The Spoiled Rotten Tour

If I was a superstar of song and stage, I would headline this stateside trip as above. Granted, while in China I am a bit of a superstar, but China is not America... as I've to condition myself to each time I return. Therefore, this title indicates the general theme of this year's whirlwind visit. 

It has been more than just a little while ago that I've taken to the keyboard. In the flurry of stateside visits I did not wish you a happy Lunar New Year, or even welcome you to the Year of the Horse. Doesn't mean you weren't on my mind and it certainly does not indicate that I had no way to blog, seeing as my conspirators have gifted me this wonderful new machine I currently and talking to you on.

Truth is, I've been spoiled rotten. Everywhere I went I was welcomed with open arms... nothing new there. However, it seems this year everyone had it in for me, gift-wise.

Of course, you know Jenn treated me to a trip to the Magic Kingdom (see Goin' Disney entry, posted October 2013). She also surprised me with a flannel sheet set – won't they be toasty in the winter? And the most whimsical of gifts: a pair of zebra-striped footie pajamas, complete with  faces on the feet. I love them!!!

My Jenn is simply beautiful. She has lost a substantial amount of weight since last year and has given me my pick of everything that does not fit her anymore. I balked. Remember my minimalist plan? Living with only what I absolutely need? Of course, I need clothes, but  not a new outfit for every day, and not excessively dressy clothes. Besides, I only have 1 suitcase, and its weight limit is fifty pounds (22 kilos). And, because I still had a lot of visiting to do, I would have to carry those clothes with me on every plane and lug them around at every stop. However, she pooched her lower lip out when I declined to take some of the clothes. They simply weren't my style or a color I like to wear. Her pouting goaded me to pack everything, leaving shoes and other things behind for her to mail to me.

At the airport in Tampa, in spite of having used compression bags for all those clothes my suitcase was still more than 3 pounds overweight. Picture the mad scramble to lighten my load by 3.5 pounds and finding a place to stuff that excess. My backpack and the laptop case, given me by my conspirators was already full to bursting.

The one thing I was not about to throw away was my Barry Manilow concert ticket stub. I've been a Manilow fan since my tender years, when he was just starting out. He has more than 40 years in the business and I have to reason: how many more concerts will he give? And how likely will it be that I will be able to attend? An evening with Barry was another 'spoilage', but it was I that treated Jenn.

Tampa brought Disney, Barry and the Superbowl. Jenn and I are not football fans so we hung out in her room, watching The Shining and snacking on finger foods like pizza rolls and potato chips. That was the only day that we did not leave the house.

Another thing Tampa brought was the Color Run. For so long Jenn had not been in any kind of shape to take part in anything physical. Her weight loss has given her the strength, ability and desire to take part in The Color Run, a 5K race whose theme is FUN! While savoring amusement by the handfuls, I spilled tears of joy at watching her run. Until recently, I reasoned she would be severely incapacitated within a few years, if not devastatingly ill due to that weight. Way to go, Jenn!!!

Memphis brought a reunion with Lisa and Bonnie, a pedicure, and a massage. Lots of hugs, a peaceful feeling of belonging, conviviality, food, chocolate, more chocolate and even more chocolate. Dove, dark and mint; chocolate Chex Mix with caramel corn. Such a chocolate overload that even now, back home, I resist chocolate. I'm betting that won't last long.

So spoiled rotten was I that I did not have room in my suitcase for everything. Darrell, in California -  my last stop before winging back offered up a second suitcase. Sure, it would have been easy to take him up on it. Maybe I wouldn't have had to leave my house shoes behind, and I could have packed the health/beauty aids that I bought to see me through my trip.  

Jenn promised to send a package containing all the stuff I had to leave behind: my new shoes, clothing  I left in the laundry, gifts for my Chinese friends. If that package had arrived while I was still visiting, I would have been forced to take Darrell up on his offer of a second bag. Was I spared because it did not come?

I have something to look forward to: Darrell will forward that parcel, after including some things I forgot, or that he thinks I might like (read: junk food). I'm all ready to be surprised. Jenn said she also packed a few things she thought I might like.

One surprise I did not know about: the truck. When I opened my computer case at TSA security at LAX, I had to laugh out loud. SOMEhow, one of Ben's trucks found its way into my satchel, and I suspect, not by accident. Apparently it dove in after I packed my laptop, because the case was filled nearly to bursting after I secured the computer. Somehow, my mysterious truck benefactor found room for it.

What I didn't find till I got home: the cherry pie. I knew there was a cherry pie lurking about Darrell's apartment, because that became one of his and my rituals: going to McDonald's for a midafternoon cup of coffee, while Ben napped (Sammie was home to watch him; we did not leave him there alone). That first afternoon, he observed that McDonald's apparently no longer serves cherry pie. At the cost of fifty cents, I made a liar out of him. From that day on, cherry pie and coffee became the staple.      

