Real Kung Fu

Blogger Blocked

2009-05-19T21:17:00.001-07:00

I'm writing this from Hong Kong.

Blogger has been blocked in Mainland China (someone might have expressed an opinion, or something) and I don't know when/if I'll be able to post again.

Cya soon!

Only The Beginning

2009-05-12T19:05:00.000-07:00

This letter is an invitation by the Peace Corps to serve as a volunteer university English teacher in China. I was going to write a lot of sappy BS about the trial of the application process but instead I'm just going to say this: I owe everything to my family. I love you! Thank you!

英语 Student's Book 3, Unit 2: Healthy Eating, Reading Task, p. 52

2009-05-10T18:14:00.000-07:00

Against Building a McDonald's

I am very worried about McDonald's building a restaurant in our hometown. We are a small community and we enjoy our local dishes. I am not sure if McDonald's food is as healthy as they say in their advertisements. When scientists look at it carefully, they find high levels of fat, sugar and salt. This is very worrying. Too many young people are getting fat through eating too much fatty food. McDonald's is not giving young people a good idea of what a healthy diet should be. Local Chinese food, on the other hand, is full of fresh vegetables and fresh meat and fish. The food at a McDonald's restaurant is always the same, so I wonder if it is made or brought in from elsewhere. Although it is freshly cooked, it must be less healthy than our own locally grown and cooked Chinese food.

I also worry about all those cars bringing people to buy food at McDonald's. First, there will be petrol fumes, which will make our clean air dirty. Second, there is the problem of all those cars that try to park and prevent other cars from moving quickly through our town.

I am sure many young people will be happy to work at McDonald's but will they be treated fairly? In America, McDonald's does not allow workers' unions to operate in its restaurants and these are people who speak up for the workers. If, as they say, the workers are happy with them, why should they fear some workers joining a union?

So when I consider the food, the cars and the jobs, I think we should not allow McDonald's to build their restaurant in our town.

Collected: 关系

2009-05-07T19:42:00.000-07:00

You know in China we have such a title; “Public Servants.” But, really, it is such a shameful title. It should be a very shameful title. There are so few such jobs but every Chinese will want them because of their benefits. First you must pass a written exam which is nearly impossible. There will be 5,000 or even 6,000 applicants just within your district taking the same test, once a year. You must be in the top five of all those people to go on to the interview. Only 1 or 2 people will pass the interview. So far, the test has been quite fair as there is no way to cheat on the exam. But things are different with the interview. In the interview, it is all about your 关系 (guān xi). Your 关系 is who you know that works in the bureau for this Public Servant job. The higher the position of the man you know, the more likely for you to pass the interview. Even better is to know one of the men conducting the interview. Then your pass is almost certain. But likely you will also need some money to give to the person you know. This can be for as much as 250,000 Yuan – a fortune! It forces you to also be corrupt once you receive the job, because now you will be in great debt and it’s the only way to get your money back. It is how much a friend of mine paid to be accepted into his job – he paid it to a man his wife knows in the government. Even if you offer a huge bribe but have no 关系, the interviewers will pretend to be outraged and will turn you in; they only accept bribes from people they can trust to be dishonest with them. I hate 关系 but it is everywhere in China. It is part of a long tradition. I don’t know if Chinese government and its jobs have any outsiders now. Even in our school you will need 关系 to find a job or become a fulltime teacher. It was not this way 10 years ago but now the competition for Shenzhen jobs is fierce. I applied last year. There were over 500 applicants from my university for 20 positions as an English teacher. Me? No, I had no 关系 at this school. One of the best? No, I am just one of the luckiest. By the way, I have recently seen some pictures in all the blogs and on TV. It is of Obama going out in the rain and he is holding his own umbrella. In China, we are saying: “This is unbelievable! How can the leader of a great nation be holding his own umbrella?!” Such a thing cannot be imagined in China. Even our principle does not hold his own umbrella. He thinks he is the president of his own world, Ha! Ha! Ha!

collected: the groom

2009-04-29T20:42:00.000-07:00

I am 26. This summer I will marry my girlfriend. On August 8th we will go to my hometown and have a traditional wedding… because it is too expensive to hold the wedding in Shenzhen. She has been my girlfriend for several years and we are both very happy. But although I am happy I am also quite worried these days. We have bought our house in a very poor location near the airport, right at the end of the runway. The house is actually quite nice, but the planes are so loud that it may be quite uncomfortable. It is all that is available for us now; maybe we can move later. I also worry about my child even if he hasn’t yet been conceived. We must start saving for him now so that he can enter the best schools in Bao’An and have the best chances. It was not easy for me to make it through the system and into this job; it will be even harder for him. Still, my biggest concern is that my and my fiancé’s families will now be permanently spread about. The various holidays will now be very stressful because we must decide whose family it is we will visit. We cannot visit both at once and neither family can afford to entirely travel to the other family’s hometown for a holiday. The most stressful, of course, will be the Spring Festival. But visiting family has been a problem for me long before my marriage. When I was a child I would always look forward to the Spring Festival because our relatives did not live so far away and we could all meet in my hometown, at my grandparents’ home. It was a time for games and a big meal and everyone to be together. But as I got older, many relatives had moved outside our region to get new jobs and fewer of them travelled back to my grandparents for the Festival. I remember my grandparents and my parents would be waiting all the year to see their sons, brothers and sisters and it would be all for nothing. The Festival was sometimes quite sad because of this. And things kept changing once I went to university. I still would come home two or three times a year to my hometown but it was always a little bit different, in a bad way. It seemed my hometown was slowly becoming empty and our people frustrated. In recent years, the few relatives that do still travel to my hometown want only to watch some TV and go out to the bar and return to their jobs as quickly as possible. I am now quite bored to travel all the way and just do these things. It seems this is how things are in China now: the Chinese people have no face. Before, we had our religion. Then we had the Party. And, all the while, we had our family. But religion is now just a hobby, people do not care about the Party and families are broken apart. So people have no face and they just want to make some money and maybe do some popular things, like see the NBA. All of the old men in China – all of them – will always watch and talk about NBA but it is only because of Yao. Before he joined the Rockets they do not even know NBA. We use to be a football country and our football team was quite successful and popular. But the people have abandoned it for something new and one day they will watch something else. Me? I love the NBA, but I am not like the others. Few Chinese are a professional fan – like me.

From Washington

2009-04-27T20:39:00.000-07:00

Did you ever meet a man from Washington?
They’ve got boxes in their eyes
And for every man there’s a different box
To which he can be tied

Did you ever meet a man from Washington?
They’ve got dancers on their tongues
And for every man there’s a different song
Untrue but it still be sung

Did you ever meet a man from Washington?
They’ve got bullets in their palms
And for every man there’s a bullet says
In which box he belongs

collected: the breadwinner

2009-04-20T03:56:00.000-07:00

I am 24 years old, just one year older than you. My parents are somewhere in their fifties. They have no job. My parents lost their job some time ago and it is impossible for them to ever be hired again; they are too old and there are too many younger people for employers to choose from. My family is quite unusual in its size. I am the eldest of five children; very unusual in China. My two sisters and two brothers are all studying at the university. This is also quite unusual but we are extremely lucky to have all been accepted. One of my brothers is studying medicine at Shenzhen University and he will graduate in six years. That is quite exciting. Our home is about four hours from here, not very far actually. I wanted to teach English because this job has a good salary. I wanted to teach in Shenzhen because this city has by far the best salaries in the country. And I am very lucky because it is quite unusual to be head of a class and so young. I am head of class 9 this term; the students are very active. But I need more money. I need much more money and I don’t know how to get it. Well, no, I can’t tutor. It is strictly prohibited by the government. Teachers are supposed to be the first and most important public servants; it is said we should not be making extra profits. It seems there is also a policy that teachers who aren’t constantly exhausted must be bad teachers. So I am quite busy these days. Student parents are often inviting me to dinner, especially when their latest marks have not been so good. Bribing? No, of course not! But, again, the money would be quite useful. This job is the only income for my family. My mother, my father, my brothers and sisters and their studies – all of it is paid by this salary. Excuse me? I'm the what? Like the “bread” that you eat? Ah, yes, I see. Yes, I am the breadwinner. That is a good new word. Learn something new every day, ha ha ha!

collected 2

2009-04-13T01:02:00.000-07:00

When I first arrived in Sydney I was shocked by how safe it was for a city. My host family never locked the doors to their apartment – not once – and neither I nor anyone I knew there was ever robbed. But here every woman teacher has been robbed at least once. And the same is true for my wife’s school, and for my wife. The guards will do nothing about it; actually, it is probably them who are the thieves.

Here I’d like to interrupt and relate a quick story. The day after I had the latter piece of collected conversation, Kiki’s hand purse was nearly stolen. We were at BTC with Lucy, enjoying the finest of confections for less than $1 a piece when the near-theft occurred. The thief was incredibly skilled; she managed to slip the purse out from beneath Kiki’s chair and walk outside even though Lucy and I were right there facing her. The couple next to us pointed out the thief just as Kiki noticed what was missing and a chase ensued. She simply threw the purse onto the ground, its contents intact, and ran away.

Ok, so you can’t transfer to a new school. Why don’t you just quit here and apply to another one?

I cannot quit my job because the school keeps my files.

Just copy them or scan them.

No, there’s far too many and I don’t have access to them anyways.

You don’t have access to your own files?

I’m not even quite sure what is in them, but I do know they are necessary to transfer into another school or another government job.

You don’t know what your files say? Who keeps them?

I don’t know. I just know they exist inside the school with all the other teachers’ files. These are part of the very big system of government jobs. There can only be one set of files in a worker’s career, so if a worker quits their job the files will be destroyed and they will never work in the government again.

Does every employee in China have files?

No, it is just for government jobs. The businessmen have no worry for such things. Even the servers at McDonald’s have no such worry.

A Visit From Edith

2009-04-09T16:57:00.000-07:00

One evening I was paid a visit by Edith Bloom, a Senior 2 art student. Her name was once Edith. Then it was Bloom. Now it is Edith Bloom; a very normal progression for self-appointed English names here.

Hello, may I come in?!

Yes, of course, Edith. What’s up?

Oh nothing! Haha! I just want to talk with you!

Oh, how nice… well then, how are you?

I am so tired all day! I have been keeping fit over the weekend!

Keeping fit…

No! Not keeping fat! Keeping fit! You know, it’s when you want to be slim and-

Yeah I understood. How is it so far?

Well, I am so tired – I haven’t eaten anything since the weekend (this conversation takes place on a Tuesday).

Since the weekend? That’s crazy! Why are you doing this?

My friend and I, we both agreed to be slim. This weekend he has lost 5 um… um…

Kilos?

Yes, 5 kilos! But during the holiday I saw my cousin and he said “Oh, you are so much fatter than the last time I saw you!” And now I am very sad and must try harder.

Edith Bloom is actually of a healthy weight. I try to explain this to her.

No, you don’t understand! You are tall and blond! All Americans are tall and blond and handsome and beautiful – you cannot understand!

I explain to her that this is not the case.

Really?

Yes, really.

Then I find myself cast in some kind of made-for-TV moment where good ol’ Mr. Fred is giving anxious Edith a lesson on healthy eating, the dangers of anorexia, the golden rule of swearing off soda and the most effective ways to exercise without gaining arm muscle.

Oh great! I am so sad before but now I am excited again!

You know, I’m concerned because you are not the first student to come here and tell me they were starving themselves thin. How common is this?

It is very common! We are all trying to be the most beautiful and handsome. It is very different than America.

I disagree. I tell her about steroids, about piercings and gauges, about tattoos, 16th birthday nose jobs, about the TV shows that glamorize these practices, about breast implants.

Oh, yes! I know about this “breast implants!” I tell my friends I am going to get slim and they tell me “no! You mustn’t or you will lose your breasts!” I know this is very important to some people but it’s not very important to me. What about you?

Umm…

collected 1

2009-04-06T22:04:00.000-07:00

I could have been in a better place, in a better school, but it’s been 10 years now and I’m stuck here. I was teaching the first grade of students ever to enter this school. Two weeks ago I bought an apartment with my wife. There are three rooms. It will cost me a little over 3 million Yuan during the next 20 years. The apartment is not even finished; it won’t be until next year. And when we get it, it will simply be a blank and empty space. There will be no wallpaper and the floors will be cement. No faucets or electrical outlets will be in the walls. Such is the way apartments are normally sold in China. There are only 300 rooms in this building but over 500 buyers arrived on the sales day and auctions were needed to be held. My wife and I could only afford rooms in the first 7 floors; every floor above that was far too expensive because Chinese families are always finding ways to boast and so they were bidding too high for those floors. My wife and our marriage are the reason I ended up in Bao’An. I could have been in better place. I never expected that I would become an English teacher, not even during my university studies. I wanted to be an artist. Art had been my major in high school and so I was very passionate about painting and would do so always at the university. I stood in a train for 14 hours every time I went to and from the university and my hometown. This was because the fares were far too high for seats. There was a girl at my university, she got pregnant by another artist and the two had to drop out and disappear. They are probably very poor now. I switched my major and I spent a semester studying in Australia. The air was so fresh there, so fresh and clean. I did not want to be a teacher; my parents were both teachers and the profession was very much looked down upon back then. Of course, this has changed. In Australia there was open space and beauty; I loved it and still miss it very much. My girlfriend was also studying to be a teacher. Because the government decides where to send new teachers we had very little choice to say no if it meant we couldn’t be near and be married. So we were in Bao’An. Even if I wanted to I could not transfer to another school very easily. Actually it is probably impossible. First, I must ask the headmaster’s permission. If he agrees then he’ll send the application to the superintendent for Bao’An. Then he will send it to his superior. And this will go on until someone in the national government has said it is OK. This is likely impossible and, even if it got that far, I would still need the headmaster of the new school and his superiors to accept me. A headmaster will never accept the request for transfer from a good teacher, no matter how reasonable or urgent the reason. Headmasters, and the whole system for that matter, are completely corrupt. Recently there was a meeting at the national level where complaints were voiced about teachers being made to work on Saturdays and Sundays for less pay than regular days. Now the national government has issued an order to end the practice and Bao Gao has complied – for now. It won’t be long before the headmaster announces we must return to the regular schedule, but I won’t let that ruin these first 2-day weekends of my teaching career. You wonder why we don’t stand up for ourselves. We cannot organize like you. For you, the organization and the school “union” have come from the people. You are able to make demands successfully. But we are organized by the government and nothing can be done of it. Why don’t I just refuse, you ask? Well, I quite agree with you but it would only get me fired.

Ladies

2009-04-01T23:39:00.000-07:00

(Surrounded by half-clothed manikins in a Fashion Design classroom at Shenzhen University)

Do you think everyone in America is blond?

Yes.

Do you think everyone in America is tall, thin, has blue eyes and big breasts?

Yes.

Why does everyone in China believe this?

It is in all the movies and TV shows!

Why do Chinese think foreigners who look like this are so beautiful?

Everyone here has black hair and black eyes. We just like to see something different.

Do you use skin whiteners?

Yes.

What is expected of a woman in China?

She has to be beautiful, tall, able to cook, loyal, smart, she has to steal the man’s heart and she has to take care of the children. She must never drink baijiu and she must NEVER be smoking cigarettes. It is almost as bad as killing someone. Only the hookers smoke.

I was True Colors the other night and I noticed, as I have at other clubs in Shenzhen, that most men and women dance by themselves or in small, single-gender circles. Some of them just grab the speakers and trash. What's going on there?

The club is fun! We go with our friends to dance!

But only with other women?

In China we are afraid of the man. Sometimes he will try to dance with us and maybe we will just a little, but we won't let him touch us; it's not like in the American TV. Only hookers dance with a man and let him touch her. Even if I am not a hooker, I don't want the man and everyone to think that I am. We will just have fun.

So how do you find someone to date?

You will find meet them at school or maybe in your hometown.

What is the dating culture like in China?

It is very serious. You will make half of your life school or work or whatever it is you do. The other half must become your boyfriend.

Do you have a boyfriend?

She does! They’ve been dating for 3 years!

Yes, it’s true! But please don’t tell my mother.

I promise I won’t. Is he a student here?

No, he lives in Australia.

Wow! So, is that why you’re studying there next year and wanted me to tutor you?

It’s a big reason.

I see. Will you marry him?

Yes. You will find your boyfriend and marry him after school.

Did you have a boyfriend in high school?

Oh no! Never! My mother would kill me! What about in American high school?

I think every American girl has a boyfriend at least once in high school, though usually more and usually much earlier than then. The parents I knew would never kill us for it; they actually helped us by driving us to the movies or stuff like that.

Ohhh…. it is so free. You are so free.

So, if I understand correctly, even here in Shenzhen, Chinese almost always have only one significant other their entire life?

Yes.

And this is true of you, your friends, and most people?

All people, yes.

r.i.p. Nikki

2009-03-23T03:26:00.000-07:00

Every Day

2009-03-18T21:48:00.000-07:00

My alarm is set to go off at 7:20 A.M. every day but I usually beat it by at least 10 minutes. The ring tone is an especially awful upbeat collection of blips:

I'll be pretty cold at that point because the rotating ceiling fan has been going all night, even though winter nights are (sometimes) cool in Shenzhen. This is because an undying strain of mosquito preys on me and will make the darkness unbearable if not for disruptive wind patterns. The hum is pretty soothing, and for a minute I lay and watch it:

When I get up, this is the room that surrounds me. More or less a war zone, sorry:

The first thing to do is make some coffee. ASAP. Of course, my "coffee" is better described as a meeting between bad water and sugar packets. Still worse: there is a coffee maker in the room. But - hey - I can only wait 2 microwavin' minutes to get this machine up and running again.

The water comes from the faucet. It is the same that Shenzhenese don't even use to brush their teeth:

But fear not! If radiation can make KRAFT products safe to eat, then why not some rusty old shui? At any rate, it will soon be seamlessly married to this:

YUM!

