Pinyin was invented by the Chinese government to help foreigners pronounce Chinese words. But it was based on Latin pronunciation, not English, and I didn't have a clue how to write my name that way. So I just put my family name first, as usual in China, and wrote "Li Cunxin" on my application form.

"Is this your real birth date?" the police officer asked when he read my completed forms.

I had written 10 January 1961. "Yes. What do you mean `real`?" I asked.

"Is it your Chinese calendar birthday or the official calendar birthday?" he asked.

My family had always used the Chinese calendar, never the official calendar. It had never occurred to me that government agencies used the same calendar as the rest of the world.

"No good," the police officer said when I told him. "We need the official calendar. You'll have to go and find out before we can issue you a passport."

But that date was the only birthday I knew. My parents wouldn't know either, because most babies in the countryside were delivered at home and local records would state the Chinese calendar date only. Peasants never used the official calendar for anything. It wasn't until much later that I discovered my official birthday was set as 26 January.

Zhang knew his official birth date though. His application was fine.

I began to panic. I was nearly in tears. I had to get my passport and visa in time for the summer school in Houston. I couldn't miss this opportunity! I begged the police officer, "Please, Comrade. Who would care when my exact birthday is? I don't have enough time to find out. I will miss this opportunity to serve our country!"

He hesitated then. "All right," he said eventually and I sank with relief.

Our visas were approved by the American consulate in Beijing in a matter of days. We were overwhelmed with excitement. But once the euphoria faded away, panic struck. Zhang and I could speak no English. How would we ever understand the Americans?

An English tutor gave us a crash course for a few days, starting with the English alphabet and ending with simple phrases such as yes, no, good morning, hello and goodbye. I used Chinese words to help me pronounce the English words, like I'd done to learn the French ballet terms, but they sounded ridiculously Chinglish and I really had no idea how I would make myself understood.

We also had to go into the Ministry of Culture to be briefed by the officials. The head of the Educational Bureau, Wang Zicheng, met us briefly. He spoke with a gentle, persuasive voice. "Work hard while you're there, show your American hosts how hard Chinese people work. Don't forget that you're representing China and the Chinese people. Treasure this opportunity. Bring back knowledge. Resist capitalist influences and make sure you exercise your communist judgement." He shook our hands and left but his assistant continued to lecture us. "Be polite at all times. If you don't understand what people are saying, just say "yes" and smile. Never say "no". Never. "No" is a negative word. People might be offended." She too told us not to let filthy Western influences into our pure communist minds. Everything we did or said would represent China and the Chinese people.

She then took us into a room which contained a few racks of used Western-style suits and ties. She said they had a small supply mainly used for government delegations going to foreign countries. We had never worn a suit before, only Mao's jackets, but we were told to borrow a suit each from the ministry. We tried quite a few on but all were too big for our skinny bodies. We ended up choosing the smallest suits but the shoulders still came halfway down our arms and we had to fold the sleeves up. We also borrowed two ties and a suitcase each.

Zhang and I, to our utter astonishment, soon became a news item in China. We were the first official exchange artists between China and America since Chairman Mao took over power in 1949.

I telephoned my parents for the first time since leaving home all those years ago. I rang from Director Song's office. My second brother Cunyuan came to the commune phone first. "Ni hao, Erga!" I screamed excitedly into the phone.

"Ni hao, Cunxin! What's wrong?" he asked, sounding concerned. Something dreadful must surely have happened for me to use a telephone.

"Nothing! I am going to America for six weeks!" I replied.

There was silence. "Really? You're joking," he said.

"No! I'm not joking. I am going to America with another student," I replied.

"My brother is going to America!" he screamed loudly to the people in the commune office. I could hear a roar of cheers.

"I can't believe this!" he continued. " America! I heard everyone there carries guns. If they don't like you they'll just shoot you. And everyone has cars. Niang is here…"

"Jing Hao!" my niang called.

"Niang, how are you?" I asked. I was so happy to hear her voice.

"I'm fine. Are you really going to America?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes, I'll be leaving in a few days."

"Ah! Why didn't you tell us earlier? We could send you some apples and dried shrimps to take on the road," she said.

"I am going on a plane. I was told no food is allowed on the airplanes."

"On the airplane? Wo de tian na! How unthinkable! My son is going to fly on the airplane!" I heard her say to the people in the office and there were more cheers.

"Ask him how many hours will it take to get to America?" I heard one of the commune leaders ask.

"Tell that Uncle, I was told that I have to fly to Tokyo first, the capital of Japan, and then it will be something like twenty hours to America."

"Please be careful. Stay away from the evil people in America. Don't they kill coloured people there?" my niang asked, sounding worried.

"I'm going with another student. We'll look after each other. I've also met the American dance teacher from Houston. His name is Ben. He seems nice."

"Just be careful. These foreigners are wild! They are different from us. Don't trust them."

I wasn't surprised by my family's concerns about America. For so many years we had been told that the West, especially America, was evil. We'd heard of nothing but the mistreatment of black people, the violence on the streets, the use of firearms. Even I, who had read a few books about America since the downfall of the Gang of Four and didn't totally believe what I had learnt in the past, was still suspicious and apprehensive.

I could never have imagined, however, that this conversation with my niang and Cunyuan was the last one I would have with them for many long years.

In the last few days before we were due to leave, the whole academy became excited for us. Teachers and classmates constantly congratulated us. We were called into Director Song's office once again. She was all smiles. She gave us the familiar lecture, told us to study hard, to show the Americans our work ethic. Never to lose face for our great nation. Never to allow Western influences to penetrate our staunch communist values.

Our day of departure finally arrived. That morning, eight of my friends including the Bandit, Chong Xiongjun and my violinist friend Liu Fengtian, went out to a nearby café and brought back some pig's head meat, some red sausages, pickled vegetables, watermelon and a few jugs of warm beer. They had to smuggle the beer into the academy: we would be in trouble if we were found out by the teachers. For two hours we would enjoy our food together, our companionship, before the academy's jeep took us to the airport. We speculated about what America would be like. I promised I would tell them everything when I returned. "Don't you let a big-nosed girl kidnap you over there!" said the Bandit. How he wished that he was allowed to go to the airport with me.

When it was time for Zhang and me to leave, our friends fought over carrying our luggage to the jeep and in the commotion the Bandit quietly shuffled something into my hand. "Read it on the plane," he whispered.