So how did this one, errant cherry pie make it into my bag? Even now I laugh. He must have gone to McDonald's on the sly, snuck it into the house and then into my bag. No other explanation.

Yes, this was indeed a 'spoiled rotten' tour. Back in China, in my unheated apartment, under Sam's watchful and eager eye (he got spoiled rotten, too), I raked over my wealth: a bottle of perfume I would never have bought for myself. Flannel sheets and footie jammies, wicking socks and extra thick ski socks, clothes and more clothes, books, top of the line computer with case... and let's not forget my cast iron skillet, I reflect how rich I am. Not in materials… while nice, 'things' matter very little in the end, don't you know. Rich in love, in friends, in happiness, experience and memories. More than the sheets, the jammies and the socks, that is what keeps me warm.

If you think I was the only one spoiled rotten this year, you are wrong.

I started accumulating gifts for my loved ones as early as March. Come time to pack and head stateside, I was in a tizzy: I had more gifts than I had suitcase to pack them in! With no time to buy a second suitcase, I improvised. Having received a package in a sturdy, triple corrugate box, I reasoned I could use that box as a makeshift suitcase. (Probably) no one would frown on it, seeing as last year, when I performed in the Teacher Talent Showcase for our school, I used a box as a prop and was asked repeatedly if I was returning to America. Over here, boxes, with a handle fashioned out of tape or string is considered luggage.

Except for the nouveau riche Chinese. They wish to display their wealth by any means possible. Air travel is one way to do so, and shiny new luggage is another. So here I am, this foreigner with a box and a duffel bag for luggage, among Chinese towing their rollaround, hardshell suitcases.

You could say I was displaying my Chinese-ness while they were showing their wealth.

I only took 3 sets of clothes with me, and hardly any health/beauty aids. What filled my suitcase?

Gifts. Small, large, extravagant and handmade gifts. From me, from Sam, from Gary. Gifts filled my suitcase. My measly 3 sets of clothing went into the cardboard box.

See? I wasn't the only one spoiled rotten, this tour!   

Holiday Season

I hope you had a very merry Christmas, and I wish you a peaceful and prosperous New Year. May all your dreams come true!

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I wasn’t aware of the passage of time till one of my most faithful correspondents, Kevin informed me I’ve not posted anything since December 3^rd. How could I have not written anything for nearly a month?

It’s not exactly like I’ve written nothing. I took on a freelance job, writing articles and doing translation work. I’ve not gotten rich from it, but it did take some time. Also, the classes I had this semester! Disheartening… The students barely spoke any English, and most were more interested in their cellphone than anything I have to offer. Still, I went to great lengths to plan lessons that would entertain, amuse and educate.

Don’t blame my conspirators for my blogging lapse. In no way is it their fault. They stand by, wait for me to write and send. They’ve been waiting a long time, this time. They are supportive… more than you can imagine! And they are understanding. One day, while talking of this dry spell, they pointed out that, after having been here for more than 3 years, I may have just run out of things to write about. At least, lighthearted, funny things. I have no end of ponderous subjects to tackle. Maybe because I’ve been in a ponderous phase lately. I hope to do away with that, or at least most of it, next year.

And now, it is New Year. Let’s get ready to say ‘goodbye’ to 2013. It was a good year. There were some tears… just enough to appreciate the joy and laughter that much more. Joy and laughter… there was a lot of that!  

In China, people are gearing up for their most significant holiday celebration: Lunar New Year. Most of our school’s upperclassmen have already gone home, their semester complete. The freshmen, poor remainders, are counting the days till they can board that train or bus. One or two will fly home – a sign of ever-increasing wealth. Never, till this year had any of my students boarded a plane.

I reflect on the irony that I live in China eleven months out of the year but leave just in time for their major holiday, after having spent America’s major holiday(s) in China. Is there no end to my contrariness?

Contrary or not, here I go. In ten days I will be winging stateside with my suitcase full of gifts for my loved ones. I’ll dash here and there, sleep on this couch and that floor, at times wonder where I am… and love every minute of it.

I hope you will find joy and happiness in the coming year. If sorrow should visit you, I hope it doesn’t stay long, and that it is kind. See you next year!    

  

Things That Have Made it Over Here

Recalling the time of Yore, when I couldn’t even find Metro, those far distant days of 2010 when I first came here… I was sick, lonely, wondering if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. Small triumphs, like finally finding Metro and buying an oven (See Oven Lust entry, dated October 2010) were turned into occasions of savage glee. I still have that oven, too. Works like a champ! I’ve definitely gotten my money out of it.

Since then, it has become routine for me to make the pilgrimage to Metro. My freezer, though small, can accommodate several bags of chicken parts – great on the grill; hamburger patties for that occasional indulgence, and a few convenience foods: the heat and eat kind.

When I arrived here 3 years ago, it was all I could do to find anything, food or otherwise that was familiar. First came the Oreos bought at a local supermarket, which taste nothing like Oreos in America. Then there was Chicony, an upscale store that caters to the superwealthy, or those who wish they were. I’m not. But I did find some French cheeses there and yes, I indulged.