As you saw, my room is a disaster. I sit on its disastrous couch and sip. The fan still goes. Meanwhile, I make note of the patterns in my life debris.

1. Empty Maxwell House packets:

2. Empty cans of Vitasoy soy milk. A whole history can be deciphered in the ratio of Black soy milk cans to White soy milk cans. Secretly, Kiki Landau's room would also contain many of these but her manners are too refined:

3. Seasons of "24" with the exception of Season 1, which wasn't so great anyways. At every turn there is Jack Bauer's face reminding me that brazen violence, angry shouting and disregard for the law is the only way to get shit done:

Refueling complete, I do my toilette and get dressed. This is a pretty easy task; my only real decision is which t-shirt to take off of the drying rack (I usually go with a polo on workdays):

And then I'll put on the same jeans I've been wearing for nearly 2 months straight and the latest pair of fake Cons, courtesy of Dongmen:

I leave my room and observe the mattress that some stranger threw outside my door several weeks ago. Probably word-for-word I think "what the hell is this still doing here?" and then I call nobody to do nothing about it:

At the office I probably make a second coffee or some jasmine tea from 7/11 and check out the view from the window:

This is my desk. It's in the "Foreign Teacher's Office" which is immense and lonely. It's not, like, isolating, or anything. On the walls are paintings and sketches done by students. On the PC I don't use is a cowboy hat:

Further inspection of the desk reveals all the tools a man needs to make a Chinese high school student speak English. They include playing cards, the New Year's Ox, a flash drived and Microsoft Power Point. Or Power Point, how helpless I'd be without you:

And, finally, here is simply proof that I'm actually here and doing this. Right. Now:

Hong Kong Slave Owners

2009-03-09T18:52:00.001-07:00

I am sitting in a fancy Japanese restaurant in Hong Kong and I haven’t felt this at home since leaving the states. The taste of a sashimi bowl and that mysteriously amazing sauce in the salad brings me right back to birthdays and other celebrations with my family at “Tokyo,” the sushi joint in Southington, CT. The patrons surrounding me are typically Hong Kong: so achingly beautiful and cool and ultra-fashionable (but not in a self-caricaturing way) that their hypothetical presence in a New York or L.A. bar would be enough to convince those cities’ hopeful models and actors to give up, pack up and go back home for a normal life.

What is a normal life? Though I’m reluctant to define it here in universal terms, I can say that no such lives are lived in Hong Kong. Things here are so clean, so smooth and so sterile. Public announcement billboards litter the walls of subway halls and the signs along the streets – every little aspect of life is controlled to keep one of the world’s densest populations sane and ordered. If you think I’m exaggerating you simply have to approach any crosswalk and stand awkwardly with the 30-40 people who are waiting for the green light to cross, even though not one car or double-decker bus can be seen down the entire block.

Is this the future of humanity? Often it feels like it. Neon, neon, neon. Everyone is wearing sunglasses and headphones – some are listening to music and others are communicating hands-free either with their families, bosses or ghosts. All of them are within an experience that doesn’t exist without the devices plugged into their ears. Maybe some of them don’t realize that the world is actually not naturally perceived with the orange tint caused by sunglasses. At any rate, while I stand at these crosswalks and ignore the desire to cross freely like any free-minded sensible human being, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a man in disguise in a robot world.

This day is being wasted and, other than major slacking, nothing is being accomplished today by Fred in Hong Kong. I awoke this morning at an ungodly hour and made my way through the foggy maze of Shenzhen towards this glimpse of the future for medical reasons. The Peace Corps requires super thorough dental and physical exams (i.e. anal inspection) that must be undergone in certified English for applicants outside the motherland. Lucky for me Hong Kong is just across the border.

After some confusion on the metro and a number greater than “2” of stops at the surrounding bakeries, I entered Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Kowloon. Immediately I was depressed and uncomfortable. A woman at Enquiries sent me to the ER where I registered, paid $570HK and waited for my name to be called. This happened almost immediately and so I was soon sitting and being told by a woman in mask that she couldn’t help me because I was healthy and there was a waiting room of sick people needing her care. Humanely I was reimbursed and given a book of private doctors who would clearly be more qualified for my case. I had no idea what to look for and so I settled on a certain Harmannus Franciscus J. Schrader located at the Peak because that’s the only place I knew for sure how to get to.

But it wasn’t until well into my adapted journey that I realized the Peak is inaccessible and probably offers nothing short of Hong Kong’s steepest prices for medicine. At the foot of the peak, not far from a wax Jacky Chan, I searched endlessly on a bus map for “Mt. Kellet Rd.” while fat Englishmen and their busted wives chatted loudly in the line from the tram. Finding no such road, I gave up my search and rationalized that this would pan out in a more organized and successful manner from the computer in my office surrounded by mountains and factories to the North.

I then wandered aimlessly through some meticulous park with a marriage registry and hundreds or sharp-looking people lunching and caffeinating until descending into a mall attached to the Admiralty metro stop. For no reason other than I could, I purchased a Grande Caramel Macchiato at Starbucks from an overenthusiastic waiter who implored me to read a brochure on the refined flavors of Starbucks espresso. From there I walked very slowly and sipped the (decidedly good) beverage while observing the mall. It was the future. And I couldn’t believe how clean and beautiful and ordered every centimeter of it was.

I wondered about this and then made my great realization of the day: everyone in Hong Kong is a slave owner. The reason everything is so spotless and smooth and glamorous is that all of the dirty work has been shipped out to fringes of the city and to Shenzhen, China (my home). This is no offence to Hong Kong because I was actually making a general discovery about the entire world around me, including the rich American farmers and restaurant owners who hire under-the-table Mexicans with hungry families back home and the cynical French retired 50-year-olds who live off of pensions funded by taxes on the labor of North African immigrants cleaning toilets. It all made sense suddenly, how the quality of life here and anywhere can be so stellar. In the future, maybe all men will live this way on top of oily, dirty robots.

I finish my meal and head underground for an hour journey back to Luo Hu train station in Shenzhen. Within 5 minutes of my arrival I am photographed twice and aggressively offered everything from bus service to sex to products by Herbal Life. The latter comes from a man who has just returned from some gathering of 10,000 hungry humans dressed as businessmen that listened to a speech by one of the execs of the company. The facts and techniques are fresh in his mind and so he rattles them off to me. Most interestingly, within the first two weeks of my consuming Herbal Life products I can “lose 5 kilometers.” This man is incredulous that I’ve never heard of any of the men he points out for me in a brochure from the conference, but that doesn’t stop him from giving me a card before waving goodbye. It’s hard to believe this city borders Hong Kong.

I have arrived at the K568 – the express bus from the train to the airport. Waiting outside it are the s bums who’ve been standing there for months and probably forever. Poor bastards. One is a midget who always carries the same plastic bowel and I usually throw something in there half the time I take this bus. The other is an old man with a shawl and cane and I’ll never give him anything. After the first time I dropped a yuan in his hand he grabbed my arm and my mobile and wouldn’t let go until the bus driver pushed him away. Once, a passenger from another bus dropped a small stuffed animal on the ground before boarding. From the window she noticed it at roughly the same time as the cane-wielding bum and an epic battle ensued. In one corner was the bum with his torn green shall, shaggy black beard, lazy eyes and wooden cane. In the other was the typically prissy Chinese gal in pastry-esque makeup, leopard blouse and 4 inch heels. She won and it was the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen.

I pass out on the bus and arrive at Shenzhen International Airport in Bao’An. From there it is a 2 minute and 2 Yuan ride on the 327 to Bao Ya Dian Zi, locally referred to as “Xin Wei Lu Kou.” The ticket lady on the bus always thinks it’s a mistake when I tell her this is where I’m going and she usually tries to charge me 5 Yuan for a fare to Shi Jie Zhi Chuang (“Windows of the World,” where all the fat Englishmen and Frenchmen go to buy overpriced cocktails, Western groceries and pick up desperate but hot Chinese gals). Over the months my verbal correction has become curter but it still elicits the exact same laughter and awe from the vegetating apes of Shenzhen who can’t fathom why foreigners are anywhere near their airport.

I always look for the point and I always get it. Somebody always notices me, then double takes. Then triple takes. Then quadruple takes. You think I’m exaggerating and being an asshole – you are wrong. All nearby buddies, wives, strangers and babies are informed. Literally, the attention of little children is drawn towards me by the extended fingers of parents in counterfeit Converse shoes. “Waiiiiguoren!” the child exclaims, to the laughter of all in the vicinity. It’s a real family portrait, and it’s case-closing evidence that China will never evolve into the world’s country, even if its economy becomes number 1.

These moments still elicit some annoyance from me and so I dig deep into my memory banks for experiences confirming my worldly assertion that people are people (as I always tell the students who ask me what I think of Chinese women.) Are the French so different from Chinese? My grandfather once explained how I could tell his mask was clearly carved by a “nigger” (the lips were grossly enlarged). Thirty percent of the country once voted for a presidential candidate who wanted to kick out the Arabs. What about America? My white high school in its white suburb had to bus in outsider black kids to meet some quota set by the federal government. My college roommates and I referred to each other in endearing terms based off our races and heritages, but we’d never use these monikers to address strangers of the same background. And just last summer I was visiting New York City with some girls from New Jersey who freaked out when the average passersby were increasingly of black skin.

In all fairness, American and French complete strangers don’t wordlessly poke and scratch the skin of foreign black English teachers (happens in CTLC, my program, every year) nor do they ask mind-blowingly obtuse questions like “Why are your eyes blue but my eyes are brown?” and “Why is your head-hair blond but your face-hair is black?” (happens usually twice a month). But between my memories and the fact that I’ve only lived in minute slices of France and America for minute durations of time (and SLAVERY), I cannot say for sure that we are all that different. I don’t know what to think anymore. All I know is that once the robots take over we can be rid of all this shit and just enjoy our lattes.

Responses to Prison

2009-03-02T00:12:00.000-08:00

During the past two weeks, I've finally been teaching my lesson revolving around prison. The first ideas for it came at the end of the last term, and the more concrete blueprint was drawn out on the train to Guangzhou with Mom and Thomas by my side. Already, that was over 2 months ago. Originally I was going to cover "Folsom Prison Blues" as part of the lesson and perform it halfway through class, but things are very different this term.

I find that I am suddenly stern and serious. My tolerance for misbehavior has diminished greatly. As for the guitar, it no longer resides in my office and hasn't been included in this term's lessons, nor do I anticipate bringing it back to class any time soon. Whatever the reasons are for the transformation, they're not really important. At present, Oral English has been a much more focused and productive period than at any point last term. Even the shy kids can't escape my new tricks to force participation.

Students are turned into a jury and are made to dish out appropriate sentences for the crimes I've imagined in the prison lesson. Some are silly, like stealing a bag of chips or bribing your teacher. Some are serious, like kidnapping a child. But the most important moment of each class is the final crime: burning the Chinese flag.

Each crime scenario is accompanied by a picture; this final crime follows suit. The kids freak out when they see the blaze catching up to the stars, surrounded by throngs of angry Chinese who are shouting for whatever cause. "Where is it?! WHO is it?!" they demand. Suddenly I don't have to force volunteers and the challenge becomes containing the emotions and getting through all the raised hands. The vast majority of them sentence the arsonist to death. When I inquire the method of execution, surprising responses abound:

-Make him sing the national song without stopping until he dies
-Make him clean the W.C.
-Put him in prison for 30 years without enough food and then kill him
-Bury him in the Sahara Desert
-Send him to Sichuan and make him help rebuild until he dies
-If he burns the flag of Japan, it is O.K.
-Make him plant 1 Billion trees and then shoot him
-Burn HIM!

Bounce

2009-02-23T17:52:00.000-08:00

knock knock knock!

come in!

oh - mista frad!

heeyyyyy (girl who's name i can't remember)! what's up?

um... excuse me?

never mind. how's it goin'?

i... am going here.

i mean how are you?!

i'm fine... thank you.

great. please have a seat!

no thank you... i will stand.

oh... alright.

...

sooo, how was your holiday?

just so-so.

...

do you have the song?

the songs... what songs?

the music you can give me.

uhhh what music do you mean? my music?

the music from "step up."

from "step up?" i don't think i have any of that...

i ask you to download it for me.

really? when was that?

in november.

i see... well, sorry, that's a long time ago - i must've forgot.

it's ok, it doesn't matter. so i just have a question.

yeah, what's up?

can you explain me the words in "bounce."

"bounce?"

yes, the song by T-I-M-B-A-L-A-N-D.

timbaland?

oh yes! that's him!

uhhhh, sure. let's look it up.

metrolyrics.com
search: bounce timbaland
found.

verse one:
lemme see them big titties
don't be actin' sadidy you're not pretty
break bread if you wanna' get with me
all i wanna' do is dig up in them kidneys

yeaahhhh... i don't think i should explain this to you.

why? how come?

well, it's a little bit inappropriate.

inapprrr... ?

freetranslation.com
english to simplified chinese
search: inappropriate
found: 不适当

oooohhhh. it's ok! it doesn't matter!

good, i'll just close th-

no! wait! just tell me the part where he talks about chinese.

the part where he talks about chinese.... ok. let's take a look.

verse 3:
you could call me a freak, i like to get buck
and i don't have to do much to make him get it up
sum yung ho, she worth two dollars
i'm worth more dollars than make up beauty parlors

ummm...

3 Chinese Stereotypes You've Never Heard Of

2009-02-10T03:27:00.000-08:00

Bros (Broin’ Out)

China’s one-child policy is known officially as the Family Planning Policy and has prevented over 250 million births, by some estimates. It does not apply to minority groups residing in China. At present, the method of enforcement is the one-time collection of a sizeable tax for each additional child. Though far more humane than forced abortions (which Harry asserts are no longer practiced), the payment collection allows only the richest families to expand – a development typical of the modern, wealth-worshiping China. Here in Shenzhen – by far China’s richest city – and at Bao Gao – Bao’An’s #3 high school – it is so common to meet people with siblings that you’d never know there was the Family Planning Policy. Even Shaka is only one of his parents’ four children! But even in rich Shenzhen there is a consequence of the policy that is also the first stereotype: BROS!

They’re everywhere, they’re restless and they are lonely. There are 30 million of them coming of age while all of their female counterparts were violently aborted during the backwards era of their conception. The very rich bros fly to Vietnam or Thailand where they literally buy a wife, but most of them are stuck to wandering the streets and passing their time. You see the bros walk by in groups of 5, 6, 7 or 10 and never with a gal by their side. Hanging off of each other’s shoulders and often holding hands, they are the ones who scream “HELLO!” and “LAOWAI!” (old whitey) as you approach their vicinity. At the bar or the restaurant, there is always a booth or two of bros who are totally broin’ out and who will outlast your stay there. They will play dice games and empty jugs of vodka mixed with water before buying hand jobs or more from the nearest prostitutes (the disproportioned gender ratio allows this particular industry to thrive in China and perhaps especially in male, factory-worker populated Shenzhen). When a bro finally gets his girlfriend you will be treated with the spectacle of his endless, controlling and overbearing PDA. But most of the poor bastards will never lay with a woman they haven’t paid for, let alone get married and propagate.

Scooter Astronauts

There is an army of scooters roaming the main roads outside the SEZ, though motorcycles were outlawed inside Futian, Nanshan and Luohu due to their facilitating high crime. I have never seen a female scooter astronaut. The scooters are red with a long passenger seat off of which the number “88” is usually hanging. Astronauts come in different shapes and outfits but often they are sporting this combination:

-Massive helmet with the visor open at all times
-White button shirt
-Fake leather jacket with maybe a dozen or more zippers (on cold days)
-Black dress pants
-White sports socks
-Fake black leather dress shoes

If ever in a convenience store near a bus stop, it is common to see an astronaut having a tea or peanuts with the helmet still on. When on their bikes, they crowd the bus stops of Bao’An by the dozen where they honk endlessly and harass everyone present to accept their taxi service. They are like bros on steroids in the sense that they greet my bus exits in the district with choruses of “LAOWAI!” in addition to the honking. Though extremely friendly, they are sometimes threatening and aggressive in picking people up for a ride; several times an astronaut has driven along side me while shouting or has simply cut off my steps with his bike. The guy is just trying to feed mouths and maybe even his survival depends on customers – especially these economically woeful days. But a smile and firm insistence that you need no ride will eventually (and peacefully) dissuade them. Plus, they’ll get a good laugh and have a story to tell their friends if turned down in Chinese.

The Defenders from Nothing

Did you see the police officers guarding McDonalds? How about the two at KFC? Or the ones stationed at the bus stations under parasols printed with the police logo? They are the DEFENDERS FROM NOTHING and we need as many armed and positioned throughout the country as possible! I don’t know the exact number but there are at least 10 guards just here at Bao Gao. Two are stationed at each of the two small gates and the main entrance is always guarded by 3-4 of them – they are always reading the newspaper. The others roam around nearby the track or do loops in formation around the school grounds. At night you can watch them sporadically waving their flashlights around the grounds and definitely expect a flash in the face if you are walking by. In addition to using batteries and reading the headlines, these guards send a staggering number of hellos my way – often with awkward consequences.

Outside school, the most I’ve seen a defender do in my time here was throw away the used trays at fast food joints. There are also 3-6 defenders positioned inside metro stations but I’ve not once seen them push back the riders disregarding the yellow safety line (which would include most riders). On the other hand, the synchronization of their turn-and-salute to departing metros is most impressive.

Back to fast food; I used to clear my own tray by Western habit, then by a sense of courtesy, but then not at all. I decided I’d give those bored guards something to do with their day and that’s when I realized the great threat the defenders of nothing keep us safe from: unemployment. In a country where more voices are demanding democracy but will happily take double-digit economic growth instead, it is imperative that the government ensure income sources are available to the people. And since you can’t fit 1 billion people into a SEZ factory, you’re going to need other ways to meet their needs. And that’s why “defender from nothing” is only one of the very useful, useless jobs here.

thoughts collected during Spring Festival travels

2009-02-04T22:55:00.001-08:00

Why have you wasted your time defending beasts that can neither be conscious of your good deeds nor offer anything to you, your family or your country in return? Your efforts would be better spent assisting your brothers and sisters who sleep tonight on the streets so that tomorrow they may lay your roads, harvest your grain, care for you in sickness and educate your children. Even the pets you cherish are only the result of prolonged human effort to breed and tame animals stupid and docile enough to endure you.

