was happy to go home via Leningrad. Leningrad was where the Kirov Ballet and the Vaganova Ballet School were based, so I would have the opportunity of visiting the Mariinsky Theatre where the Kirov Ballet performed and of visiting the Vaganova Ballet School. I remember watching the Kirov Ballet perform Sleeping Beauty and I remember paying homage to the inventor of my ballet training method, the great Vaganova Ballet School. I was eternally grateful for that wonderful training.

In the end I received a bronze medal from that Moscow competition. The judges normally sign all the certificates before they are handed out, but when I received my competition certificate it was unsigned. I could not help but think about the Russians and their hatred of defectors and I knew that, in their eyes, I was no different.

By the time I left Russia my back had completely seized up and the pain was increasing. But as soon as I returned to Houston two things happened. Janie Parker and I went to Chile to perform in a gala, which was already scheduled, even though my back was getting worse by the day. And Mary McKendry from the London Festival Ballet came to join the Houston Ballet as a principal dancer.

"Jeano, is it true that Mary McKendry is coming?" I asked our general manager eagerly.

"Yes, a real coup," he replied, beaming. "Make sure you treat her well. We can't afford to lose her."

After Janie and I returned from Chile I met Mary again in class the following morning. She and I immediately started to rehearse the leading roles in Sleeping Beauty. It had been eighteen months since I'd met her in London. I was so happy that Ben had paired us together. But I wasn't sure whether my back would hold up.

I didn't know what to make of Mary at first. She struck me as brutally honest in her opinions—and in her dancing. She was a perfectionist, like I was.

One movement we had to rehearse in that first week was a sequence of three "fish dives", where Mary had to do a double turn on one pointe and then I would pick her up by her waist and she would dive forwards and finish with her face inches away from the floor, both of her legs high in the air. It was one of my favourite movements to practise and perform.

My back pain, however, prevented me from rehearsing this with Mary. She urged me to see a doctor. But I didn't want to: I didn't want to lose my first opportunity to dance with her. So we continued to work together for another week but by then the pain was excruciating and after a CT scan the doctors informed me that I had two, possibly three, herniated disks in my lower back.

The doctors immediately ordered me to stop dancing. Bed rest only, for as long as it took my injury to heal. Otherwise, they said, I might have to have surgery, with less than a fifty per cent success rate.

I was devastated. I had lost my first opportunity to work with Mary, and frighteningly, I faced the possibility of never being able to dance again.

That night I lay in my bed and thought of all that this might mean to my life. Ballet was all I knew, all I had known since the age of eleven. It was my passion, my identity. How could I, once again, be left on my own with an unknown future? Now I was the soaring bird suddenly shot down. I was a caged tiger once more. My frustration and despair were enormous.

I knew the only way for me to recover was to be as disciplined and dedicated with my rehabilitation as I had been with my dancing. So I taught myself to meditate. I taught myself to control my frustration and pain. I had no choice but to overcome it.

I wouldn't let my insecurity overwhelm me but during this time I missed my niang dreadfully. I didn't want my parents to worry about me, so I didn't tell them about my injury. Instead I asked them to apply for visas and come to America for a second time.

Mary visited me during that period, even though she didn't really know me very well. It was then that she asked me if I had books to read. She loved reading and was appalled when I said I read very little. I told her about my reading experience with Black Beauty.

"Read something shorter and easier to start with! Don't worry about what each word means exactly. It's hard even for Western people to understand every word. English is a difficult language. Just try to get the story, even if you have to guess to start with. You'll get so much pleasure out of reading, I promise!"

So for nearly three months, friends and fans brought me food, videotapes—and books. I took Mary's advice. I just started to read short things: newspaper articles and short storybooks. Then I tried longer books: Romeo and Juliet was one of my favourites. I even attempted The Hobbit, though I found the language in both these books hard to comprehend. But still I found it fascinating, and I especially loved Tolkien's extraordinary characters.

So Mary introduced me to literature and once I started reading I couldn't stop, couldn't believe the stories I had been missing out on. I worked hard at keeping my mental focus over those three months as I was lying on my bed. I had a secret plan—the Houston Ballet was going to perform in New York City in October. That was less than four months away. Ben and my doctors doubted I would make it back by then. But I never lost hope. I had acupuncture treatments, homeopathy, Chinese herbal medicines, and a wonderful masseur who Mary called "Mad Charles" and who worked with me constantly. He kept telling me that I would make it back to the stage, but the strengthening program seemed slow and painful and many times I had my doubts.

Eventually, however, my injuries gradually started to mend. The disk herniation never went away completely but the strengthening program helped me build stronger abdominal and back muscles to support it and I had to do continual exercises to keep the injury in check.

But finally I had made it back to the stage.