One day, while rambling around an IGA store close to Aloha diner I found Pledge furniture polish and a few Armor All products. If I had a car I would have jumped on the tire gloss and turtle wax, as it was I made do with lemon scented Pledge. I kid you not when I tell you that, once home I stared at that can for close to thirty minutes, just for the comfort of holding a product with a label written in English.

I was giddy with joy at discovering German linseed bread. Going even further back in my past, into ancient history, I enjoyed a nice sandwich or two in Germany made with that kind of bread. Chinese bread is always too sweet and unsubstantial for my taste. However, the hearty, whole grain texture of this bread definitely satisfies my palate.

My! The things that have changed since I’ve been here! The Chinese are not fond of dairy products and they still believe cheese is the vilest of substances… to an extent. Now I can go into any store, Chinese or ‘foreigner’, and find entire selections of cheese, yogurt and even some milk. I tend to stay away from the chocolate flavored cheeses marketed to kids, but the plain Milkana sandwich slices are not bad at all. 

I have to be careful not to eat too much cheese, but every once in a while, a nice pizza just hits the spot. Used to be the only place to get a decent pizza in Wuhan was Pizza Hut. Their personal pan pizza tastes exactly like Pizza Hut in the states. Now I no longer need to plunk down more than 50Yuan for a meal at Pizza Hut. Metro has several varieties of frozen pizza, one of which tastes exactly like California Pizza Kitchen pizza.

That’s a little over five hundred words to talk about food. Let’s move on now.

Till just recently the only hope I had of buying any clothes to fit me over here was to have them custom made. It is relatively cheap to have clothes made, but it is still a rather large expenditure to anyone watching their pennies. The one time I had clothes tailored specifically for me was, you guessed it: 3 years ago, when I first came here. A linen dress and a skirt cost 600Yuan – about $100. Truly not a bad price. I still wear them, too.

Now I can walk into nearly any store and find something to fit me. Not just men’s clothes, either! Wuhan has several H+M stores, a British clothing retail chain and C&A, a German outlet. The clothes there are fashionable and, while not all styles come in my size I can find an adequate selection to update my wardrobe. They do tend to be a bit pricey, but on the other hand… I reasoned that I would be returning stateside each year and could then replenish or replace whatever I need, clothing wise. While I am not likely to find undergarments in my size over here, I can now shop for socks and clothing. Binge shopping during those thirty days I’m stateside is no longer a requirement. 

I was ecstatic when relaying to my conspirators that I had bought a gallon of Clorox bleach, some Clorox II for colors and even a bleach pen for isolated spots. I actually held the bottle up to the camera for them to see! That shopping trip is when I discovered pre-moistened cleaning wipes, something I had been longing for pretty much since settling in over here. Of course that yearning was not nearly as deep as my desire for paper towels, being as most Chinese hold toilet paper to the same standard as paper towels.

Paper towels have been a kitchen standard of mine since I found them over 2 years ago at Metro, of course. All other stores seem to resist the idea of stocking them. Metro is having a hard time keeping them in stock. I give it another 2 years before every Chinese kitchen comes equipped with a paper towel dispenser.

The find of the year has to be Pledge floor care. It is not as convenient as a Swiffer but it works like a charm! Since treating my floors a month ago, I’ve yet to see any accumulation of dust. Once every few days I will run the dust mop, but nowadays my floors are looking really, REALLY good. A vast improvement over my former trials of spraying a water-based cleaner and mopping it up, and mopping it up, and mopping it up. Not that I’m repeating myself, I’m just describing the action. Until about a month ago, my floors looked terrible. Now they gleam, and I beam.

Doritos would be a good way to celebrate, right? It just so happens that Metro has started stocking them, the Cool Ranch and Nacho Cheese varieties. My jaw literally dropped when I saw them, lingering on the shelf, begging me to buy and buy. One bag costs 33Yuan, steep for sure! But, as an indulgence, I don’t mind. Besides, now I have a lot of friends hooked on them so I have to race them to Metro before they buy them all.

It seems I talk a lot about Metro, doesn’t it? And somehow, I got back on the topic of food. Let’s walk away from that… again.     

Looking back on all this I reflect: goodness! How time flies!!!

Today I had lunch with a former student, Summer and her mom. We’ve been good friends pretty much since I got here. Summer was in one of my first classes. Now she is graduated, her mother has retired and we had nothing more to do today than go out and enjoy the sunshine. We chose to meet at Han Jie, a premier shopping and cultural district.

I could have been in any shopping venue stateside. There is Gap, Baby Gap, Abercrombie and Fitch, as well as the aforementioned H+M and C&A stores. There is Dairy Queen, Starbucks, Baskin Robbins, and of course McDonalds. A few housewares stores, similar to Bed, Bath and Beyond.