There are those who will cheer upon the news of your death.

Our fathers and mothers and their fathers and mothers never had the leisure to torture themselves with questions into the nature of their existences. Most of your brothers and sisters today similarly lack this chance. Now simply give thanks that your life permits wasting ample time on such useless inquiries.

Your survival depends on the destruction and assimilation of everything around you.

If at this moment you are feeling happy and satisfied then allow no regret for the missteps of your past; they, too, have led to this day.

It is better to avoid disaster than to achieve greatness.

The man who believes in the absolute relativity of all things may kill at random, without reason and feel no remorse.

The State and the Church. The flag and the cross. The leader and the deity. The anthem and the hymn. The constitution and the psalm. The holiday and the ritual. The winner’s history and the creation myth. At what point were these different?

Your descendants find your beliefs arcane, bizarre and incomprehensible.

In the future you are being studied as an example of the primitive stupidity and obvious mistake-making that humanity must rid itself of.

Very soon you will be the object of the youth’s humor.

The past fashions, films and songs that you ridicule were once practiced, watched and listened to by people who, like you, believed they were on the cutting edge of culture.

When in a beard-off, fear not losing face in the eyes of your opponent by taking the first step toward its inevitable end.

You are your own master.

And why shouldn’t a group of like-minded people be allowed to freely break away from your union? They pledge no allegiance to your flag and do not call you brother or sister. Why, then, should the tax of your earnings be spent on bettering and maintaining their land? Or the national bodies that govern you be populated by them? Or the blood of your children spill to defend them? Let them go peacefully so they may become your flourishing ally. Or, if they realize the worth of allegiance to you, let them return as your most devoted and thankful citizens.

The darkest hour is before dawn. Until then, you must withstand the cold.

The power to change your reaction remains in all situations over which you have no control.

There are absolute truths in the physical world. Why, then, should the same not be true of the human mind – a physical structure of flesh, fluid and chemical – and its products in the arts, economics, politics and philosophy?

My opinion is that not all things are a matter of opinion.

collected photos from Spring Festival travels

2009-02-02T01:02:00.000-08:00

things that are happening right now

2009-01-22T20:15:00.000-08:00

In Kunming, the flowers are blooming in the middle of January.

At the Stone Forest, strange and beautiful rock structures are being photographed.

In Dali, Lake Erhai is reflecting the sky, mountains and Bai People into heaven.

In Lijiang, the thousand-year-old songs of the traditional Naxi musicians are being drowned out by techno bass.

In Sanchahe, the elephants, boars and monkeys are roaming freely and are accustomed to camera flashes in the night

In the jungles of Xishuangbanna, the Mandian Waterfall is pouring down beautifully near my lost footprints.

In Jinghong, I am sitting in an internet cafe fault of the Spring Festival having consumed all existing travelling tickets for the next few days.

In America, the new president is playing his part in the great conflicts with China that soon approach.

Days On My Past

2009-01-10T09:25:00.000-08:00

No it's not a typo; it's the Chenglish name for the English version of "Tong Nian" (childhood), a staple song of modern Chinese culture. In its original version, the singer looks forward to growing old and having fond memories of his life to look back upon. The English version take the opposite course, going through life phases such as school and the first job and then longing for the past in the refrains (I miss my old friends, when will I see them again?). The chords are straight-forward and somewhat cheesy and the recording quality betrays that it's dated, but "Tong Nian" retains the power to cause deep nostalgia in any Chinese.

In early December, the leaders sent Shaka to invite me to perform "Days On My Past" at the 9th birthday celebration of Bao Gao which would occur on December 29th. I figured it would be an easy endeavor from the first listen and so I gladly accepted, but things got quite complicated from there.

First, I discovered that I was to sing the final verse of the song in Chinese and alone. I assumed this would be easy but it was actually a huge challenge to correctly pronounce the cramped chain reaction of syllables in the middle of the verse. A piece of paper with the pinyin was thus kept nearby at all times to be read on buses and in metros during the weeks of the month. I would finally memorize the verse just in time for the last dress rehearsals but, even then, I still wouldn't know the literal meaning of each word.

Second, I was to select six students out of a pool of applicants who would be part of the show. We had a great time hanging out in my office during those nights. We'd meet for 3 hours on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays and play through "Tong Nian" up to 10 times. Then I'd play the chords from famous Chinese pop songs that they'd printed out for me and they would sing along. It was a great escape from their studies, especially with exams around the corner. And for me it was a welcome return to some communal music experiences after having none for so long. But I was very unhappy on the final night when I was to tell the students who was in and who was out. There were 13 in all, so I had to cut half of them and witness their disappointment. Shaka and Cindy had joined me to give them an average grade for the final audition but the guilt still felt to be resting only on me.

Third, I was asked to choreograph elaborate dancing for myself and the students. This was a disaster, the details of which I will not go into. Simply know that it was so bad that the school contracted a professional dancer to come to the rescue. My only instructions were to kneel during the bridge.

Dress rehearsals came upon us and I was able to see the other 8 acts performing in the show. Their discipline, costumes and professionalism were astounding. I could well believe during these long nights that this was the nation responsible for the opening ceremony of the Beijing games. In all the show would run roughly one hour but the final sum of dress rehearsals would be over 12 hours. Often I'd be frustrated at how seriously the performance was being taken. It was hard for me to stay focused after a life of much more casual American ceremonies. But I was happy for the learning experience about the importance of face, ritual, formality and - above all - perfection in China.

Mom and Thomas landed on the 27th, meaning they could attend the show. They were given seats in the center and at the front row, right next to the leaders. During the first acts I would peer through the curtains at them with a smile, especially noticing Mom's impressed reactions. The rest of the time I spent fighting off students armed with cellphone cameras as they fought with each other to pose with me in my tailored suit (the leaders had asked me to dress more nicely). Then it was our turn to perform.

As I walked out with the introductory chords strumming, the explosive roar of over 2,000 students and teachers was overwhelming to the point of tears. My brother and I exchanged silly faces, my teen band stepped out, and then our endless practice paid off. The experience was surreal with bubbles flying all around and a blinding glitter of camera flashes. My final verse came and the ovation washed me out so that it was hard to sing the correct melody. We bowed and stepped off.

The finally of this celebration was a group dance featuring all 9 acts. After we bowed, the leaders walked onto the stage to shake our hands and pose for photographs. They made Mom and Thomas come up with them, so it came to be that I stood at the center of a stage in a Shenzhen high school with my family, my students and my bosses while thousands cheered. I was so happy at how much this moment had conveyed to my family: the nowism of being suddenly swept onto the stage, the overwhelming obsession with white people by the Chinese and the unbelievable determination and perfectionism of the Chinese student. These are things that had to be lived to be understood - not read or seen in photographs. That day was a wonder and a blessing; that day on my past.

Everything New

2009-01-04T08:03:00.000-08:00

December 31st

In the morning I invited Mom and Thomas to join my class. I lectured to the kids about our high school experience, using it as an example of American high school life. They wowed and awed at video clips of American Football, tales of car-owning 17-year-olds, and – more than anything – photos of the American prom. Mom and Thomas were made by me to dance in front of the class. A student demonstrated her Tai Kwon Do kick to my face. I beat boxed into one of my new harmonicas. It was a good last class of the fall semester. Wow… already halfway through the adventure.

After Chinese class we ventured through the public transport maze out of Shenzhen and into Hong Kong with Kiki, Scott and Lucie. Arrival cards were filled out. Passports were stamped. A Bible-smuggler was met and bid farewell. And then we were there.

The difference was immediate and striking. The streets and the metro and the air were so much cleaner. The women so achingly beautiful. The men handsome and fashionably clothed to an intimidating degree. The diversity of the races and languages so cosmopolitan. The lack of staring eyes so disarming. The thousands waiting patiently for crosswalk lights to permit their walking so respectful. The lines at the metro queue so considerate. The walls plastered with calls for an investigation into deaths resulting from the Cultural Revolution so free. China may have reclaimed this land, but it is not China.

We checked into the Paris Guesthouse – a tiny and bare-basics hostel tucked into the eight towers known (infamously, in many guidebooks) as the Chungking Mansions. This location was reminiscent of the set for a sci-fi movie: The walls were a tangle of rusting pipes, clothes lines, air conditioners and dim neon lights that strain the eye. The people were a dense and bewildering chaos of cultures, colors and languages. The air deafened me with its displays of counterfeit DVDs, whispers from hash dealers and shouts from curry restaurant advertisers. I would leave this place thinking that there are two sites a man must visit in order to know the world: New York City and Kowloon.

We ate. Then, bellies stocked with pad Thai and coffee, we took the Star Ferry across dreamy Victoria Harbor and landed at Tsim Sha Tsui back in Kowloon. From there we stood with tens of thousands at the harbor’s edge where sparkling towers of glass, company logos and a giant Santa Claus blinked brightly and deep down into the sea’s reflection. Midnight approached and a countdown appeared on 2 International Finance Centre, starting at 60 seconds. As the last grains of 2008 flew away, the counting grew louder and I noticed the mix of language around me: “Ten! Nine! Huit! Sept! Six! Cinq! 四! 三! 二! 一！HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!” A beautiful fireworks display erupted from the highest towers of Central and Causeway Bay.

January 1st and 2nd

The walk back from the harbor was surreal; the highways had been closed and so we inched along them with hundreds of thousands as if in the escape scene of a disaster film. Mom and Thomas went to sleep. Then the first thing I did in the year 2009 was eat a Double-Quarter-Pounder Meal at McDonald’s at three in the morning.

At some point after the sun rose, I woke up and headed to wait in a long line for the Peak Tram. Scott, Lucie and Kiki parted with us from there and I waited for another hour with Mom and Thomas. On the wall there were old pictures of Chinese slaves carrying English men up the mountain. The tram was fast and steep so that the 120-year-old wood seats cut into my back. The view grew more amazing and exciting with each ascended meter. Sitting on top of the peak was a four story mall named the Sky Terrace. I stood on the top of this block of Burger King, Starbucks, Madame Tussaud’s and EA Games, and looked out upon Hong Kong’s indescribable skyline. I was so happy to have Mom and Thomas near me in this modern world.

That night we went to the Temple Street Market in Kowloon and it easily won my heart as the coolest part of Hong Kong. The buildings were a little bit lower, the lights a little bit warmer and the noise a little less grinding. The crowds were at just right density to excite but not exhaust the visitor. The hundreds of stall vendors offered an enticing variety of jade jewelry, Mao paraphernalia, Chenglish t-shirts, Tibetan antiques, opium pipes, crucifixes and pink dildos. Cheap eats like a bowl of Malaysian cha-cha or local wonton noodles could be eaten off plastic tables at every corner restaurant. And there we’d sit and watch the lively art of bargaining play out into the night.

The next morning we were standing under the slow-burning incense spirals of Man Mo Temple, on Hollywood Road. It strained my neck to look at the peak of the skyscrapers that shadowed the tiny Buddhist temple. The scene reminded me of a story my parents often read to me when I was a child: Virginia Lee Burton’s “The Little House.”

We had a late lunch at City Hall’s Maxim’s Palace – the legendary dim sum hall with chandelier lighting and a sweeping harbor view. Carts loaded with fantastic rolls and buns and dumplings waddled by and we were not frugal in making our selections from them. The experience was indeed legendary and it is one that I plan to repeat in the very near future.

We were temporarily lost in the neon hell known as Mong Kok and then pampered with a reflexology-less foot massage. I watched a BBC report on the drying of the Colorado River before falling asleep in the hostel.

January 3rd

Mom really wanted to see the Tian Tian Buddha on Lantau Island and so that’s exactly what we did on the last day of our visit. After making the long-awaited discovery of a descent French bakery at the metro station, we let a cable car carry us over nearly 6km of beautiful mountains and Tung Chung Bay. The Buddha slowly and majestically came into view with the checkered backdrop of clouds and clear blue. But my awakening was dampened when stepped off the cable car and into an artificial village occupied by Starbucks and a gelato stand. The sterility and cheapness of the location was depressing; the nearby Englishman declaring “you know what would make this better? A glass of Carlsberg!” did not help. When I discovered in the free brochure that the Buddha had only been built in 1993 I really began to feel heartbroken at what godless tourist trap this place was. But the real and final killer came when I read a plaque at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Buddha: “China Light and Power Co., Ltd.”

During the bus ride back to Shenzhen I wondered about this place called Hong Kong. Had I seen the future of a truly open and free China? A world where history and culture are swallowed up by the city like the Little House and then shitted out as a corporate-tagged bronze deity that people can spend small fortunes to worship and photograph? A place where it’s not only O.K. to be O.K. with this plastic reality but where the reality is actually highly enjoyable? Because the truth is that I loved Hong Kong – every paved and electrified inch of it. And I missed it as soon we stepped off the bus in Bao’An and were greeted with the dust and the honking and the spitting and the shouts of “Hello! So Good!” by poor, uncultured factory workers who thought themselves hilarious and would never in their life acquire the visa allowing them to visit the cosmopolitan gem in the so-called family of their country. I found myself hoping that in 2009 and in future years this place would be transformed by its infinitely advanced neighbor, even at the cost of authenticity.

Holidays

2008-12-25T23:23:00.000-08:00

I surely missed my family on December 25th, 2008 in Shenzhen, China. I looked around the dining room during the breakfast buffet and read into the long stares of my friends. Yeah, we were all feeling it. Some said it out loud and some said nothing and the rest were busy dialing their relatives. My next feeling in terms of intensity was delight at the inclusion of American style bacon in the buffet - just next to the chicken feet tray. We were at the hotel that was our first impression of Shenzhen 3 months ago and I found it sadly funny that it was again a time of slight uncertainty and angst for everyone present. Still, I was happy to know I'd temporarily left behind a family so good that I should long for it as much as I did that day. Upon return to Bao Gao, I discovered a number of well-wishing Christmas cards that had been slipped under my door. I called my American home and reached them moments before they opened the package that I'd mailed out and that they were saving for last. It was nothing short of a miraculous moment for me. Then I reached my anxiously-awaited brother and mother in France. During these calls, students and teachers steadily came knocking to deliver chocolates, coffee mix, cards and cookies. It was unfortunate that I'd prepared no gifts to exchange in light of losing my bank card but that worry was eclipsed by a deep gratitude and joy. It was a wonderful Christmas so thanks, Santa.

What is One Thing You Want to Say to America?

2008-12-17T17:17:00.000-08:00

Eleven, Senior 3 Student at Bao'An Senior High School
"We need peace, we need freedom. Though China is a developing country it is becoming more powerful. I love China! I know we have different values of life but I think we can get along well. As for me, I like making friends with foreigners no matter their nationality or skin color because we live on the same earth. I hope one day I will travel around America; I’m looking forward to visiting Hollywood! Finally, I hope America can come out of the financial crisis. Tomorrow is another day. We should work hard. Life is promising."

Jia Laoshi, my Chinese teacher from Shenzhen University
"I really want to visit your universities. I'd like to travel in America as a visiting scholar"

Cawen, university art student from Guangzhou and intern at Bao Gao
"I just want to say USA need more peace!"

Edith, Senior 2 Student at Bao'An Senior High School
"I hope American President Obama can change American politics, and don't allow ordinary people with guns. It's dangerous!"

Shaka, Senior 1 English Teacher and Head of Senior 1 Class 8 at Bao'An Senior High School
"I'd like to say some things about American English. First, I think American English sounds beautiful. It sounds very cool to young Chinese and so is very fashionable in China. British English is more gentle than the American English and it has less ups and downs. This makes American speakers sound very excited while the British sound a little bit calm. So, I suggest that young people learn more American English than British English."

Harry, Head of Senior 1 English Department
"You helped us when things were very difficult during the war against Japan. Now we will always be friends. I hope that China and USA will have a very bright future together."

Celina, Senior 3 English Teacher
"I think China is very happy with the election of Obama. To be honest, the image of USA is really not very good in the Middle East but I think Obama can change this. It is a new dawn for America and the world. The world will be more peaceful with president Obama."

Further Difficulties in Student Life

2008-12-17T05:06:00.000-08:00

In this month of December, 2008, some new rules were handed down to Bao Gao students from the leadership. It is the responsibility of class head teachers to enforce these rules. I inquired with Shaka, head of Class 8, about the consequences for a head teacher who chooses to look the other way when such rules are broken. He explained to me a grading system in which classes are awarded or penalized based on their discipline towards these rules. While this grade has little academic weight (it is not attached to school grades and therefore has no effect on university candidacy), it can win a class the shameful reputation of being uncivil and a head teacher his or her coveted position. So head teachers, like Shaka, are forced to enforce even what they known to be petty, intrusive and even unjust.

Mobile Phones
Student use of mobile phones on campus is now forbidden at all times. Even during the free times from 5:30-7:00PM and 10:00-11:00PM it is punishable to do so much as send a text message from the far corner of the track field. When I first heard of this rule I thought back to those teacher exchanges I observed in Hefei a couple of weeks ago during which many a cellphone went off and some teachers even answered and conversed. Last Friday, Harry invited me to watch Class 0 debate (in English) about the merits of this rule and I was surprised to see roughly half of the students in favor of it. I cringed and remained the silent, professional facilitator at the back of the room as the anti side was unable to articulate the common sense arguments against it. After the debate a student inquired my opinion and I told him "of course" I disagree with the rule. "Me too," said he and quickly flashed the cellphone in his uniform sleeve with a grin.

Toothbrushes
The eight cups per dorm used in oral hygiene must now be arranged in a straight line with each toothbrush occupying its respective cup and its handle aimed at 3:00. There is nothing more to say about this that the reader cannot infer.

