Slow Boat to China

by Mona Shaw

I’ve never been to China. I never will travel there. But, most of things in my apartment have been.

Most arrived in bulk at some customs port. They tumbled through a scanner and landed in several destinations for a time until I gave up my debit card number and they came though my door.

But, before that, at the nascence of their creation, they were in human hands.  I stare at my coffee mug, and I wonder about the person who made it. Is she a she? Is she a child? Is she a grandmother? If she is a grandmother, how many grandchildren does she have? Boys or girls? Does she see them often? What kind of games does she play with them? Is she thin or fat? What was her day like they day she made this mug? Was she feeling ill? Did she have a backache? Was she worried about her children? Is he hair long or short? Does she paint her fingernails? Has she gone through menopause? How bad were here hot flashes?  Was she having hot flashes when she made this mug? Does she have a coffee mug like this?

Printed on the side of my coffee mug are the words, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Did she know what the words meant? Did she find them ironic?

This worker and I are forever connected by this mug. Our respective class stations will prevent our knowing each other. I wish this were not so.

A swift glance around my living room presents the spirits of dozens of workers, perhaps even hundreds. Human lives with human dreams and human hearts and souls. When I close my eyes, I can feel them here. I wish I could offer each of them a cup of coffee and thank them for my mug.