We wandered into a shopping mall so new you could still smell raw construction materials. Not many stores open yet, but those that were, are upscale. In the basement of this megamall is a grocery store much like Chicony, but with greater variety. When I say ‘variety’ I mean a substantial array of foreigner goods.

There were several different types of German bread and an entire aisle full of coffee products. The cold case was stocked with exotic meats and cheeses. Along the wall, those shelves were reserved for baking goods. Here too are Doritos, and several other types of chips/crisps. I even saw a bag of Fritos! And then… Lo and Behold: they had a selection of decaffeinated coffee AND flavored coffee mate! Yes, it was expensive, but… guess what I did? Come winter time I enjoy a creamy beverage but need to steer clear of caffeine, especially in the evening. I believe it was that hazelnut flavored coffee that I drank just prior to sitting at the keyboard that prompted the thought:

Nowadays, shopping over here is comparable to shopping stateside. Any size shopping center is sure to have at least a small section stocked with foreigner goods, if not entire stores dedicated to such items. Clothing retailers are now catering to larger sized people. There is a greater variety of cleaning products. Most are comparable to what you would find in any store in America. Even dishwashing liquid has been revolutionized.

How ironic: when I first came here I would have given my eyeteeth for familiarity. Now that I’m comfortable among the Chinese and with their wares, suddenly there is a bevy of American products to choose from! 

Never mind. I’m going to go to Burger King, have a whopper and try to forget all about foreigner goods.

    

Ding Dze Tiao

I first became acquainted with this oddly named street the year I came here. Young Tony, who, back then was young, young Tony invited me to dinner, instructing me to get off bus 907 at that stop. That was in the days when A. I didn’t know my way around town, B. could not read or understand any Chinese and C. when bus stops were ephemeral, consisting of a group of people standing by the side of the road, flagging down buses as they came by.

These days, all of those conditions have been corrected, bus stops are firmly planted and I know not to ride bus 907, which charges 1Yuan more to ride than all of the other buses. 

The second brush with ‘Ding’ was Martin’s last name. You’ll remember Martin, aka Monkey, whose family greeted me warmly and then proceeded to hold me prisoner out in the country. (See Country Chicken entry, posted August of this year). For a while I played with him as did one of Chandler’s buddies did on Friends. Chandler’s last name was Bing and his friend would always say it twice: “Chandler Bing. Bing!” I would intone “Martin Ding. DING!!” and thump him on the head.

With all this Ding-ing, you’d think I’d get curious about what that word means, wouldn’t you?

It took me a while but I finally did. The event that prompted me to do so was a walk through Sam’s neighborhood.

It seems we had time-traveled back to the 70’s, at the apex of the Cultural Revolution. By this time, most everyone in China had settled in to the fact that they would be productive within their communes. Not unlike the ‘factory towns’ of America during the early 1900’s, workers were housed in company quarters, shopped at local (company owned or subsidized) stores and worked long stretches in factories. However, unlike the form of indentured servitude espoused by Ford, Carnegie and the like, Chinese factory towns made no promises of eventual ‘freedom’. Workers were assigned to their units and factories were ‘owned’ by the government. Each complex was completely self-sufficient. There were schools, parks, shopping venues – not many, mind you. Everything anyone needed to live could be found within the factory complex.

Today, an echo of those long-gone factory villages are found here and there. Neither publicized nor glorified, these neighborhoods are still inhabited. It would be impossible for me to convey the exact sights, sounds of these communes. Again I do myself a disservice by posting photos. I can relate the ambience of such a ‘park’ in one word: timeless. See for yourself:  

There are pictures of the market serving the area, and of the park, central to the commune.

The building portico is a part of the old factory building, now abandoned. A grim looking entrance to an apartment building. Note the blue and white sign that denotes what type of work cooperative this particular unit was. The last picture shows the added on kitchen area (built out area in bright red brick), primitive electrical connections and recent add-ons: air conditioning and satellite dish. Note the faded unit number, 38 in the blue bordered white circle.  

The inside of such a dwelling will come in a later entry.

   

Stand Your Ground

George Zimmerman is in the news again. He’s back in Florida, booked on another domestic violence charge – his second. Earlier this year he was busted for speeding through Texas and yes, he had his concealed gun and valid registration. The media was very clear on that subject. 

This entry isn’t about guns, and it isn’t political. It is about ‘standing ground’. I had in mind to write this several months back, thanks to my good friend and constant correspondent Kevin. He and I have opposing views on just about any socio-political hot button from abortion to gun rights, with the Stand your Ground law smack in the middle of it.

He who fired the ‘ground-standing’ shot heard ‘round the world - Mr. Zimmerman, making headlines again, brought the topic back to my scattered mind. Kevin wanted to know about ‘Stand Your Ground’ laws in China. The short answer is: there are none.

If I left it at that, this would be a very bland, boring and unnecessary blog entry. So, I’m going to delve.