Bath Towels
All bath towels must be hung from the clothes line with the line going through the middle so that both ends of the towel hang at an equal length. Maybe West Point could make a note of this one.

Bao'An Daily 12.11.2008

2008-12-10T21:55:00.000-08:00

The online version of the article: http://barb.sznews.com/html/2008-12/11/content_449083.htm

The Old Heart Still Beats

2008-12-07T22:48:00.000-08:00

I’ve seen the most beautiful place in the world and it is called Huang Shan. The “Yellow Mountain,” a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is situated in distant Anhui Province and has a place dear in the hearts of all Chinese. It was my luck to visit it by invitation of the teachers of Senior 3.

There were some things about the trip that I didn’t understand, like how Bao Gao could afford to send 45 teachers plus me on a four-day luxury tourist trip (which is an annual adventure to different locations). Also, I was struck by the fact that the occasion for this trip was the latest round of exams being taken by Senior 3 students; could you imagine an American high school principle sending their workforce on vacation while substitutes overlooked their students’ most important tests? Finally, why was I invited? Considering all the costs, it seemed like a staggering kind gesture. Maybe it was an overcompensating payback for all the guest lectures I gave to Senior 3 students at the beginning of the year. In the end, Celina revealed to me that the leadership and teachers thought I was lonely, fault of being the only foreigner at their school.

We stayed in three different luxury hotels with breathtaking lobbies and beds soft to a lush depth. On all fronts I overindulged; eating too much of the incredible meals, staying too long in the reliably hot showers and turning the room heaters all the way up. I shared my rooms with Walt, one of the head English teachers and a friendly but sometimes irritating fellow. In his poor English he would lecture me on the faults of my methods for learning Chinese and criticize my slow acquisition of the language. One night we got into a heated argument over whether or not Hillary Clinton was the next Secretary of State. “I know what I’m talking about – I read the newspapers!” hissed Walt before we fell into a silence and watched the BBC Asia Report. Later I got to thinking that, even by the end of Obama’s first term, an embarrassing number of Americans still won’t know what position Hillary Clinton occupies; there were no hard feelings for Walt.

On the eve of our departure, Harry called to remind me to set my alarm and relay the expressed concern by Senior 3 that foreigners have difficulty waking up early. We waited 20 minutes for the last teachers to board the bus the next morning and then raced to catch our flight. I introduced Emma to MASH before falling asleep and then woke up in Hefei to the bitter cold of the North that I’d happily forgotten during the Shenzhen winter thus far. Luckily, I’d purchased some sweatshirts and a wool cap that my fellow travelers decreed to be “so cool!”

Our first visit was paid to one of Hefei’s worst-performing high schools, whose principal later offered me a cigarette that I couldn’t turn down. We then went to the city’s number one high school which boasts of a 92% college-acceptance rate for its students. Between the two, I sat through roughly 3 hours of Chinese formalities and drank a dozen cups of tasteless but comfortingly hot tea. It was an interesting spectacle to observe even without understanding the dialogue. Our afternoon was spent visiting the park and tomb of Bao Zheng – the legendary prosecutor who was come to represent justice in China – and posing for dozens of pictures at the various sites. Many trees were the fall colors of red and yellow and it made me happy to see this.

Quite early the next day we were making our way up the steep Jiuhua Shan, one of the four sacred mountains in Chinese Buddhism, and suffering a biting cold. It was not yet 8 o’clock and much of the trail remained cast in morning shadows, protecting painfully low temperatures. Each step hurt a little more than the last and it seemed frostbite would be inevitable, judging by the stiffness and numbness of my toes. Finally, we arrived at the sacred Buddhist temple Daxiong Baodian (“Treasure Hall of the Great Hero”) where the early sun shined down gloriously. Indeed, it was a holy experience to bathe my feet in the light while the dozens of incense burned and the giant, golden Buddha looked on. My fellow travelers knelt at the statues and bowed several times to plea their wishes while nearby monks in orange garb ate rice from Tupperware. Things continued this way until a monkey caught our attention; he remained the star attraction until we headed back down.

Another five-star meal and then it was off to Huang Shan, where a cable car gave us a head start on the climb. We were asked to bring only necessities and leave our bulk on the bus; dozens of bottles baiju were wrapped and tucked into purses and backpacks. A light snow was the object of fascination for the teachers, many of whom had never left the South and had never seen the precipitation before. They crowded around small pools of ice and took pictures or broke pieces off for closer inspection. They tasted the snow. I spent much of this experience thinking about Connecticut and feeling a sense of nostalgia in the whiteness. We arrived at a scenic spot near our hotel (yes, luxury located near the peak of Huang Shan) and watched the sun set on something I cannot adequately describe to you. It was surreal like a painting on a giant canvass. The frame was golden and green and orange. The subject was countless layers of golden mountain peaks in a sea of apricot clouds, slightly less distinguished with every row. Chain fences along the edge were crowded with golden locks inscribed with the names of lovers who had pledged themselves to their union forever. It was so beautiful it could make a man cry.

When we arrived at the hotel I was struck with the craving for hot chocolate inherent in Westerners during winter time. The bar had none and the small market did not carry instant mixes so I settled for an “authentic and erotic” chocolate candy whose flavor undermined its description. Despite the chandeliers, golden dragons and intricate wood carvings along the walls, the hotel had almost no heat. We ate our dinner fully clothed in our jackets and winter hats and clutched our hot teas against our bodies. My hands were so numb that I had trouble using the chopsticks, to my tablemates’ delight. Waitresses came several times to lay down a fork and knife on the table but I adamantly refused. When it came time to settle in I did not shower because of the cold. I slept under two sweatshirts with the hoods up and three pairs of socks. In the morning we would get up extra early to go watch the sun rise.

I reached for my cell phone alarm and turned it off in the pitch dark. Walt said he was too cold to join the group and, the temperature being 14ºF (-10ºC), I couldn’t blame him. I put on my fourth pair of socks, four t-shirts, my two sweatshirts, my hat and the thick coat provided by the hotel for such excursions. The latter was probably a lifesaver. Only about half of the group gathered in the lobby and then we hiked the 1km to the viewing site. Dozens of tourists crowded the viewing platform so I climbed down onto some big and unoccupied rocks jutting from our end of the mountain. From there I watched as a sweet melody of colors slowly welled up from behind the jagged blackness. It was like all the beauty of music put into a visual crescendo of vivid colors. From nothing rose the inconceivable and awesome everything. It was God, or Enlightenment, or the Big Bang. It floored me and rang in my spirit as a moving song does in the ears.

Breakfast on the mountain was a slim serving of rice porridge. Four hours of downwards hiking ensued during which the light became ever more brilliant against Huang Shan and its patches of yellow grass. We crossed two white men who sat on steps and ate. Walt hurried over to me; “Fred! There are some of your fellow countrymen sitting there! Would you like to say something to them?” Cutting through the density of his mind was not worth my breath so I spent it instead on a few empty chuckles. Another cable car and we were back on the ground.

The bus carried us to Xidi, another UNESCO site. It is an ancient city of the Ming and Ching dynasties and charms the visitor with its small bridges, stone streets, lion statues and straw-roofed market stalls. I could have spent the day sampling the various flatbreads and admiring the calligraphers and wood carvers at work in their ateliers, but time would not permit it and we soon drove off to Huangshan City. There I would spend almost a half hour simply standing under the searing shower of our hotel. I was toasted a considerable number of times during that evening’s dinner and eventually had to hide in the bathroom to avoid any further customary baiju consumption. The ordeal had begun when I toasted the highest ranking teacher in our group and sent the group into a delighted uproar. Thankfully, everyone had cleared the tables and gathered their possessions by the time I returned. I walked around the old commercial district that night and was pleased to see not one McDonald’s, KFC, Pizza Hut or Starbucks on my path.

On the last day, we visited a beautiful garden of miniature trees and an ancient gate erected for a woman who had lived a chaste 40 years after her husband’s death. Our highest ranks then left us to attend a meeting in Shenzhen. The remainder of the group drove to the city of Hangzhou in neighboring Zhejiang Province, a site of beautiful merging between modernity and nature reminiscent of Boston (incidentally, Boston and Hangzhou are sister cities). The great and long skyline reflects in the West Lake along with rows of weeping willows and oak trees. The strong scent of the latter brought me right back to Avignon and I missed my mother. Here and there were large bushes that had turned a paint-like red; tourists lined up to take pictures in front of them. We rented bicycles and pedaled along the scenic walkways, but not before a scooter ran into one of our teachers. By some chance the scooter broke into some large chunks while the teacher was unharmed, save for a shouting match that attracted a large crowd including two police officers who stood by uselessly without even inquiring about the incident. I had the impression of being in a movie as I followed the teachers in front of me, seeing the fine black hair of the women wave into the air with falling leaves and moving scenery all around them. And while I knew by the endless stream of Chinese who stared at me on my bike that I could never truly become part of China, I felt that China had forever become a part of me.

Hoping for a Heaven

2008-12-02T17:17:00.000-08:00

There’s a pain in my bones
When I think of those
Old friends of mine
Who were lost in time

When I dream they seem so real
Smiles and skin that I can feel
Makes me think that when I die
Maybe I’ll wake up by their side

Don’t know what to believe
But I’m hoping for a heaven
A place to be near them
All of my old friends

I was never one to cry
But there’s a pain behind my eyes
When I look into the past
And see proof that this won’t last

I can already hear
The words that I sing here
I see myself old of age
Looking back to this very day

I’m singing to myself
And hearing my young self
Is it a circle or an end?
Will I be young again?

Don’t know what to believe
But I’m hoping for a heaven
A place where all these days
Are forever and the same

Poses in Propaganda

2008-11-30T03:00:00.000-08:00

Here’s a textbook case of Chinese nowism: I received a call from Harry around 10:00 P.M. informing me that the Bao’An Daily would be writing an article on my experience as a foreign teacher. This being the case, reporters would be arriving here the next morning to conduct the necessary interviews and photography. What time is that again, Harry? “9:30 tomorrow morning and we are asking you to do this.” So I went into a frenzy of cleaning at my office and in my room; wrappers and used chopsticks were thrown away, loitering socks and shirts were stuffed into my suitcase, cups stained with Nescafe were rinsed, pens and papers were neatly arranged on respective desks. And I finally tacked that Indian tapestry back on the wall after the fans had blown it down weeks ago.

The next morning, I stood outside the front gate and waited eternally for the tardy reporters. The guard and I stood awkwardly by each other, feet shifting and eyes darting away when caught looking. I thought of asking him if he liked Bao Gao or if he had a gun but I figured the first question’s simplicity would only amplify the awkward silence and the second would do little to break a stereotype of Americans that is widely believed here. A white car finally pulled up and out of it stepped NanNan and her photographer from the Bao’An Daily. While leading them to my office, I learned that NanNan had just returned from a year living in Grenoble and that she could speak French much better than English. As a result, this day-long interview of a foreign English teacher would be conducted in French, which made no difference to the unilingual photographer.

We took our seats and went right into the first two hours of our exchange. After a few short questions about my teaching experience I was suddenly cornered with loaded questions about American-believed stereotypes towards Chinese, the stance of an undefined “West” towards Tibet and Taiwan, what American men expected from Chinese women and why Americans looked down on China. I took it in stride with a genuine smile and dissected each inquiry before answering with carefully chosen words. “I can’t speak for all Americans” was a disclaimer I often came back to. Sometimes I would fire back with “what do you believe?” or “where did you learn this?” Meanwhile the photographer circled us quietly and pulled the trigger on his camera a hundred times. Through NanNan he would ask me to return my hands to a position they had just occupied or to sit in a different chair for better lighting.

When my ambassadorship for the West came to an end, NanNan declared that she was ready to discover “the real Fred.” Questions about my love life, my romantic notions, my ambitions with Chinese women and my spirituality ensued. When her inquiries were satisfied, she correctly guessed my birthday by matching my answers to her knowledge of the horoscope. I was genuinely impressed. The photographer then asked for us to go outside and to bring my guitar along.

We stopped at the track, where my students were in the middle of PE, and I was made to endure an awkward series of posed photographs. I stood with the guitar. I sat with the guitar. I looked into the distance to the right. I looked into the camera. I smiled. I furrowed. I engaged in small talk with NanNan to take the edge off the stares of my students and the guards. We went from the track to my room where I was made to pose by my desk. This proved to be a difficult assignment as I was not being “dramatic” enough. The pictures on the wall, the tapestry, the unplugged fridge – all things required explaining which was feverishly transferred to NanNan’s notebook.

I invited the two to lunch with me. Harry joined us and I explained to them what a great contact teacher he’s been for me. They were not very interested in this and asked instead that the two of us have an animated conversation that could be photographed. For Harry, it was completely natural to suddenly turn towards me and rattle off excited questions and opinions about Thanksgiving. I was less than comfortable with the transformation of my friend, but I tried to play along. NanNan translated: “use your hands more!” I sarcastically flailed my hands around and danced my eyebrows into bizarre and comical positions, but the photographer became very excited and the rate of clicking suddenly doubled.

That chapter of our theatre came to an end and so I led the reporters on a hike to pass the time before my afternoon class. Though my conversation with NanNan seemed to become more genuine and relaxed, the continuation of posed photographs had an irritating effect on me. Several times, I was made to walk towards the camera but look past it. “You walk like a French person,” said NanNan. Really? What does that look like? There was no response.

My students were particularly responsive to me when I introduced them to our guests for the day. The class unfolded quickly and seamlessly. I got into such an involved and enjoyable stride that I forgot about the reporters’ presence. “Great class – really!” said NanNan, afterwards. Meanwhile the photographer recruited kids to join in the posturing and then led us all to the little garden in front of the school. Harry, Susanne and several other English teachers were waiting for us there. I sat in circles with the kids and pointed my finger into an empty notebook while they looked in, wide-eyed. I leaned back near the pond and shared warm laughs with the English teachers. We gestured meaningfully during an intense but enriching debate. And just like that everyone vanished when the photographer bagged his camera and NanNan returned to me the pen she’d borrowed. Though the day had been fun, I felt defeated and spent of my dignity. Harry bid me farewell; “So then, you’ve had your first experience in Chinese propaganda! Congratulations! I must go now – I have to host a meeting. The meeting will have no purpose and we will not talk about anything substantial or accomplish anything. But, to have a meeting is to do my job.”

The Top of the Mountain

2008-11-24T20:34:00.000-08:00

I walked out through the gate and exchanged the usual over-enthusiastic greeting with the guard. Then I headed to the mountain where I would spend my warm and classless afternoon hiking. My feet went from the paved road onto the trail; beige dirt and dusty.

First I passed the potted plants merchant and his score of varieties of bamboo and flowers in small red pots with black Chinese characters. Then there were the tiny farms carved into the uneven terrain. Limp cabbage and lettuce grew there, covered with dust. A few electric bikes and the occasional pick-up truck went flying down the trail with a honk and left swirls of yellow dust in the air. Soon my clothes and shoes were covered in the particles so that I looked like a fading picture.

Now I was passing the private Shenzhen Oriental English College. The students there have shorter days, frequent field trips and two-day weekends. They are the envy of my students. It looked very much like Bao Gao from where I was, though the sports facilities were glossier. I could see both my students and their students playing basketball and soccer within the walls of their respective schools. Hundreds of laughs and shouts bounced into the mountain.

I approached an impoverished home and its occupants, who squatted outside. The men and women squatted around an electric bike and inspected it while children played not far from them. The home was part solid walls, part random items loosely tied together. Wet clothes dried on a line. Dogs and chickens moped about. The surrounding vegetation was littered with broken bamboo baskets, empty processed-food containers and bits of everything plastic. Everyone wore torn clothing and flimsy sandals covered in dust. They did not look at me.

A rocky path broke away from the main trail. It was too rocky for bikes and too narrow for trucks, so I went that way to be free of men. Soon I was surrounded by bushes up and down the mountain, blossoming with little white flowers. Their scent was detectable and I cherished that rare experience. Hundreds of black butterflies dance about the flowers and helped paint the beautiful, moving picture. Only the power lines visible through the trees remained of the modern world.

Then there was a bend in the path and a small clearing in the trees, so I stood and looked out for a long time. Bao’An lay there under a thick blanket of smog. Imagine that the sky is a foot-long ruler and that the horizon’s width is paper-thin. Here that space between sky and earth was just over half an inch wide, gray and heavy. Square impressions of buildings could be made out and more easily for those with the lights already on. The glaring reflections from cars on G107 could be seen racing left and right like small stars in a big hurry. There was a low hum. I realized that in the view I looked on there was the passage of China’s time. First stood the mountains and the natural state. Below were the farms and the beginning of the society. Then were the schools and the carriers of evolving knowledge, the beneficiaries of the past. Finally there was the world into which they’d be thrown; airports and highways shooting them across the country and the planet, the factories of the first special economic zone fueling their possibilities at the back of the picture.

The sun was setting so I headed back down. The poor family was now inside their home with the television on. I glanced in and saw their seated bodies silhouetted by a talking head in a box. A white dog looked up at me lazily.

Before reaching the bottom I approached a small area that had been plowed flat and was covered with large piles of trash. A blue dump truck pulled up and backed into the space so that the path was blocked. I stood and watched. Tons of broken cinder blocks, bricks, wires, tiles and plastic objects came pouring out with a splash of dust. I noticed two men standing nearby, one with a plastic bag and shovel, the other with a wheelbarrow and a garden pick. Before the trash was finished pouring out the two men raced into it with their tools and poked around furiously. Various plastic and aluminum containers were claimed and tucked into their carriers. The truck turned around and I walked through the dust, away from the men in tattered clothes and worn sandals.

When I returned to the school I was stuck by how good it felt to see all the students playing basketball and laughing. I felt like an old man; slightly envious of the young yet happy that they could be so care-free. They filled me with joy and they will never know it. I went into my room and trimmed my nails.

The Bao Gao Congress

2008-11-16T04:33:00.000-08:00

My most recent lesson was a simulation of Congress. These were the directions: "Propose a bill to change or improve your life at Bao Gao. We will debate and vote." Below are the most memorable and enlightening bills that were proposed:

Put washing machines in student dorms.
Up by 6:30 AM and in bed by 11:00 PM. Six days a week. Over ten hours of class time each day. Extra-curricular activities. Now I find out that they must also wash their clothes by hand each day, or at least on days when their PE classes get them sweating. “Put washing machines in student dorms.” Why do you want this to be a law? Because we can save time to study and we are too tired to do the washing by hand. How long does washing clothes take you? Maybe half an hour. I think of the washing machine on my balcony and of the unused one next door. I think of the times I feel too lazy to do my laundry. I ask them for some other reasons. Well, it gets very cold in the winter and our hands hurt but the washing machine can protect our hands. This sentiment is echoed in the other classes where the bill comes up – it is proposed in just about every class. Some students don’t want to catch a cold from putting their hands under cold running water in the middle of winter. It happens to them every year. I ask them if the school can afford it. This law would mean providing washing machines for nearly 2000 students – where’s the money going to come from? The school! The government! We’ll pay for it! Overwhelmingly, the bill passes where it is proposed. I veto it the first time on account of the costs to the school and just to keep things interesting. That class is devastated.

Girls do the boys’ laundry.
A boy proposes this and the girls are outraged. I’m just glad that this isn’t going to be another “less homework” debate. The bill is defeated by all women and a handful of gentlemen. When I turn it around, all of the girls vote against it because “the boys cannot clean our clothes properly and they will still be dirty.”

End mandatory daily cleaning.
Every student dorm is inspected daily to verify that cleanliness standards are properly maintained. This includes made beds and clean floors. Contrary appearances warrant a punishment for each room occupant; for one crumpled piece of paper eight students will be writing lines of their better-knowing. The bill passes, but only by a thin margin. My bill proposing that students should clean my room daily is soundly defeated.

No classes on Saturdays or Sundays.
We only see our families once a week and we miss them very much. But usually we just spend our time at home doing homework and sleeping because school is so exhausting and we end up with little quality time with our parents. All students are always tired – too tired. Our brains need rest; they work too hard and would work much better if they could rest. We leave school on Saturday evening and arrive home that night. We do our homework and sleep. On Sunday afternoon we return to school because there are night classes to attend. We don’t even spend a real whole day with our families. All 14 classes propose this bill and vote it into law. There are always one or two students in each class who vote against the bill and declare their love for studying. The uproar is deafening.

Boys and girls can date.
Young students are strictly forbidden from dating in or out of school because it is a distraction from their studies. This is enforced institutionally by schools and culturally by families. Most of the girls oppose this bill while the boys are unanimously in favor. Surprisingly, it is a girl who proposes the bill in one class. The girls tell me they will fall in love too easily; it is a bad idea. The boys say they want to “communicate” and that dating could be “very interesting.” I am often laughing. A student from Class 4 proposes a related bill: Boys and girls can live together. This one really sets the class off and it’s hard to control them as I can barely contain my own laughter. Around the room I go and observe the usual division of opinion between boys and girls. Boys want to communicate. Girls are afraid of falling in love quickly. I tell them about dating in American high schools and even in earlier schools. They are in awe and ask many questions. Yes, I did have some girlfriends in high school. But as you can see, I am teaching you today and “love” didn’t detract my life, though it nearly did. The definitive end to the debate comes when a girl volunteers her argument against the bill: “Because it is too easy to make babies!” The bill is defeated in each class where it is proposed.

End the 45 centimeter rule.
There is a rule at Bao Gao that boys and girls cannot be closer than 45cm to each other. I find this out during a class and subsequently request my contact teacher’s confirmation of the rule’s existence; it is ridiculous and hard to believe. But it’s true, they assert. Have any of you ever been punished for breaking this rule? A few hands go up. What was your punishment? Writing lines. Amazing. We vote away the rule.

Fred gives the students $100 every day.
I write the bill down on the white board. Some kids exclaim “U.S. DOLLAR?!?!” I say yes and there is a greedy wonder made audible in the class. The kid who proposed the bill explains: “you are a rich white man, Mr. Fred; you can give us the money!” Many students giggle and then agree. Now they are participating, no problem. “Yes! We want the money!” I strike a perplexed pose and plead with them. They laugh but do not yield. “I will use the money to eat KFC every day!” Note that Western fast-food is expensive in China. A local teacher once told me “you will see someone eating at McDonald’s and maybe think ‘Wow, that man has much money.’” I walk around the room and find little opposition to the bill. Finally a girl takes a stand “because, Mr. Fred, maybe you are not as rich as we think.” We all laugh and I thank her for backing me up. We vote and, surprisingly, the bill is soundly defeated. I thank the class whole-heartedly.

No Exams. No homework.
A student proposes these bills in every class. Each time they are defeated in a landslide. The maturity of the students is no less impressive by the 14th time.

In Macau, Forgotten Things

2008-11-08T23:30:00.000-08:00

It was some time in the dead of the night and I was walking with Dan back to the Wynn Casino – one of the first Las Vegas styled casinos built in Macau. At this time the city was doing very little to live up to its reputation as the leisure capital of Asia and as a rival to the Strip. Everything was closed, even McDonald’s, and the streets were barren. The only people we passed were gender-ambiguous prostitutes who hissed viciously at us and motioned fist-to-mouth as they called “hey baby” in a deep, deep voice. Other than them, the only life in the street came from the dazzling light shows jumping off of the casinos and into the sky. It was a beautiful and terribly lonely place.

We entered the luxury casino and split up with encouragements and good luck wishes; Dan to the poker room and myself to the roulette table. I assumed a seat and placed one of my five $100 (Macau) chips on the even square. Long chandeliers hung down above me and split the dim lights from the wall. Soft music turned with the quiet chatting of well-dressed patrons. I was the only one seated at the table. I don’t know what I was doing there. The two dealers spoke to each other in Cantonese and laughed heartily, their diaphragms bouncing their tuxedos in and out. “You must bet $500 minimum outside the box, Sir.” Oh… well then here, bring it on – I stacked the other four chips without hesitation. The dealer spun a 21 and one tenth of my paycheck disappeared instantly. I went to watch Dan who was discovering that all the tables were no-limit. Young, rich Westerners dressed in Von Dutch pushed him all in, played their better hand and shoveled away his chips.

It was the previous morning that we left from Shekou with Scott, Lucy, Nick and Cody. We arrived in Macau early that afternoon and settled into our hotel across the street from a Macanese pastry shop. The smell of Moorish egg tarts was unyieldingly tempting and I lost count of how many I ate by the end of our short visit. Locally famous wonton noodles and Sino-Portuguese cuisine also greatly impressed our palates. The city had everything that Shenzhen does not: a history, beautiful architecture, a leisurely pace of life, a cosmopolitan culture, Portuguese pavement, a diversity of people. Most importantly, at just over 500,000 residents, Macau was of a humane size.

We walked along the ruins of St. Paul’s and onto the top of a Portuguese fort. It was November and flowers everywhere were in bloom. Over cannons we looked out into the mouth of the Pearl River Delta. There was Zhuhai in the distance, where this story began. There was blue in the sky, beauty in the sunset – the things I’d forgotten under the smog of Bao’An.

The next day we would travel to A-Ma Temple, whose painted walls and carved statues would be detailed to a beautiful and incredible depth. We would sit on the steps of the Buddhist temple, looking into the sea and rediscovering the sounds we’d forgotten – ones own footsteps, ones own breathing, the silence that comes after the wind blows. We would find Lord Stow’s bakery and gorge ourselves in three separate visits on the real bread and real pastries of a European tradition.

But all of that would be for later. For now it was just me and Dan, recounting over and over again our joint misfortunes. After less than five minutes at the Wynn, we were back on the street and walking to the hotel. We could only laugh.

November 4th, 2008

2008-11-05T05:44:00.000-08:00

"And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces, to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world, our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand.

To those -- to those who would tear the world down: We will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security: We support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright: Tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope."

Beef Tits and the New Ambassadors

2008-11-03T03:27:00.000-08:00

Thompson Ly is the owner of NYPD Pizza, a small hole in the wall at the center of the city. A San Francisco native, he arrived in Shenzhen three years ago but was not intending to open this spot. Now he boasts of it endlessly, making the rounds of his customers and reminding them in confident American slang of his ingredients’ freshness and superior quality. His words are easily warranted by a slice of his pizza; the flavor and texture require no relativism to China in order to impress the American palate.

It was here at NYPD that I performed my first show in China. The occasion was Halloween, a holiday that arrived here after the completion of its commercial metamorphosis. As an ambassador from the West I felt obliged to keep some of the original spirit alive and went to my show as a woman. Her name was Beef Tits.

Ranjana and Lori kindly provided me with a dress and some makeup, the application of which had terrifying results. The finishing touch was a yellow headband from Kiki. We left their apartment and appeared to have a shocking impact on the neighbors. When we arrived we discovered that NYPD was hosting the show on an indoor stage at the center of a three-story mall. There I entered a strange scene I cannot adequately convey to you.

A temporary metal fence was erected around the stage. It held within it a costumed population of Chinese and expats who ate the unlimited pizza and drank the unlimited beer that came with a paid entry. Men, women, children. Princesses, firemen, ghouls. Outside the gate were hundreds of curious Chinese. They crowded around each other and hung from the fences of the upper floors, extending arms equipped with cell phone cameras at our party. Who was the show? I entered the world of a woman: I worried about the concealment of my breasts, I calculated how to climb the stage and ready my guitar without exposing my underwear, I felt the hands of my colleagues pinch my body.

It was my turn to play. I was at times distracted by the great improbability of the moment and all of its wild details. A werewolf was dancing wildly on the glossy mall floor. Little kids with wands and plastic guns stood at the edge of the stage and rocked out with the white drag queen. A swatch outlet was glowing. John McCain and Fidel Castro were posing for photograph. A skyscraper could be seen changing colors through the sunroof. It was real.

I really wondered what the Chinese thought of us foreigners as the night progressed. Plastic chairs were breaking. Paper towels and plates were littering the floor, which was now a mosaic of beer, wine and fake blood. The monsters and sexy nurses made a giant ruckus of laughter and screaming. Cameras flashed in every direction. I had the feeling of being in a zoo. How many times were our existences passed on that night? How many saw our pictures? How many would listen to tales of our behaviors? It was not an embarrassing but a strange impression to leave behind, along with the echoes of "Thriller" and "The Monster Mash."

Heroes and Villains

2008-10-30T05:43:00.000-07:00

My lessons for the past two weeks centered on the theme of heroes and villains. There were some notable exchanges that I’ve paraphrased here:

Alright guys, who can think of some famous villains?
Chen Shui-Ban! Chen Shui-Ban!
Who’s that?
Taiwan boss! Taiwan leader!
Ok, tell me why you think he’s a villain.
He is from Taiwan!

***

So what can you tell me about Jay Chou?
He sings and plays piano! He so handsome!
Good. Do you think he’s a hero?
Nooo!
Ok, tell me why.
He is from Taiwan!

***

Who is your hero?
My parents.
Why?!
They worked for my education and introduced me to music.
Is your father as handsome as you are?
Uh…

***

Who is your hero?
Kobe! Kobe! KoOoOoBeEeEeEeE!!!!!!!
Alright then.

***

Mr. Fred, can I ask you a personal question?
Yeah, what’s up?
Do you want to marry a Chinese girl?
No.

***

Who can tell me about the Dalai Lama?
He is a villain! We hate him!!!
How come?
China is a family and we want peace but he is making war in China.
Ok, so what do Tibetans think about him?
They also hate him! They just want to be part of our family!
So who supports the Dalai Lama then? Weren't there some big riots?
France, Britain, U.S.A., YOU!

***

Who are some other villains?
Saddam! Saddam!
Ok, Saddam. Can you explain why?
Nine-eleven!

The last answer was given by almost every class. It was almost like being back home.

Rice is Meal

2008-10-27T22:44:00.000-07:00

What is a Chinese meal without rice? In addition to being the world’s uncontested largest producer of the cereal, China consumes over 135 million metric tons of it each year. Indian consumption is a distant second with just 85 annual metric tons swallowed and digested. Just about every vitamin and mineral, in addition to a surprising amount of protein, is represented in 100 grams of the staple food. The earliest evidence of rice cultivation is dated to between 7000 and 5000 BC in China; eat a mouthful and the civilization's dead will become you.

This is the process for obtaining your lunch at the Bao Gao cafeteria:

1. Pick out a tray, a bowl and a pair of brown chop sticks from the open vapor cleaning machines. Be careful – everything will be searing hot.

2. Get in line towards the serving windows and try to discern what is edible today. If you’re lucky there will some kind of potatoes, eggplant or fried eggs. You are wished the best of luck – probably in vain – for all other choices.

3. Lay down your card on the meter and press a button that will subtract ¥7 of your monthly ¥250 meal allowance.

4. Say hello.

5. Ask for what you know how to say in Chinese; this will delight the kitchen staff and everyone in line around you. Point to everything else. You are allowed three choices. If you are very lucky there will be a banana or apple also handed to you. Take care not to eat this in public because your colleagues will freak out that you are eating fruit within a half hour of the meal, devastating their superstitious minds.

6. Move along to the buffet style trays and serve yourself with rice and bean sprouts – the largest hollow in the tray has been reserved for these.

7. Serve your bowl with soup from the giant pot with a giant spoon. Don’t spill it everywhere. This is your drink. There are no cold drinks in China.

8. Find a seat, preferably isolated or hidden so you don’t have to answer yet again if you like Chinese food or explain for the hundredth time why you know how to use chopsticks. Smile helplessly as a friendly and curious teacher notices you anyways, assumes a seat and asks you these questions.

9. Eat.

10. Throw the waste into a giant bucket, the trays into a bin, and leave.

The numbers on rice can be practically observed and understood during step 6. There are three large pans of it on a table near the serving window. Police officers, janitors, construction workers, teachers, staff members, the principals and the foreign teacher (that’s me) jostle to reach them and serve their share. When the pans begin to empty out, they will shout frantically in an almost panicked state “Mifan! Mifan!” until fresh pans are delivered. They take the large spoon-like utensils and shovel massive blocks of the grain onto their tray. Little white mountains rise up. The volume of each person’s self-appointed portion is absolutely staggering, dwarfing the rest of the meal. After two months I still can’t believe anyone has room enough to consume so much in one sitting. Compared to them, my quantities of rice are rather puny. Often I am fending off accusations that I eat too little.

My meals are a race to exit the canteen as soon as possible. I eat quickly and quietly, desperately rushing to escape the moments in step 8 but also to protect myself from their mannerisms. There is an endless wet sound of slurping, open-mouthed chewing and gasping in the air. They hold the trays up to their face and open their mouths, a loud vacuum sucking in the rice as their chopsticks wildly shovel it towards the wind tunnel. When they wash their hands they search deeply and loudly for phlegm to spit into the sink. It is my nightmare.

11. Go to McDonald’s and eat alone in a corner.

Arcade

2008-10-27T20:38:00.000-07:00

Encompassing Moments

2008-10-19T20:30:00.000-07:00

A decidedly local feature of the Chinese urban landscape is the pedestrian walkway. These structures bridge the opposing sidewalks and bus stops along every artery that surrounds and penetrates Shenzhen. The stairs leading to the top of these bridges are divided by a flat surface that enables bicycles, scooters and vending carts to join the dense crowds that slowly trickle from one side to the other. Looking from the top offers good views of skyscrapers and eight lanes roads miserably backed up with trucks, busses, green taxis, red taxis and sleek SUVs.

I was crossing one of these in Dongmen – the chaotic shopping village downtown – in order to reach Point Coffee. There were beautiful women in mini-skirts and stilettos and men in sharp suits completed by leather shoes and myself with a backpack and an unshaven face. We were walking briskly, driven by our need for consumption while, below us, a massive parade was driving to deliver the goods we demanded. We were conveniently separated so as to avoid any interruption in our transactions. Our needs were too pressing to assist the shoeless, soot-stained men who waived cups at us and begged through rotten teeth for just one measly Yuan. Their pleas were lost in the din of people and machines, their faces shadowed by the bright density of neon billboards hanging above and around. Chinese pop was blasting from a Nokia store whose well-dressed salesmen were eagerly standing at the entrance. One of them shouted into a microphone. I wondered if they were different from the beggars on the walkway.

Point Coffee is on the second floor next-door to Nokia. I entered and sat on a lush couch near the window where looking out gave me the impression of release from the city’s grip. This feeling was amplified by the usual absence of any other customers, which is what I love most about the establishment – even more so than its bitter beverages. Varying tones of beige and brown decorate the walls and red, plastic chandeliers hang down above the couches and tables. There are framed black-and-white pictures of old Texaco gas stations along flat roads presumably in the American mid-West. I drank slowly and let my mind wander with the playlist of soft, melancholy piano-driven jazz – the roar of Dongmen was now just a low and almost soothing rumble in the walls. I looked outside and observed a man digging through a trash can. A steady wind was carrying off what he agreed to be trash and threw to the ground. The Nokia man could still be seen shouting but he could not be heard from here. I half-wished that I believed in someone or something that I could give thanks to for the luck of being born a Western white man. I started to write this.

The nigh before I’d been in and out of taxis and bars and coffee shops and apartments and video arcades and counterfeit boutiques and convenience stores and the first McDonald’s ever built on mainland China. Sleep had been entered and exited just as quickly and I was now completely exhausted, in addition to being unwashed.

I had arrived at this moment by way of a bus ride shared with the Boss. The Boss is an asshole in the sense that he is endlessly confrontational and unyielding. His words cause laughter but also arguments internal and outwards – I think of him as the jester to the identity’s court in each person he meets. I like his company very much. We spoke extensively of women, China and old friends. We wondered how different it would be to interact with everyone we left behind in America the next time that we’d see them. What would be different? Would things be too different? I reminded The Boss that he’d urinated on the walls and floors of Ranjana and Serena’s apartment the previous night, but he dismissed this as mere accusation – he plans on attending law school next year. He detailed the reasons for which the Shenzhen skyline is so ugly that it causes him nausea. He revealed that he would not be his own friend because he feels that he is such an asshole. We arrived in Dongmen and parted our ways.