First, let me state: China is a gun free country. Therefore, Stand Your Ground legislation as it exists in America (with regard to guns) would not be applicable. Second: The Chinese government doesn’t necessarily concern itself with day to day interactions between citizens. They focus more on general social mores: one SHOULD maintain filial piety and loyalty to his/her country. People SHOULD strive to be ‘good’, productive, strive for high standards of living, of decency, dignity and decorum… and on and on. To be a member of this society implies adherence to these social ‘laws’. To my knowledge, there is no law or edict that states one has the right to defend him/herself by whatever means necessary, even unto the death of the offending party. 

What if there is a death? Criminal charges may or may not be filed. The altercations’ victors are not legally charged with a killing unless someone – usually a member of the victim’s family presses charges. In such cases, usually the police will negotiate a settlement between the ‘ground stander’ and the victim’s family. Some monetary value is agreed upon, depending on the status of the victim: was he/she a breadwinner? Were there many family members to support? Children to send to school? Such compensation would mirror approximately the financial value of the deceased. Not a lifetime value, mind you, but enough for the victim’s family to bridge the gap between what their slain loved one might have earned and the lack of those earnings, till they can figure out how to make up those resources.   

If the police cannot help the parties arrive to an agreement – i.e., the slain person’s family still wishes to take the matter to court, the police will then file charges and the matter will be brought before a judge, usually within a few weeks. Should the accused be found guilty, he/she would be remanded to some form of custody for a set period of imprisonment.

Most opt for settlement, mainly because if the matter goes to trial, which would most likely lead to incarceration, the victim’s family will receive no funds. Not that folks here are meretricious, but life in China is hard and people are pragmatic. Better to receive some sort of compensation so that life can go on. It is easier to grieve the loss of a loved one when all other aspects of life are at least somewhat maintained.

Does that mean that there is no Standing of Ground over here? Not on your life, my friend! (pardon the pun).

I never really gave this much thought, but I do get irritated on crowded buses. They get packed with people, even to the doorwells. Most times, those blocking the doors will not move to let passengers on or off. When a rider’s stop arrives, he/she is required to squeeze past or eek by those ‘blockers’, or shove them out of the way. It is even more difficult to do if/when that person has a suitcase or some other large bundle.

This doesn’t just happen in doorways. Sometimes, riders find a comfortable place to stand – near an open window or under an air conditioning vent, or maybe they have a group of seats scoped out for the chance at sitting, if theirs will be a long ride. That person will not move, even as the bus fills up. Newly boarded passengers have to ooze past those glued to their spots in order to find a place to stand that will afford them some sort of strap or pole to grip while the bus jounces around. This situation is aggravated if the unmoving passenger has a large bundle, a stroller or a suitcase.

And speaking of getting a seat… little old ladies may be harmless in the states, but over here, heaven forbid you should come between an empty seat and a senior citizen desiring to rest! Usually, women are more aggressive than men in this aspect. I have literally been pushed out of the way by tiny, wizened womenfolk who wish to park themselves where I had been planning to rest my duff.

I talked with Tristan about this matter after a particularly aggravating, jerky bus ride. He too averred he does not get out of the way, even if he could. He could not explain why. I suppose this behavior is so deeply ingrained in the culture that many Chinese would not be aware of doing it until it is pointed out.

You could say that, in China, bus riders definitely ‘stand their ground’. But it is not just bus riders.

At the farmers’ market, grocery stores, mom-and-pop operations, hole-in-the-wall restaurants, hospitals and just about everywhere I’ve gone, the Chinese have demonstrated a ‘Stand Your Ground’ mentality. It is nothing to cut in line at the supermarket, a train ticketing window, the bakery or a noodle stand. It is perfectly acceptable to shout questions or proffer money at cashiers, even while they are in the middle of a transaction with another customer.

You will not get wait-service in a restaurant unless you loudly call for it. You will be pushed aside and possibly stomped on at tourist venues, relics, temples or at the lake. You’d better be ready to bark your order to the cashier at McDonalds’ before someone cuts in from the side and takes your turn. In short, anywhere one is required to queue up and maintain decorum you will find a slew of eager, impatient Chinese ready to take advantage of any opening, no matter how small.

That includes driving. Unless your vehicle is within kissing distance from all vehicles around you, you can count on being cut off. That goes for dump trucks and double-decker buses as well as battery powered scooters.

While on the subject of scooters: they ride anywhere – sidewalks, bike paths, turning lane, center lane, right lane… wherever they can make their little put-puts go. As a pedestrian I have engaged many times in a tango with a scooter. So far those dances have not ended up in disaster for me, although once, during a heavy rainfall I did see a scooter knock a young woman wearing heels to the ground. While the bus I was riding ground slowly past, I could see their wild gesticulations. No doubt they were attempting to lay blame on each other to avoid having to pay compensation.

As you can see, there is plenty of ‘Standing Your Ground’ over here, and not much of it has to do with violence. Over here, ‘standing your ground’ means taking and defending your little portion of… whatever it is you are currently defending, whether standing room on a bus or your place in line at McDonalds’.           

A headline making case over here involved a man who, while arguing with a woman over a parking space, grabbed her daughter out of her stroller and flung her to the ground. The child died 2 days later, of injuries sustained from being spiked like a volleyball. The man was arrested and tried, found guilty of murder and currently serving his sentence. He has filed an appeal based on the fact that he did not intend to murder the child. His defense is based on the fact that many people in China use baby strollers for many different reasons, among them for vegetable transport.

This is true: I have seen strollers ‘recycled’ into shopping carts. This man maintains that in his drunken state he thought he was throwing vegetables around. I’m not sure how drunk one would have to be to mistake a baby for a cabbage. Perhaps it is possible… In any case: the mother stood her ground to have this man arrested, tried and imprisoned. The defendant is standing his ground by asserting he thought he was flinging cabbage. This is one argument the courts are going to have to straighten out.

Foreigners who come to China unprepared for this mentality are in for a shock. Mostly, they consider the Chinese rude for standing their ground. I contend it is not rudeness, merely culturally different. Could you imagine that type of imperative coupled with a handgun?     

As Tears Rolled Down His Face…

The year was 1978. The place: Berlin, Germany. I am one of 2 English speaking students in the entire school, the other being my best friend, Marjorie. As a part of the fallout from our parents’ divorces, we were no longer entitled to attend DOD schools, so we were conditionally accepted into an “Oberstufenzentrum” – a German intermediate school geared to prepare students for apprenticeships or the Abitur, the major exam gateway to higher education. Marjorie, fluent in German thanks to her mother, quickly established social connections and had no trouble keeping up with lessons. As for me, barely having mastered ‘Danke Schoen’, I was put in the uncomfortable position of having to learn at least the rudiments of that language by the end of the first 6 week marking period in order to keep my eligibility for attendance.

The classes rotated much the way they do here in China: once established into a ‘class’, that group of students attend all classes together. Also, rather than the students prowling the halls between classes, the students stay in their homeroom and the teachers go from class to class. Marjorie and I were in ‘A’ class, along with two Bettinas, two Michaels, and one each of Ingo, Astrid, Nadja… and so on. Our homeroom teacher was Herr DeBoer, spelled just like the Boers of South Africa.

He was an odd man, as I remember, but a very engaging teacher. I towered over him – by age 14 I was already a skinny, lanky, long thing, having reached my lifelong height of 1.83m (6’). He had red hair… what was left of it, and a rich, well groomed mustache and goatee. He was rather paunchy and his shoulders hunched forward, as though under some great weight. Probably his most memorable feature was his eyes, glittering hazel from under the pronounced shelf of his brow.

At times I thought of him as ape-like in stature, but there was no mistaking the intelligence, depth and sensitivity of this man. He took great pains to include Marjorie and I in the lessons, calling on us, in the back of the room, in his peculiar way: feet firmly planted, right arm arcing around in counterclockwise motion, ending the gesture by pointing at one or the other of us and saying: “Marjorie (or my name), what do you think?”

In those days I was so shy I would literally turn red and tear up when called on. That was a long time ago.

Herr DeBoer was thirty eight years old at the time Marjorie and I graced his classroom. He was young enough to have lived through the last days of WWII. In fact, it is his recounting of one of his most precious memories that I wish to share with you.

His earliest memories are of war-torn Germany in the final days of the Third Reich. While he never specifically indicated whether his parents took good care of him or even whether he had a life of relative privilege during that dark period in history, he did make it clear he had witnessed immeasurable horror. Indeed, as he recounted that time in his life, his eyes seemed to sink further into his skull. He would sit on the corner of his desk, his body folding upon itself as though to shield himself from great pain. Or maybe he was reliving hunger cramps. His lips would quiver while relating how people scrounged through sewage and garbage for something to eat.  

And then came that glorious day: Spring 1945, when American troops marched into town, liberating those citizens from the shroud of Nazism. Herr DeBoer’s tone grew light and a smile crinkled his face as he told of standing on the edge of the crowd lining the streets. There he is, a small boy, perhaps hungry and definitely wary of air raid sirens and the pain of hunger. He is curious of these great men, marching in their green clothes, singing and smiling. Joy was a rare commodity in those days; he is not sure what those expressions portend.

As the column marches past, a wave of euphoria infects the crowd. Fearful of being trampled, or maybe just wanting a better look, this 4-year old boy steps further out, into the path of those smiling, green-clad men. Suddenly, one of them breaks rank, reaches into his pack and stoops to offer the child a chocolate. After the boy takes it, that soldier pats him on the head and, smiling, rejoins the ranks.