By the time I finished writing this about The Boss, Scott called and I headed out to meet him and Lucy in the fray. He was going to show to me to the tailors’ market which had delivered him a smart suit for cheap and now had Lucy’s dress in waiting. She is an Australian and he an American. They are the rare couple that I am happy for and that makes me smile in a time when I reject partnership and love entirely. We thumbed hungrily through magazines of possible suits while the finishing touches were put on the dress. Then we met Brad and Nick at Papa John’s. It was the first time I’d ever been to one and I decided that it was not particularly special or ironic that this should occur in a city across the world from America. We spoke of heroes and our students. I used a fork and knife for the first time in two months to eat my calzone.

The afternoon of the following day I was in the hull of a Russian aircraft carrier in the waters off of Yantian district where performance lighting was twirling around a stage featuring Russian men and women in sailor’s outfits tap-dancing to Eastern European folk music. I watched from my seat next to scores of Chinese and The Boss and Tricia. We’d celebrated her birthday the night before, leaving her apartment in a mess of footprints and empty noodle containers. My exhaustion and grime had effectively doubled. Now we were overwhelmed with the absurdity of the moment and could not contain our laughter. As an unknowing stranger I think I could have forgiven us. We toured the decks where the walls occasionally featured photo-op paintings such as a medieval dungeon or a tropical beach paradise. Women struck awkward poses in front of these while their men clicked away. Manikins dressed in U.S. Army camouflage stood propped up near doorways. Sketch artists sold drawings of Michael Jordan and Dale Earnhardt. Tricia and I reenacted the cover-scene from Titanic on a wooden model boat while The Boss photographed. A couple immediately replaced us to capture the same picture. Gift-shops outnumbered exhibits 2-to-1. The latter were things such as living quarters, quaint infirmaries, torpedoes, military aircraft and other war machines. The former sold toys made out of bullets, plastic guns, hats, matryoshka dolls and flasks bearing the Philadelphia Eagles’ logo. On the top deck we watched Chinese women in uniform twirl British flags to the beat of techno layered with new age chorus chants and dramatic orchestration. Children climbed up and around the jets whose bombs were printed with “No Smoking” signs. This was Minsk World – probably the place in this country most representative of the new China. If in one moment you wanted to understand the mindless consumerism, the confused identity and the bizarre tackiness of China’s sudden middle class, you absolutely must visit this site.

It took me three hours to make it from Yantian back to Bao’An that evening but the time passed quickly thanks to reading Dellilo’s “White Noise” – a thoughtful lend from Kiki. This book, with its passages highlighting each mundane detail of the modern world and its more fortunate occupants, was lending itself well to my ongoing Chinese adventure. It felt like the right step after “Wolf Totem.” I sat in the KFC where Ranjana’s purse was stolen and continued reading while swallowing Pepsi and popcorn chicken. I ignored the calls and text messages from my contact teachers who were demanding (as always) to know my whereabouts and current engagements. I arrived at school and didn’t know which was more comforting – the sigh of relief and sense of peace at seeing my current home or the fact that stepping through the gates had evoked these feelings at all. The shower was luxury. I let the excess sugar and sodium of my meal weigh me into bed. The ceiling fans hummed and I drifted off comfortably.

Values-Voting

2008-10-14T00:57:00.000-07:00

This writing is only related to my Chinese travels in that it was inspired by the views of some fellow participants in CTLC. Specifically, I am referring those who support the McCain-Palin ticket this year and supported the Bush-Cheney ticket four years ago. Wow, four years already… it’s hard to believe that the people I refer to here were living in the same America as me during that time. It’s hard to believe that we didn’t all come to the same conclusions about Bush and the Right. But today we are all in Shenzhen and representing America in our own way.

These people I refer to are all college-educated and their open-mindedness is immense, as evidenced by their decision to cross the world and spend a year here in China. I am curious as to how those same minds would conclude that McCain-Palin is the best choice for America’s future in this open world. These colleagues of mine gain more foreign experience in the time it takes them to take a shit on a squat-toilet than Sarah Palin has had in her entire life and career. So where’s the appeal?

After speaking with some of these people, the only common reason I can find is values-voting. Remember that pundit term? Yeah – it’s a real thing and it’s still around. So, the point of this writing is to challenge the Right’s notion of values-voting and to argue that Left values are more just and should warrant their votes.

What is the greatest value we share in common in America and as humans across the world? Surely, it must be freedom. I am learning much about freedom by living in China. I am learning to love it and give thanks for it. I am speaking of the freedom to express my views as they are, to criticize governments and politicians, to write the music I want to write, to read the books I want to read, to exercise my free will… I am speaking of the freedom to live my life.

The Right fears the government for its power to take away these freedoms, and they are absolutely correct in this fear (just take a look at my last blog). Yet they would use that same body and its institutions to reduce the freedom of others by voting on their values. Meanwhile, when voters and politicians act on Left values it expands freedom and reduces the government’s ability to carry out that great fear of the Right. Still, freedom must have its limits and I suggest drawing the line where a freedom becomes physically harmful to others. A simple example: the freedom to kill arbitrarily must never be granted.

Now let’s take a look at gay marriage. It was just legalized in my home state of Connecticut and has sent the Right there into a roaring furor. This development is a result of values from the Left – they have given a minority group a freedom enjoyed by the rest of us. Though it may shock their sensibilities and subject them to a host of negative emotions, this freedom does no physical harm to the Right. Yet it’s likely that many Right citizens are now fired up and ready to exercise their values-votes next month. They will seek to empower the government to reverse the decision on gay marriage – they will seek to take away a freedom from a specific group. Their vote will be one of imposition, whereas gay marriage’s legalization has imposed nothing on them. The granting of this freedom will never force two straight men to marry each other.

Then there is abortion. This example may be a little trickier because many Americans will always believe that a few cells the size of nothing are a human being, or they will always believe that granting a life of misery to a severely disabled fetus is a benevolent act ordained by God. I believe neither of these things and so do not believe that the freedom to abort causes physical harm to others. It can be objectively said that a woman exercising her freedom of choice in Anchorage will cause zero physical harm to the governor or citizens of her state – it is impossible to argue otherwise. This freedom is granted courtesy of efforts by the Left. The Right fights hard day and night to win conservative Supreme Court judges and reverse Roe v. Wade. Their goal is the restriction of a freedom. Their goal is the imposition of a value on others who do not share it. The law as it is now – a product of the Left – does no such things. Legalizing abortion never has and never will force a woman who does not believe in the procedure to undergo it. Indeed, American women still reserve the freedom to choose to have their retarded babies.

Again, the point I attempt to make here is this: Left values-voting maximizes freedom and imposes nothing on free Americans. Right values-voting restricts freedom and imposes unwanted values on free Americans.

As a side note, gun control can be attributed to neither the Right nor the Left – even Obama has spoken favorably of the deregulation of hand guns in DC. I mention this to save anyone the time and effort who would argue that gun control is a Left value that restricts freedom.

Happy voting.

Anonymous Quotes, Paraphrased

2008-10-12T22:54:00.000-07:00

These are from real conversations that I've had with Chinese. They span the course of my teaching thus far. I've come away from each of these exchanges feeling immensely grateful for my life within the political systems of the West. As November 4th approaches and the cons implode into a pathetic, racist, murderous rage, please consider how lucky they are that the man they now slur will try only to serve them once he enters office. Immediate detention would have awaited these poor fools if this were a Chinese election, which - of course - it could not be.

“Well, even if this Sarah Palin and this John McCain are elected and they destroy your country or invade another country, at least it will have been the choice of your people. Such a thing is unimaginable in China. We will often wake up one day and find a new leader in the education bureau or the city governance. Even our national leaders come as a surprise and nobody knows who they are or where they come from or even how they were chosen for the position.”

“I have seen some scenes from the debate between Obama and McCain and I thought ‘Wow, this is great! When will there be such things in China?’ I think probably never.”

"We will often make fun of the government and criticize it in private. But we must always accept it and praise it in public, whether at official functions or during the lunch break."

“In China, we say that history is a prostitute that can be raped by whoever chooses to and has the strength to do so. The old people are writing their memories in their biographies before they die and we are learning something from them: the Communist Party has raped her the most violently. It is so unfortunate that I am a member of this party.”

“My entire education has been a lie. As a child, I was taught that the KMT fled when the Japanese invaded China and that the CPC did all of the fighting. We have all lived believing this, but it was a lie.”

“All governments lie about their past. All governments cover up the bad facts of their history. But I think the Communist Party has covered up the most.”

“Chairman Mao was swimming in his pool when they gave him the report that the Cultural Revolution was killing tens of millions of Chinese. He continued swimming but invited these men to a meeting where they were arrested one by one. What a cold-blooded man… September 9th, 1976 was a great day for China.”

“There are many bad things happening in China but we will not always hear about them, you know, because I think maybe the paper and television is controlled by the government. Often we will read the paper or find the news from Taiwan because it has the truth – it is almost like a completely different story. You are so lucky that your newspapers are free to tell the truth. If it were in China, every person would be reading them each day.”

National Day: Celebrating With the New China

2008-10-06T23:01:00.000-07:00

As soon as I was up I rushed to do some laundry, shower and then pack the wet laundry into a backpack for the trip. I’ve always endured the last minute when it comes to planning. This meant I was in good company since my travelling group had bought tickets to Xiamen on a whim after all trains to the original destination were sold out. Other than some paragraphs and pictures in our tour books we really didn’t know where we were going, which I am now convinced makes for the best possible experiences.

I arrived quite early at the train station and met with Kofi. We bought some Baiju in glass hand grenades and then went to McDonald’s to stock up on calories for the long trip ahead. On the way a woman asked me if I wanted to meet a beautiful girl but I told her I already have hundreds of them. We ate and then went back to meet the other six travelers in our group.

Tickets were distributed and we were off into the unknown. First there was the train to Guangzhou – a short and luxurious ride full of excitement. The sun was setting on an endless forest of dense buildings that was streaming by. The comfort was impressive and those of us from Connecticut were quick to lament Metro North.

Then there was the K297 from Guangzhou to Xiamen. Luggage and straps hung from each inch of the racks along the ceiling. Each row of seats held more people than they were designed to hold and the small tables were shadowed by bags full of instant noodles and water bottles. The excess sitting riders spilled out onto the dense mass of standing riders. The latter leaned against each other or on the top of the aisle seats. The bathroom and smoking areas were converted into new cabins by riders who unfolded small chairs and ashed their cigarettes around the piles of luggage. Abrasive fluorescent lights burned above us. We were all like blood in the iron vessels of a new China. It was pumping its growing wealth in the form of tourists who were flocking around the country for National Day.

I loaned my seat to someone and stood at Dan’s booth. We met the riders around him and began playing cards. Curious passengers immediately noticed the activity by the foreigners and crowded around us to watch the game. I landed my grenade on the table and we declared that round losers would be drinking from it – this delighted everyone. The game continued in good fun with exchanges of English and Chinese phrases and laughter while our new friends’ faces slowly turned red. Dan freestyle rapped while I beat-boxed and there was an overall feeling of joy and connectivity in the car. Meanwhile, Cody and Kofi were meeting passengers connected to a hotel in Xiamen – one of those dumbfounding moments of luck and working-out that people often experience in life. Hours rolled by and the many stops began collecting a good number of the passengers. It was eventually possible to claim an entire three seats to spread out and sleep but the lights and noise were too disturbing for me. After 14 hours we arrived in Xiamen.

Our first steps were hampered when Stephen discovered that the train had claimed his wallet. He called our coordinator back in Shenzhen but there was nothing that could be done so we left the station and followed the women we’d met to our hotel. We bought four rooms for the eight of us and Kiki and I passed out for the afternoon as soon as all the settling in was settled. We woke up that evening and set off to join everyone downtown where we were inviting our hotel connection to dinner. On the bus I wondered if Xiamen was just going to be another version of Shenzhen – lots of people, money and shopping outlets. But the architecture downtown had an old charm and enough coffee stands to reinforce my hope in making discoveries on this trip. We were finally all together and ate in a private room where the best fish I’ve ever had was served. Cody and I ate the eyes.

From there, four in our group were thrown into a cab and disappeared while the other four of us walked around downtown with the women. We later all reunited near a strip of bars and discovered that the latter half of us was in a fine drunken shape. They’d been looking for dessert in a restaurant when the owner and some locals suddenly declared their love for my compatriots and showered them with copious free beer. We enjoyed a few more of these and then hit the street after the locals left. On a street corner we miserably debated what to do next before one of the locals unexpectedly pulled up in a luxurious SUV and gathered us for a ride. Liz called her brother who was sitting somewhere in America at that very moment. Then everyone crammed in. Our saving driver had an enormous beard wrapping his face from sideburn to sideburn. I offered to name him Hemmingway because it sounded like his Chinese name. He pulled up to an inconspicuous building whose doors hid an underground club and it came to be that us eight Americans were now sitting in one of its VIP booths.

Liz won some kind of contest and two buckets of Heineken were magically dropped at our tables. The locals from earlier reappeared and we met some new ones too. Waiters laid plates of sliced duck neck (bones included) between the candles on our tables and we ate and drank while the flames seemed to dance to the blasting music. A giant screen projected images of Macy Gray and Rihana live in concert while a quartet of musicians readied the stage for a performance. I felt intensely nostalgic. By the end of the night we were dancing to “I Will Survive” with bellies full of German beer under the amused eyes of the Chinese upper-middle class. I thought something along the lines of “this is so surreal.” Mao Zedong would have certainly agreed 59 years ago when he made the declaration that warranted this holiday and led to our presence here. He would have never imagined that he was weaving the canvass for our moment and for so many other foreigners who were experiencing part of China that night. Yet when I think back, it was a very normal moment in the globalized world and in a China that has finally opened its doors to it.

The next morning, we dropped two of the rooms to save money and headed out to Gulangyu – also known as Piano Island. This small paradise was a residence of many Western foreigners in the 19th century and now resembles a collision between Europe and the Chinese jungle. Old colonial mansions line the cobblestone roads (which are barred to cars, motorcycles and bicycles) and exotic banana and coconut trees grow tall with their shadows stretching along the roof tiles and their roots cradling the terracotta walls. Families play on the beach and swim while cheap food vendors offer squid tentacles on a stick or whole coconuts with a straw. We purchased some hats to deflect the sun: Megan an enormous yard hat, Megan and Kiki some colorful paper hats and I a cowboy hat with “Ronaldino” printed on the front. I was exceedingly pleased with the latter because it resulted from my first successful bargaining.

Stephen and I broke from the group to explore the island for an hour. Our only compass was to walk opposite of any large crowds. The Chinese are quite susceptible to tourist traps and following them harbors dangers such as paying ¥60 to walk to the highest peak on the island. Our method paid off and led us to a little hostel perched on a hill that overlooked the forest, beach, ocean and distant port. There were no people – just a swinging bench on which we sat and breathed the fresh air and looked out while a woman played “Frère Jacques” on a piano inside the hostel. The notes flew out and mixed with the chirping of birds and laughs of children while bursts of wind occasionally sent a rustling into the air. I was deeply at peace and felt I could spend the rest of the day there.

We returned to the beach and joined our Chinese friends for an authentic seafood meal. There is no tactful way to describe how awful it was. The fish ball soup literally smelled like shit. The consistency of the seafood omelet was disturbingly gelatinous. The slices of mystery fat jiggled ominously as we picked them up with our chopsticks. Yet we sipped and chewed and swallowed with a wide smile pointed at our friends. Afterwards, Stephen and I confirmed that we were not the only ones who’d concealed gags during the ordeal.

Night had fallen and Xiamen’s colors were glowing brilliantly against the water. An overcrowded fairy led us back to shore where we were told to wait while our Chinese friends prepared the rest of the night for us. The wait was becoming interminable and I was playing with the thought of breaking off when they finally returned with two cases of beer. We then took several taxis that dueled very dangerously on the way to a beach on the other side of the island. With the lights blurring by it was like a video game.

We came to be spread on towels and the sand, playing Chinese Mafia and sipping pineapple beer. The ocean and sky were the home of the dead. Hundreds of white buns rode the waves to feed them. Dozens of red lanterns of remembrance burned a path through the sky to find them. Their voices were heard in the gongs and shrill of a Chinese Opera performance unfolding nearby. They reached for us as the tide inched closer. Cody and our Chinese friends launched a lantern of their own but it landed in the water and disappeared when the flame was swallowed. Those that flew – now indistinguishable from the stars – burst into flames and crumbled into the sea. Before we left I went to the bathroom and startled a crouched, naked woman who was bathing. I can’t translate exactly what she screamed at me as I stumbled out, but I gathered that I should learn the characters for “men” and “women.”

On the afternoon of the following day, we went to Nanputuo Temple. Throngs of faithful tourists bowed their heads at the beautiful statues and shrines before planting their incense down. A thin veil of smoke wrapped around everything and children pierced it by tossing coins up at prayer towers. I was a white man with a cowboy hat on my head and a camera in my hand. I wasn’t sure if I belonged there. Then a monk walked by with headphones on. What in the hell was he listening to? I was far less concerned with my presence now.

Stephen, Kiki and I walked the narrow paths that lead to the top. At the peak of this amazing temple and mountain we found… a convenience store. Trash littered the foliage in the vicinity and tourists blasted music from their mobiles while eating the processed foods. We did a “1, 2, 3, break!” just to phase everyone and hurriedly left the awkward silence behind. For our path down we chose a rugged trail marked by steep declines and small farming plots. The clay ground and the leaves were natural and beautiful and were something I do not see often here. The ocean and islands were visible through small breaks in the trees. Then we walked through a metal gate to another world where the ground is paved and SUVs are parked everywhere. But not before Kiki fell down.

We downed chao fan and jiaozi before splitting up for the rest of the night. I was originally going to find a spa with Cody and the girls but instead went wandering with Cody, Kofi and Dan. We walked through the alleys of the old town but unfortunately did not explore the darker and less glossy streets that I find so attractive here. There was Chinese Opera in the middle of the street. There was a toy shop with foreigners looking in. There was a KFC teeming with customers. There was a tunnel of neon signs shooting to the horizon.

The main road was closed off and lined with more people than can be found in a small country. A foreigner, Mike, introduced himself to us – he would prove to be very unpopular. In typical Chinese fashion, the National Day parade started an hour late. It featured quirky floats plastered with advertisements from the big banks that hovered over our heads, just behind us. It was disappointingly short but I was glad to have been part of moment of unity in the new middle class: crowded around itself and jostling for the best view of advertisements and shiny things. We met a Chinese friend and headed to a strip of luxury bars along the water with her. I met the Moroccan owner of one and had a rare chance to keep up my French. At another, a live band played covers of Shania Twain and Linkin Park. This one’s owner gave our group a box of cigars. We smoked and laughed while our money quickly vaporized. I felt that, since being at the peak of Nanputuo Temple, I’d been walking down a steady path back into the West and far away from the old China.

I stumbled alone into a nearby park and sprawled on the grass. I watched the trees and the distant skyscrapers twirl dizzyingly around me. It was my brother’s birthday; he was spending it preparing for a colonoscopy and I couldn’t call him. I laid there and felt a deep sadness while the world turned around me.

Dongmen, People's Park, my bathroom...

2008-09-27T19:00:00.000-07:00

A Day in Shenzhen

2008-09-25T04:41:00.000-07:00

Your alarm goes off at 8:00. You are groggy and exhausted after a nearly sleepless night, courtesy of Typhoon Hagupit. The howl of its 100mph winds through the window cracks and the crash of objects caught in its path were more than a match for your slumber. Also it had knocked out the power at BSHS, so your ceiling fans and air conditioner were no longer available to keep the heavy, wet heat at bay. Dripping with sweat, you walked onto the balcony and let the wind knock into you like a punch. Your curtains reached for you and all your toiletries rolled around the floor in a panic. Every leechee tree swayed violently so that the mountains looked to be shivering with fear in the face of Hagupit. The campus was black, save for the flashlights of the guards who were still expected to be on patrol in these conditions. “Poor bastards,” you had thought to yourself.

Those hours were wrapped somewhere around 4:00. Now the pitch of the wind’s howl has dropped considerably yet it still aches to enter your room. The rainfall is still so loud that it seems to be against your walls though you are a distant six floors from the ground. It is invigorating and you are excited to go the city early to meet Ranjana before Chinese class. The air is cool and fresh – a first – so you decide to wear jeans instead of the usual shorts for your day out. That’s a mistake.

You step outside and walk to your office under the cover of a black umbrella. Cheap laborers in ponchos and large straw hats are frantically sweeping the ground all around you. There are countless branches and papers and cardboard pieces to be cleared. You pick up a few things and call your brother before heading out. Under the rain and with the wind tugging at your umbrella, the two of you catch up and you miss him very much. Your bus arrives, you step on and hand your card to the meter-girl before saying “Shi Jie Zhi Chuang” (Windows of the World), amazing everyone on board. Then you sit and can’t help but notice the other passengers’ double-takes at you, or the triple-takes, or the quadruple-takes… and, yes, that one guys is still gawking at you.

A new passenger steps onboard and he immediately comes to ask where you are from, in perfect English. He is a Thai English teacher visiting his cousin in Shenzhen and he insists that you visit his class in Thailand in exchange for his guidance around the country. This man has opened the floodgates and now everyone is trying to speak with you with varying success in English. You finally arrive at Windows of the World with several business cards and phone numbers in your notebook.

You walk by the Eiffel Tower on the way to the metro.

Half an hour later, you emerge from Shao Nian Gong station in Futian and seek refuge at Starbucks from the continuing downpour. You approach the barista with a huge smile and get ready to make those hours of Chinese practice pay off…

“Ni hao, wo yao yi bei café”
“Hello, ok, anything else with that?”
“Hai yao yi ge…” (had to point at that one)
“Would you like your croissant heated?”
"Bu yao le, xie xie"
"You're welcome, please pick up your drink at the counter"

With a sigh you walk to the counter and pick up your coffee and croissant which comes on a plate with... ketchup. Outside on the porch the elements are perfect. Torrential rain is beating the sidewalk in front, jazz music is cradling you from behind and caffeine is sharpening your awareness of it all. The Chinese comes more naturally; it's getting easier to learn the characters and sounds. After some time Ranjana arrives.

After talk and more coffee the rain has almost subsided. You set off on foot to discover something - anything. From the top of the concert hall is a spectacular view of the city's daring architecture dancing with the trees and short mountains. Back on the sidewalks is a challenging maze of puddles and bicycles. Between that and the fast-returning heat, the jeans are becoming quite uncomfortable. By the time you complete a loop and return to the station, your legs and the denim have become a grimy and uncomfortable whole. The agreed venue for lunch comes into sight: Pizza Hut.

The room is beautiful and there are plates and silverware. The menu is glossy and the service very Chinese (which means excellent and friendly). The curry chicken pizza arrives in its hot pan and boasts upscale flavor. Is this really Pizza Hut? Ranjana notices the time and you leave in a hurry with half the pizza in a bag. You will be late for Chinese. The metro seems to take forever.

Once at the school you head to your seperate classes and enter class half an hour late with a Pizza Hut bag in your hand. "You are late, I see you've brought some delicious food" ... "Yes, I brought it for YOU!" Perhaps not the best moment in the country of face. You jump into your seat and try to catch up. Class ends and you begin the two-hour journey back home.

In the bus you find a place to sit on the floor where it raises above the engine. The bus breaks down. The sound of the rumbling engine is replaced with quiet murmurs, rain and cell phone ringtones being annoyingly browsed through. The heat is rising quickly and large beads of sweat are falling from your brow to the floor. The thick scent of shit hangs in the air as it does in so many places here. The driver works magic on the bus and you are back on your way. It is night by the time you arrive.

You step off the bus and a small swarm of men on scooters assail you with honks and point to their back seats in an effort to sell you a ride. On your walk you reach the bridge and see that a small pond of rain has formed under it. Cars are driving onto the sidewalk to avoid it so you must wait a while for a safe gap in traffic to continue. You reach BSHS and exchange that awkward hello with the guards which must be endured countless times each day. You can see the students still working hard on all five floors.

Back in your office, you exchange some e-mails, finish tomorrow's lesson and begin to write this blog. It will take you two days to finish. There are many distractions, like the stream of text messages from your contact teachers that demand to know your location and current activity at all times. The guard opens your office door without knocking and looks in as he usually does. You say hello and he just nods and dissappears. You will never get used to this.

Back in your room you crash in bed and let the Premier League highlights lull you to sleep. Congratulations; you've survived another day in Shenzhen.

Reflections on the First Month

2008-09-23T00:12:00.000-07:00

Already it’s been one month since I landed in Hong Kong. I suppose that means it’s time to reflect on some things…

China. My first impressions of China are that it’s an amazing and exciting country and there is no other place I’d want to be right now. Still, it has many obstacles to overcome before securing the dominance we all predict of it in the West. But I have no doubt the country will see its day. After gawking at the size of Shenzhen, getting lost in its city streets and working with its students, I am inclined to come to that conclusion.

America. It’s thrilling to be here and be witness to the moment of transition. But it’s also upsetting to look back at American developments from this perspective. While the students here endure hell and emerge from it with incredible mental fitness, our students’ educations are hampered by policy and moral debates. While the immense city of Shenzhen rose up (and continues to rise) from nothing in a mere 30 years, Ground Zero still remains a hole in the Manhattan ground after seven and New Orleans remains in shambles after three. A while the government here – with all its imperfections – continues to successfully raise the average Chinese out of poverty and into modernity, half of Americans seem intent on securing another national leadership of lies, dangerous ideology and faulted policies that threaten our progress. And it’s no certainty that the other guys can do what’s right for America. Often I am worrying about what country I’ll return to next year…

Home. I miss home dearly. I miss my family. When I am at Starbucks trying to Skype, the jazz music and Americana decoration is intoxicatingly familiar. When I stepped into the thick scent of butter and dough at “Croissant de France” last weekend, it was as if stepping into the safe refuge of Avignon. I miss going to In-N-Out with my grandma and uncle. I miss playing roly-poly with the kids on the trampoline before sitting down for dinner. I miss saving the universe with my brother. I miss getting off the TGV and spotting mom’s blue Peugeot outside the gate. In all of this there is much nostalgia. But mostly there is joy; immense joy at knowing I have a home. You may remember No Culture. In my longings I find the comfort of knowing I’ve much evolved since that identity. I have found home across the world – it is maybe the most important reflection of my adventure so far.

Controlled Chaos

2008-09-17T22:21:00.000-07:00

Here at BSHS, the students are formed by a detached force and with a strict precision resembling a manufacturing process. Sometimes it seems I am one of many hands in a factory that produces citizens. Of course, public schools and education have always served the purpose of fitting their young to their systems. But I’ve never been as acutely aware of this function of education as during my short time here.

The belts at this factory are turning from 6:00 to 22:30, six days a week. During this time, the students are put through many refining exercises: There are 8 periods of class, each about an hour long. There are several sessions of instructed physical activities. There are “eye exercises” in the afternoon. There is a short free period during which most of the students play basketball or badminton. There are the three daily meals. There is a three-hour study session at the end of each day during which students do their homework in their classrooms in silence while teachers monitor them. Finally they are sent back to their dorms where they are to be in bed by 23:00. Guards and teachers will patrol along the rooms to check for noise or lights after this hour. Many students secretly stay up to finish their homework since it demands more time than the three-hour study session. They briefly go home and see their families on the weekend. I'm endlessly impressed at their ability to endure this schedule, especially coming from a high school where classes ended at 14:00.

Back home I held a belief that many Chinese were brainwashed. I think it is a widely held view in America, based on my experience during the training and media like “Chinese Sponge Bob.” When I first saw how this institution operated I was inclined to conclude that our impression was correct. But after some local experience and conversations with Harry, other teachers and the students, I find my view has changed dramatically.

There is a reality in China that we can’t truly appreciate back home until we come here and see it for ourselves: critical overpopulation. It’s not so obvious from the isolation of BSHS but, with a short walk to the bus stop, the problem is on full display. The eight-lane 107 National Road is completely backed up at any time of the day. Thick, brownish smog hangs in the air and obscures the view from the pedestrian walkways. On the hotter days it is difficult to breathe while waiting for the bus. There are huge crowds milling about in every direction. Scooters, bicycles and even small cars honk are swerve dangerously along the sidewalks to bypass the road. The intersections are a vortex of lawlessness sucking in all modes of transportation with little obedience to the lanes or stoplights. Finally a bus will arrive and its intended riders become molecules in a human liquid squeezing through the door into an already brimming pool. Each cubic inch of the vehicle seems to be occupied as we literally hold each other up in our places. My body is always in contact with at least four others. And it’s no light contact – it is the mixing of sweat and heat through two pairs of clothes. This anarchy is barely contained by the physical limits of the infrastructure whose seams are always bursting. Such sights and experience give real meaning to the phrase “controlled chaos.”

There are places in America that resemble this: maybe L.A. during rush-hour and certainly New York during the summer. But China is a country where half of the people (and counting fast) live this way their entire lives. So what infrastructure can contain them? What is the 107 National Road that can keep such a bustling country from imploding into anarchy? It is a social formation that begins with schools like BSHS – schools that are so strict and so demanding that its students inherit the ability to conform and obey. Were these two traits not so widely distributed in the population, the already-wobbly sense of order here would likely come crashing down. Imagine driving the roads or riding the busses here every day with a population of individuals that value independence over all else. Madness would soon give way to a system collapse.

The need for control becomes even more pressing in other institutions with much more potential for societal damage: banking and industry. Despite the strict mechanisms of citizen formation and the loosely hanging threat of capital punishment, there is still rampant corruption and pollution and unsafe products abound. Just last Monday, 254 people in Shanxi Province lost their lives in a mudslide resulting from poorly stored iron ore waste at a mine. A new scandal is developing this week as over 6,000 babies have been sickened by melamine, a chemical additive that many dairy companies use to artificially compensate for the protein lost when they dilute their baby’s milk formula. Luckily, only three of the sickened babies have died but it remains to be seen how many have been affected. Meanwhile there are 5,000 annual deaths in China’s mining industry. What would these figures be if the government’s iron fist suddenly let go?

Harry, the teachers and the students are weary of the answers. That’s why they are open about their roles as agents of obedience and their willingness to “behave,” as they put it. Often they lament that China is so crowded and that the air is so poor. Older teachers recall the afternoons of their youth spent swimming in their clean lakes of their hometowns. Now they’re covered by a controlled chaos of concrete and millions of people with the potential to cause much harm. That is the lesson they will pass down.

The students here will certainly not grow up to be brainwashed. Rather, they will learn to fearfully recognize the dangers posed by the size of their country and to accept that an extremely powerful and centralized government is the way to keep it in check. Maybe there is a better way but it seems few would dare experiment. Or maybe they were jut convinced otherwise by the government’s arguments back in ’89 (though that’s a subject I don’t feel comfortable bringing up yet). Either way, when these students raise the flag and pledge obedience to Beijing it will have nothing to do with a blind Communist faith. It will really be a pledge to living in a society that can best deliver order and safety at the present. At least that’s my impression.

Week 1

2008-09-15T09:04:00.001-07:00

It was 7:20 in the morning. My first class wasn’t until 13:25 but here I was already wide awake in my bed and sweating or maybe just laced with the region’s humidity. The Chinese national anthem was blasting in conjunction with the incessant yelling of some maniacal school official and the duet had rolled its way into my room. So I finally got up and felt my bare feet scratch awfully against the summer’s worth of dust I’d failed to sweep when I moved in the day before.

My room is a rectangle the size of a small college dorm. There is a queen-size bed, a couch, a coffee table, a desk, a dresser, a refrigerator, the water cooler and a small stand supporting the television. On the ceiling are two rotating fans and two fluorescent lights that are quite abrasive when turned on. An opaque glass door leads to the balcony where there is an open-air shower and western toilet facing a long sink with four faucets. A washing machine sits in the middle and on the ceiling are metal bars to hang drying clothes. A curtain can be drawn across the entire balcony for privacy.

I walked to one of the small windows near the front door and opened it just enough to peek outside. On the track stood the couple-thousand students of BSHS with their teachers and their principles while the campus guards raised the flag and stood at attention. The “raising of the flag” ceremony occurs every Monday at this time. The student uniform is white and turquoise and looks like a sports warm-up suit. They all wear white sneakers with a red embellishment. The campus wall goes around the track and from behind it juts a steep mountain beautifully covered in leechee orchards.

I prepared myself for the first day and I was extremely nervous; my toiletries shook in my hands. I dressed in a shirt and tie even though Harry told me the dress code here is very casual for a Chinese school. I figured I would make a good first impression of professionalism but the heat and humidity is so overwhelming that I taught my Friday classes in jeans.

Then it was off to my office. It is in room E404 and it was used by the last three groups of foreign teachers. All three groups were married couples but I teach alone (gladly). They left behind many things that have made my life easier here. In the office are two computers with dial-up internet, two lush couches and a floor standing air conditioner. There is also a water cooler that I use to make hot chocolate or instant coffee with the supplies left behind by the past teachers. So I spent most of the first day burning through instant drinks and piecing together my lesson.

There is a ten minute break between each class period and it’s announced by a tacky little melody. It went off so I picked up my guitar and bag and headed to Class 13. There are three grades at BSHS: Senior 1 (which I teach), Senior 2 and Senior 3. In each grade the classes are an ordered hierarchy from 0 to 13 where 0 means elite behavior and grades and 13 means the worst behavior and grades. This was unsettling and I worried how this first impression of teaching would be. To get to any class I have to walk through a maze of students screaming “HELLO!” or pointing and staring at me. Returning the greeting or simply waving will cause them to flee in a cloud of giggles and tennis shoe squeaks. I’ve found this to be a good way to clear a path myself and my destinations on campus. It’s also endlessly entertaining.

Finally, I arrived (what I write here can be used to describe each and every class period I have taught). Upon my entry, Class 13 erupted with cheering and applause and then shouts of “WOW!” when I took my guitar out of its case. Peppered over the din were more shouts of “HELLO!” as well as “YOU SO HANDSOME!” and “I LOVE YOU!” I wasn’t quite prepared for this reception so I just laughed and waved. The lesson went very smoothly and was only stalled when my directions could not be understood or when I spoke too fast. There was none of the bad behavior I’d been warned about. Any use of the guitar met with resounding applause. The kids are truly amazed and awed by it even though most of them are far better at the piano than I am at the guitar. I passed around a sheet of paper requesting their favorite English songs so that I can use them in future lessons. Since then, most of my guitar playing has been to practice decade-old hits by the Backstreet Boys and Westlife. Time flew and the bell rang. The class let out a long “aw!” that I was thrilled to hear. While packing my things, one of the students approached me and asked if she could pose in a picture with me. When I said yes it released a floodgate and half of the students stampeded onto my teacher’s platform with their cell phone cameras pointed at me. Talking excitedly in Chinese, they crowded me with smiles and their fingers in a “victory” shape until I was literally stuck between them. Several asked for my cell phone number, my e-mail address or any other kinds of contact information. Others floored me with heavy questions, such as the boy who needed my help to get a girl to stop hating him or the girl who wanted to know why her American pen pal stopped writing back. I was nothing short of overwhelmed by all of this and became acutely aware of the effects my presence or speech may have on these kids.