As Herr DeBoer talks, his countenance shifts between jubilance and sorrow. So impactful is this memory that, toward the end of his recounting, he could not bear to look at anyone. His every effort goes to controlling his voice so that it does not break. His hands, gripped tightly in front of him show white from the power of his clench. He quavers: “To this day, that is the sweetest chocolate I have ever eaten.” He sighed, heaved himself off the corner of his desk and surreptitiously wiped his eyes as he turned to face the blackboard.

Throughout the room, not a sound. You could have heard a pin drop.

I don’t know what my classmates felt or thought, but to this day I remember the impact Herr DeBoer’s story had on me. As an American, I was fiercely proud that my countrymen brought that child a treat, thus forming one of his most powerful memories. As a student I was part horrified and part fascinated by this adult who displayed such deep emotion. I felt like a voyeur.

By definition, a ‘veteran’ is a person who has had long experience in a particular field. While we Americans tend to think of veterans only as those grizzled folk who stumbled home from Viet Nam in body but not necessarily in soul, or those who served in the Korean War or in any antagonistic theater, we should also include spouses and children, parents and loved ones as veterans. They too endured hardship and loss, even though theirs was of a different magnitude than those in combat experienced.   

I am appalled these days to read of a growing body of people who believe The Holocaust was a hoax and that Germans were never oppressed, fearful or starving. I think of those servicemen who entered those camps and were horrified to find living cadavers, people in trenches whose feverish eyes glittered with the last of the life in them. I recall the countless tales of soldiers, nurses, doctors, priests who visited and ministered to camp survivors. All those movies about Omaha Beach, Normandy, fears of Sarin and Soman and mustard gas, ack-acks firing in the mist and potato mashers flung into columns of marching men.

Our Veterans deserve better than this incredulity. Not just the ones that went to fight but the ones who stayed at home, the ones who tended to the weak, the sick, the lame and the halt behind enemy lines and on friendly soil.

Time is running thin. Frank Buckles, the last surviving American WWI Veteran passed on in 2011. By natural attrition we are losing our eyewitnesses to history, while the ranks of skeptics and outright disbelievers grow ever more populous. Public school history books are now so genteel that only a mention of WWII and its atrocities is made. On news panels and chat forums dealing with the topic people are commenting: “It happened a long time ago: get over it!” Already it is believed the Holocaust was at least greatly exaggerated, if not an outright fabrication. Even more frightful is that some espouse the idea that wanton killing of such magnitude was a great idea, and should be going on today.

Let us not forget, today and every day, why we honor our Veterans: not just for the service they rendered, by why they were called into service (or felt compelled to join). Let us never forget what they saw, endured and lived through. Let us include in that number those who waited in vain for their loved ones to come home, those who lived through warring periods without it impacting their life in any direct way, and those who, as civilians witnessed unspeakable horror but could do nothing but live with the massive guilt of preserving their own life while all around, others perished.   

That includes Herr DeBoer and his ilk: those who experienced war at a tender age, who, even thirty four years later can taste the sweet chocolate melting in his mouth.

 

   

     

 

My New Friend Gus

So many times, when out and about I see foreigners… who won’t make eye contact or greet me. I had read somewhere that many expats do not wish to ‘ruin their authentic Chinese experience’. They tend to not mingle with people of their own race or ethnicity unless they are somehow connected: colleagues maybe, or perhaps their husbands work together. Possibly they even came here together, best friends wanting to share an overseas adventure.  

And then there was that one time, while enjoying an afternoon out at a café I saw 3 young ‘foreigner’ moms chatting away, one whose baby had toddled closer to me. Not within grabbing reach – as if I would grab anyone’s child! The little cutie was certainly curious enough to stare long and hard across the aisle. 

Baby flirting is so fun! You smile, the baby smiles. You wave, the baby waves. You play peek-a-boo, and the baby gives that puzzled look, as if wondering whether the peek-a-booing adult actually thinks he/she is invisible behind his/her hands.

The aforementioned baby and I had gotten to the ‘peek-a-boo’ stage when his mother noticed a stranger engaging her child. She threw me a baleful look while scooping her charge up, and admonished him not to wander away again. (See Babies entry, posted May 2012)

As if I’d hurt any baby!!!

I’ve gotten used to what I call ‘the foreigner effect’. When I see a non-Chinese, I will glance his/her way and, if he/she doesn’t make eye contact or send a greeting, I won’t either. Far be it from me to ruin anyone’s authentic Chinese experience. So imagine my surprise yesterday, while out and about, upon espying a trim young man in a green tee-shirt munching down on a steamed bun, not just making eye contact but maintaining it!

I wrote a while back that Wuhan has 3 subway lines: Line 1 is blue, Line 2 is pink and Line 4 is yellow. Not sure what happened to Line 3. I also confided that I was a bit leery of navigating the city via subway because I mostly rely on visual clues to know when to get off the bus. Since then, after learning names of streets and stops, I have practiced riding the subway until I became as proficient riding trains as I am riding buses. Besides, riding the train is much more convenient: no traffic! 

On what could be the last day of fine weather before winter winds howl down I decided to venture into a part of town I had only glanced at from a train window. On the agenda: lunch at Burger King, train to this as yet unexplored area, perhaps a nice tea in some shop in that neighborhood and then home to eat a take-out dinner.

Apparently this green-shirted man had gotten off the same train I did. We were walking the same direction, he far enough ahead of me that I did not immediately notice him. He had crossed the street before I did, and then turned around. His eyes locked on mine and when I came upon him, he spoke! He must be one of those rare foreigners who do not mind sharing their wonder and awe of China.

As it turns out, he had just gotten here a few weeks ago and was starved for companionship, a feeling I remember well from my first months here.

Gus is very friendly, and very open about what he’s been subjected to so far. We spent nearly a half hour, standing on the sidewalk outside a Starbucks, talking. He confessed he was on his way into the shopping center to buy cookware and asked where I was headed. I offered to treat him to a coffee, which he declined. Mineral water became an acceptable compromise. It was while enjoying that bottle of water that he told me his tale of horror.

He had been contracted by a private school to teach little children oral English. Upon arrival in Wuhan, no one met him at the airport. He had to find his way into town and to his school by himself. Once he arrived he was instructed to report for class the very next day, and given a paper with a course outline and a list of words he was expected to teach each day. He was offered no materials, no textbooks and no support of any kind.

Still jet lagged, he was led to his apartment… that being an exceedingly generous term for the living quarters his school provides. Less than fifty square meters of unfurnished living space, most of the walls covered in mold. He showed me pictures and told me he scrubbed his place for 3 days before feeling confident enough to unpack anything. As bad as I thought my place was when I first got here, it was nowhere near as bad as the quarters Gus was given.

The first night he had no electricity or water. He had to scrounge for food on his own. While out buying something to eat he bought several bottles of water, making do with that until he could get more settled, and maybe more help navigating the immediate needs of life from some friendly colleague or school staff member.

I have Sam, my 24/7 liaison person who takes exceptionally good care of me and over time has become my friend. Gus was supposed to have Tiffany, who told him she was not his babysitter or his mother. Basically, he was left to sink or swim as best he could on his own.

Gus earns 7,000Yuan each month to teach 6 hours per day, but has to pay the school 1,000Yuan each month for the privilege of teaching. He also has to pay rent and utilities on his school-provided apartment. Virtually nothing is given him or provided to or for him, and he certainly gets no support from the school staff. Even his passport is still in their custody, ostensibly to obtain the working visa required by the government. The contract he had signed prior to coming to China had been revised and he was required to sign a new contract, vastly different from the one he signed before his arrival. He had to resort to threatening the school officials with legal action, and only then did they relent and at least go through the motions of doing for him.

The more he talked the more I gaped in disbelief. I had read such horror stories as his online, posted by foreign teachers whose experiences were nowhere near what I had been treated to. The more Gus talked, the more I mentally compared his situation to mine. I concluded he must be a man of fortitude to suffer all that he has endured so far and not throw in the towel, as I no doubt would have.

And, the more he talked the more I recalled my early days here: the loneliness, the deprivation, the confusion and fear, and longing for my loved ones.

After sitting in the café for over 2 hours we were both ready to move on, but I sensed Gus was not ready to let go of a friendly face. We went shopping together. His goal was to purchase something to cook on so that he can make an omelet for dinner. While shopping he talked of a friend he has in the city who he never gets to see because his schedule is so tight. She works many hours as well: ten hours per day, 6 days per week. Again I sensed his isolation, his need to connect.  

Gus selected a low end – read: cheap – electronic hotplate. Besides a kettle, it is the only cooking appliance in his kitchen. We then went to the grocery section, where he bought eggs, mushrooms and apples for his dinner. His eyes agleam, he talked of the omelet he anticipated enjoying for dinner that night. Shortly after paying for his purchases, we parted company. But not before I caught and enjoyed the aura of triumph he sported. We exchanged contact information and then went our separate ways.   

Meeting Gus, spending that afternoon with him and sharing his glee at doing for himself recalled all those times I returned home, exultant over some small feat. Even now, embarking on my 4^th year here I manage a coup or two that I get giddy about. Surely the win is not as savage or as great as any of the ones when I first came here, but they are sweet, nonetheless. I think that, from here on out, when I do something new I’ll most likely think of Gus, and his joy over a simple omelet.  

And Sam!!! Thank all my lucky stars for Sam!! Matter of fact, thinking back on all Gus told me I decided Sam deserves a huge ‘thank you’. With the homeward bound bus stuck in hopelessly snarled traffic, I whipped out my phone and sent my friend a ‘thank you’ message in 4 different languages. I did not tell him why I was thanking him. Silly Sam! He responded with every self-effacing phrase existent in Chinese! I roared with laughter, mindless of the other passengers gaping at me.

I hope Gus will soon find a friend like Sam.