My solution to managing the students’ attention and questions has been to turn my office into the “English Corner.” Borrowing the name from a voluntary class period hosted by the last two teachers, I’ve decreed my office a place always open to the students and their questions or English-related needs. On my front door I taped a map of the U.S. and Connecticut along with a welcome message to the students. There I wrote the distance between Hartford, CT and Guangzhou, Guangdong: nearly 8,000 miles. The word got out quickly and within a day I was receiving visitors from all three grades during each ten-minute break. Many come to ask about the U.S. or to get help on their homework, but most of them want to hear me perform songs or take photos with me. So each day I perform about ten Beatles songs and am the subject of dozens of cell phone pictures. Some students ask me to come teach their 8th period since it is a free study period. I did volunteer for one because so many of its students kept asking and it turned out to be my best class of the week. Later in the week I began receiving daily visits from the school’s English teachers (there are 22 of them) who have been eager to practice their English with a real foreigner since the last teachers left. Similarly to the students, some have surprised me with requests for relationship advice or by expressing their longing for their families. Each day there are teachers who bring me fruit and moon cakes or students who bring me chocolate bars. I also get one or two notes from students slipped under my door each day with questions about America.

All of this – the visits by students and teachers, the letters and the gifts – have become regular throughout each day. Between this and the classes and the many other engagements, I find my time is much taxed and I have few moments to myself. Because the dial-up internet is so slow and I must travel a half hour to the airport to get a good connection at Starbucks, it’s been impossible to find the time in to Skype my family in conjunction with the time difference or even upload any photos during these days. Even writing this blog took four days due to my local stardom. But if stardom is my only real problem here in Bao’An, then I can say I had an amazing first week that exceeded all expectations.

Gaffes at the Dinner Table

2008-09-09T04:25:00.000-07:00

After nearly two weeks in a preparatory state of mind it was surreal to finally wake up a couple of mornings ago. I showered, brushed my teeth, packed my suitcase and slipped into my new formal clothing. Incapable of correctly tucking a dress shirt, I requested Ian’s assistance and realized that I’d quietly grown accustomed to his presence. We headed down to the lobby and there was a different mood in the air. There was no practicing and certainly no joking around this time.

In the ceremony hall I spotted my name card on a table with two men holding impressive bouquets of roses. Harry, an English teacher from the high school, greeted me very warmly and introduced me to Mr. Hu, a chemistry teacher. Harry is my primary contact teachers at BSHS where he teaches and serves as the head English teacher. His charm and distinctly British accent did much to ease my nervousness that day. After much small talk the contract-signing ceremony was under way.

A giant red banner with golden Chinese characters hung on the wall behind the stage. From the podium there were many formalities spoken and translated in one direction or another and it seemed to take an eternity. A cell phone kept going off. After this the schools and teachers were announced one by one, prompting the teacher and contact teacher to stand and exchange their bouquets. When it came to my turn, Harry and Mr. Hu gave me both of the bouquets because the second teacher destined for BSHS had never shown up. Then, under a canopy of roses, I signed a document in Chinese committing myself to a school I’d never seen or visited.

From there we all proceeded to the banquet hall and were led to our seats. I ended up at a luxurious table with Gwyn, her contacts, my contacts and the top headmaster of the Shenzhen headmasters and his contacts. This was not a relaxing discovery. So I sat as straight as possible, smiled and gladly accepted slices of moon cake from the table’s spinning center. Suddenly our entire party stood up with a flurry of Chinese and raised their small wine glasses. Gwyn and I just made it onto our feet in time to join the cheer of “gānbēi!” and throw our glass bottoms up. Immediately a flock of waitresses arrived to refill our glasses and the whole cycle began to repeat. Endless toasts were made in every direction including towards Gwyn and me. After a while the whole custom turned into a maddening but greatly amusing crescendo of Chinese, clinking glasses and the constant shout of “gānbēi!” I played along with great enjoyment. After enough glasses I found enough courage within myself to take a shot at my first Chinese toast. I stood and lifted the glass while Harry translated my toast to the top headmaster. Though I detected some discomfort at the table he joined me and I was exceedingly proud of myself. But soon after, I realized that most of the toasts were being offered to a young woman at the headmaster’s left. I quietly inquired and found her to be a director of Shenzhen education – a far higher position than the top headmaster – meaning I had effectively blotched my first toast by dishonoring the hierarchy in a rigidly hierarchical society. I stood again and toasted the director in an attempt to redeem myself.

The banquet ended with the choral performance of a classic American song nobody heard of and then we checked out and were individually bussed or driven from the hotel just like that. I was sad at only getting to say goodbye to a few of the many I’d met during training. So I came to be very alone in a bus gunning up the highway with three men speaking in Chinese and having no real idea of where I was going or what I was going to do there. I thought of my father stepping off the train in Nice. I thought of my mother first laying eyes on St. Louis. I now felt the fear and excitement of their adventures and suddenly understood them very well.

We detoured to China Mobile in downtown Bao’an so I could purchase a cell phone. I picked up the cheapest one and was then presented with a book of possible phone numbers to purchase. Here the Chinese superstition of numbers was on full display as phone numbers containing just one unlucky 4 (death) were as cheap as ¥80 while the numbers containing the most 6’s (smooth), 9’s (longevity) and especially 8’s (prosper) went for over ¥600. I chose the cheapest number but there was a problem: it was no longer available and one of the 1’s (unity) had to be changed to a 5 (nothing). Was this ok? Could I accept it? Of course I could.

From there it was just another 20 minutes before we arrived at BSHS. We left the city and its clutters further and further behind and I realized the school was much more isolated than I’d anticipated. Finally we arrived at the gate which was opened to reveal a campus large and beautiful enough to be a small college. Harry retrieved my key before leading me up to my room, which is on the 6th floor of a staff dorm with no elevator. We then went to see my office. Yes, I have an office. Along the wall are welcome letters written by students from last year – a very warming idea organized by the previous foreign teachers. I was then introduced to Shaka, my extremely friendly and helpful second contact teacher who lives on the 3rd floor. With that, Harry departed and I was left to settle into the real beginning of my adventure.

getting close, with a summary

2008-09-06T04:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I passed my final exam and was certified as a TEFL teacher with a complimentary moon cake from the instructor for having taught the most creative mock-lesson. I enjoyed eating it while watching the ceremony unfold. Some representative was flown in from Beijing to bring an official air to the diploma handout but it was lessened when William O’Donnell, the program director, turned his back on the procession to take a phone call. My overwhelming feeling was that of great discomfort with the dress of the modern adult world and I was slightly weary of being required to carry this costume throughout my adventure here – perhaps the rest of my life. It was funny to look at us practicing our professional act in our ties and dresses when, only hours earlier, shouts of “dickwad!” had filled the room to simulate an unruly classroom during mock-lessons.

With that, my last day in Zhuhai came to a close. We hiked across China’s green city and crossed a bridge before climbing a steep and snaking staircase through a short mountain. The view from a gazebo at the top revealed the city just starting to light up and its reflection sprawling over the ocean and around the returning fishing boats. It was breathtaking and worth the sweat and exhaustion.

Our group split up and I found myself sitting in a children’s park with some friends, drinking Tsing Tao and eating cheap dumplings with peanut sauce. Night had fallen by then and the streets were glowing with the white fluorescent light of businesses and restaurants. Children played in puddles, old men smoked, women yelled out orders and everywhere was the incessant chorus of car horns and bicycle bells. Overhead hanged drying laundry, red paper lights and the glitter of CCTV flashing out of each apartment window. It was hard to comprehend that this place and its moments had always existed during my life. I wondered what other neighborhoods were living in the world right now. I was glad to be there.

The next morning we were off to Shenzhen on a three-hour drive around the bay. Not once did our highway exit the canyons of skyscrapers, factories or looming construction sites. Through the cracks between buildings and over or under giant Chinese characters I could see that more of the same laid out endlessly to the horizon. I read through a lot of Jiang Rong’s “Wolf Totem” and – like my father said – it helped put into perspective this panoramic megalopolis. I imagined the Mongolian herders receiving the first Han settlers on their virgin land and then watching it transform into farms. Then I wondered how many such men and women had once occupied this place and where they might be today. Did they live in a space suspended above what was once their farm? These thoughts were in no way lamenting the results of China’s transformation. Rather, I was simply amazed to see that so many people had so quickly afforded a piece of modernity and its comforts. “This is what one billion emerging people looks like,” I thought.

Upon arrival at the hotel we began cutting through about a day and a half of bureaucratic and processing BS. There were speeches by some top dogs from the Foreign Experts Department, Police Department and Education Department. Our bursts of clapping were amusing – almost like the State of the Union. A video showing off Shenzhen in a most over-the-top fashion drew a lot of laughter. It was unprofessional of us and kind of embarrassing but really I was glad to be from the culture that recognizes such humor and does not kiss ass (see: “South Park”). The next morning we were bused to a hospital for a few hours of chaotic checking-up. In a dizzying dance, nurses and doctors sent us to one floor whose nurses and doctors sent us to another floor whose nurses and doctors sent us to the original floor where the cycle resumed until finally we found the floor that was reserved for our tests. Result: normal and fit to teach, though weary of ever getting sick in China. A lunch break and then it was off to the police station for some one-on-one questioning. I would love to write a paragraph about how intimidating and intense it was but in reality we spent more time talking about basketball and marriage than about our histories and purpose in China. The only torture I endured was being half-blinded by the perpetual flash of news cameras that circled our table and treated us like celebrities. With that said, the Asian Americans in our group endured hell during their questioning. It’s good to finally be in a country where being white pays off.

This all concluded with my assignment and here it is (drum roll): Bao’an Senior High School. All I know about it for now is that it is isolated in the far North of Shenzhen but is reputable, competitive and well-kept. Tomorrow I’ll sign my contract and move in. Classes begin Monday – wish me luck!

Chicken and Other Mysteries

2008-08-31T02:15:00.000-07:00

Let’s talk about chicken.

Wait, actually, let’s start with this confession: I’ve already eaten twice at McDonald’s since arriving in China. Now I know it may seem like a shame to travel as far as earthly possible from the Eastern U.S. just to eat at McDonald’s, but I assure you I can explain. So let’s get back to the chicken.

Chicken is a white meat derived from a challenged bird of the same name. It is a favorite of many Americans, especially when strips of the breast are fried and flavored with condiments. This take on chicken has been smartly noticed by Chinese restaurants in the U.S., as evidenced by dishes like general Tso’s and the amazing chicken wings at Jason Zhang’s parents’ restaurant. So when a daily string of unfortunate culinary adventures led me to read “BBQ Chicken” on the English menu at our hotel restaurant, I didn’t think twice of ordering it with heart-warming familiarity.

Ten minutes later a flustered waitress arrived and landed the dish on my table. I pulled it over and looked down with my doe-eyes and saw… bones. Dozens of little bones sandwiched between scraps of dark meat and skin uncooked, yellow and bumpy. And I don’t mean the long bones found in the drumstick or in the wings. I mean a maze of small bones whose origin in the chicken I still can’t figure out and I doubt I really want to know. It was awful. Almost as awful as the chicken foot I tried a few days later. Again, the skin was practically uncooked and even the mask of Sichuan lather couldn’t subdue my gagging. At least I can give myself points for biting a sizeable piece of the skin off and actually swallowing against my reflexes. But the rest went into the trash, a white knuckle popping out of the toe I’d bitten.

Like I said, my Chinese culinary adventures have had few happy endings so far. In all honesty I deserve much of the blame for this because of my decisions (I sought out the chicken foot, after all) or my methods of compensating for the language barrier. By the latter I mean ordering at a restaurant by pointing at any group of characters on the menu and smiling at the waitress without any idea of what my request is. A couple days ago this resulted in a plate of mystery meat and a celery milkshake landing at my table. But even an informed decision often yields mystery meat in this country.

So I hope I’ve won your sympathy and now you might understand why eating three meals a day in China warrants the occasional McDonald’s visit. Biting into a crispy chicken sandwich is a blessing when the chicken actually tastes and feels like chicken (and is cooked). Gorging a handful of fries serves as a reminder that some of life’s food mysteries, like the fact that McDonald’s fries never go badly, make ignorance bliss. And drinking a medium cup of Coke is… well, it’s the closest I’ve ever been to Heaven in a country where nothing is served cold. So I bet you’d have been to McDonald’s more than once by now also. Or would you opt for the sea cucumber? Have you ever eaten sea cucumber? I did the other day. You should go look it up on Wikipedia.

Beach Superstars

2008-08-28T05:17:00.000-07:00

When walking downtown Zhuhai alone or in a group I can expect to look up at passers-by and see them blatantly gawking at us 99% of the time. This can be very uncomfortable because, depending on whether we’re crossing paths with people in the street or at the bus stop, there can be dozens or even a hundred people just staring in complete silence until we disappear from their view. And these moments can last for several minutes. It’s hard to really convey what this is like but it reminds me of Kevin’s tales of being the one of a handful of whites to pass through a Kenyan suburb some years ago. I now have a true appreciation for what it means to be the “WHAIT MAHN!”

The most intense of these experiences so far was yesterday afternoon when Andy led a group of us to the beach. I brought my guitar along thinking “beach + guitar = normal summer afternoon.” Not so. Our group was greeted like aliens by a hundred or more Chinese just stopping dead in their tracks and observing everything from our steps to our claiming a spot on the sand. Andy was the only one of us to swim. Bearded and very hairy, he walked to the water past the hundred heads which simultaneously turned with his steps in clock-like synchronization. We were dead with laughter but it was a little unsettling because, as I mentioned above, this show unfolded in complete silence.

Andy returned and we all started to relax while I pulled out the guitar and played around on it for a while. Looking up between chords every now and then I’d see that all eyes were still fixated on us and several people were starting to gather and take pictures from a distance. Then a man and his son approached Benjamin and asked to take a picture with him. This broke the ice for dozens of people to do the same with our entire group and in minutes we were like celebrities stranded on a red carpet of sand. A pack of girls asked me to play a song so we all sang “With a Little Help From my Friends” to their delight. They requested “My Heart Will Go On,” confirming what the coordinators had told us about Celine Dion’s local popularity. I’ve since made learning a rendition of that song one of my top priorities. When it was over and I looked up there was literally a circle of spectators around us sitting or standing 3-4 rows deep and staring silently, without any discernable emotion on their face. Thankfully the girls were very lively and asked everyone questions about the U.S. and asked me if I “fall in love” when I play guitar. This made things less awkward, right?

We packed our things and got on our shoes and the whole process took about five minutes. The several dozen silent types remained all around us the entire time saying nothing, leaving their arms crossed, not emoting. As we were leaving, their presence became unbearably awkward so Benjamin finally turned and waved goodbye. To which the resounding chorus shouted “BYE, BYE!”

To me this moment illustrates China’s youth as a member of the world community. The endless gawking helps to understand that this country really did just open its doors to the outside. On our end there is novelty and mystery; on theirs an intense curiosity. Zhuhai is a city with millions of inhabitants, strikingly modern architecture and close proximity to Hong Kong. Yet the locals are generations away from the cosmopolitan worldview existing in U.S. and European cities, without speaking of the appropriate etiquette towards greeting foreigners. It’s kind of fun being the celebrity and posing for pictures or answering questions, but it becomes awkward and exhausting after a while. Still, I’m glad to be playing the role of ambassador for the outside and I hope that I’m making a good impression.

Departure and Arrival

2008-08-25T05:44:00.001-07:00

We took off and I felt nothing special, as if it were completely normal and expected that I’d be departing for one year on a flight to Hong Kong. The hours rolled by smoothly thanks to United brand instant noodles and a series of awful but distracting films. Every now and then I’d check out the window and see the Pacific sprawling out with small clouds hanging above it. It wasn’t until seeing the flight tracking map that a feeling of strangeness settled in. After a lifetime of flying to France, my eyes weren’t prepared to see the name “Tokyo” in place of “London” and “Sydney” in place of “Madrid.” That’s when I knew it was real.

Our flight was extended by a one-hour folding pattern as we waited our turn to enter the airspace. Finally we raced through the clouds and emerged into a panorama of skyscrapers, bridges and cargo ships à la perte de vue. Looking on the scene for just one instant would suffice to appreciate the movement and size of China’s economy, which until then I simply thought I understood through articles and their statistics. We landed and I couldn’t contain my smile.

I started meeting my colleagues while waiting for our luggage. Liz and Sarah were kind enough to wait for me while my guitar lost itself somewhere. Finally we were all led by one of the CTLC coordinators to our charter bus and passed Starbucks and Krispy Kreme on the way. A second bus costing $10 per person was required just to carry our excess luggage. I passed out “real cookies from a real American grandma” to everyone’s delight as the ordeal unfolded.

The border between Hong Kong and China was positively intimidating. I was lucky to get through with only a 5-minute inspection of my passport and glaring looks but many of my colleagues were subject to interrogation. Eventually everyone made it safely on the bus and I got a quick glimpse at Shenzhen before passing out.

Excessively bright and colorful skyscrapers surrounded me when I awoke. In this way Zhuhai resembled an enormous theme park and I was giddy with excitement. The amount of care given to the city’s appearance is more than impressive; a stone fence carved in detail lines the entire beach, small, finely trimmed bushes line the divider the entire length of the main artery and lit statues of male and female forms jut out majestically from the water. And all along the road were hundreds of people bicycling, walking, eating and fishing. This was a place to feel alive!

We checked into the hotel and I was paired up with Ian Wang, an orphan from Hong Kong who was adopted into the U.S. and would go on to quit his job in Charlotte to participate in this trip. We hit it off great. With 10 people to a table, dinner was served. The standard equipment is a very small plate, bowl, teacup and a pair of chopsticks. At the center of the table is a round, glass surface that can be turned and on which the dishes are placed. Everything served was excellent; rice, noodles, eggplant, pork, etc… in the end there was way more food than we could handle and such portions would remain the norm. Bursting with my first authentic Chinese meal, I sprawled on my bed and thought “I’m really here” before passing out, luckily synchronizing with the local time on the first night.