Who Will Save Sasuke?

Usually when I write a post, there are elements of humor among the serious topics I discuss. In this post, I cannot inject a bit of humor. It is deadly serious. I mean that: there is in fact a life at stake here.

Sasuke is a freshman student at this college. She is a rather plain girl: oval face, unremarkable eyes, a somewhat narrow mouth and a straight nose. She wears her hair pulled back to expose smallish ears; unfortunately that hairstyle serves to highlight what must have been a terrible case of acne in her younger years. With her face so exposed, one cannot help but notice the pitting and scars on her cheeks. She is rather tall for a Chinese girl, nearly as tall as I am and painfully thin. She is decidedly different from all of the girls on campus.

Last semester she was in my class, and she proved to be a wonderful student, well versed in English. She is very intelligent and very deep. Her emotions are intense; they burn and radiate out from her. I think she scares the other students away from her with her intensity. I know she frightens me with her intensity.

I am not scared that she will harm me in any way. Quite the contrary: I fear she has formed an unnatural bond with me and now looks to me for constant affirmation and acceptance. What I am scared of is that she will harm herself.

Sasuke has some serious issues going on. I don’t know what trauma there is in her past but I recognize her for what she is: a victim of child abuse. I know that because I see in her some of the behaviors, mannerisms and emotions I exhibited due to my own traumatic past.

I often use music in the classroom to help the kids with their listening skills, as well as spoken English. Amazingly, when singing, these kids sound more like native English speakers than when they try to speak English. I will explore that phenomenon in another post. I only brought the topic up to introduce this one:

Girls and boys all over China love the song “Because of You” by Kelly Clarkson. As a result of that, and in an effort to reach my students at their level, we explored the lyrics of this song in class, and sang it together. Beautiful song!

Do you know it? If you don’t it is well worth the listen. Simply go to YouTube and search for the song and artist by that name (Not the Reba McEntyre version). Take a close look at the video and you will see what it is about: a girl dealing with the anger and sadness of having been neglected by her parents while they struggled through their marital problems, and ultimately the dissolution of their relationship. The poor little girl ended up neglected and forgotten, and it impacted her emotionally. The song is about the consequences of abuse and neglect.

Although this is a fairly common phenomenon in America, it is not quite the norm in China. The way families are structured here, if the parents are unavailable, for whatever reason, there are always grandparents, aunts, uncles… someone to look out for the child.

Sasuke apparently did not have the benefit of extended family, and she was certainly treated to adult behaviors not fit for a child. When we explored this song in class, she was the only one who ‘got’ the true meaning of the lyrics, right off the bat. When I pointed out the cultural differences between the States and China with regard to child rearing – my alluding to the fact that there is a protective emotional bubble constructed around the child, she shook her head and said ‘It is not always so’. That was not my first clue that not all was right with Sasuke.

The first clue was her mode of dress: whereas every other girl on campus comes equipped with a fashionable wardrobe, Sasuke wears no embellishments whatsoever. No jewelry, makeup or fancy clothing. Just jeans and Plain-Jane shirts. The next was offering me a gift upon first meeting me at English corner; this gift signified her attachment. She had actually left the meeting and come back to present me with a gift. Immediately my instincts shouted: “Danger! Emotional attachment forming!”

Not that I mind emotional attachments. It is just that I am not qualified to deal with attachments of this caliber. Once, in my past was a young girl named Deana who formed such an attachment and was devastated when I did not handle it properly. I didn’t know how to handle it properly and, arrogantly I believed I could help Deana all by myself. With Sasuke I see the same scenario playing out as with Deana.

I am now not so arrogant as to believe I can single-handedly help this young girl through her troubles. With age comes wisdom, and I now know that I cannot become emotional where she is concerned, as I did with Deana. I must maintain distance, even though distance is the last thing that Sasuke (and Deana before her) want from me. But that is what they need. Forming unnatural attachments is dangerous for people with issues such as Sasuke’s, Deana’s and mine of yore.

Sasuke now has Victor for a teacher. I do not see her regularly anymore but we do stay in touch. It was her birthday that we celebrated a few weeks back (see the entry “KTV, Now and Then”). We send text messages back and forth – usually me responding to her overtures. I am always careful to not engage her, and to remain neutral in my dealings with her. It is the safest way to handle this type of situation.

Recently, Sasuke visited my class as a guest student – she had actually cut a class to do so. While in class I noticed recent scars on her hands, so I accepted her invitation to dinner so that I could find out why she was cutting herself. Self-mutilation is a cry for help for people with deep emotional problems. To have rejected her could have meant her doing more serious harm to herself.

During this dinner, I took a ‘tough love’ approach. I pointed to her hand and asked her what she was doing. She hid her hand, embarrassed, but I forged on. I talked with her about harming herself being a sign that she needed more help than I could offer her. I told her I recognized where she was heading because I had been where she is now. I told her about some of the things I went through as an abused child, and how it took professional help and a lot of time and faith in myself and those who love me to overcome the trauma of what I had endured at the hands of my parents. I kept going back to the idea that professional help was the only way out of her suffering.

I also told her that she is different from other girls, and that it is OK to be different. I comforted her by saying that she will feel OK being different once she gets out from the monstrous wall of pain she lives behind. Again, I used myself and that song by Kelly Clarkson as examples of how one can overcome such pain and grief at unfairly being robbed of your childhood.

She confided that my eyes scare her sometimes. She feels that my eyes see right through to her deepest, darkest secrets. I replied that they do, and with good reason. Because she is me, thirty years ago. The situations may have been different, but the end result is the same: a tortured soul, trying to decide whether the agony of living is worth it. Again I told her that it took me several years of professional help to battle all of my demons.

I am not a trained clinician. I am not qualified to help the Sasukes or the Deanas of the world. I could barely help myself out of my own, dark thoughts. I am well aware of that. But… if I go talk to the Mental Health professionals on campus to seek help for her, I am in fact betraying her confidence. That is the last thing this broken girl needs. What to do? In America I would have the liberty of telling her that, for her own good and by law, I must report her behavior and her issues to the professionals. It doesn’t work that way here. All I know to do is remain detached, and keep hammering away at her and encouraging her to seek professional help, before the cuts on her hands become gashes across her carotid artery.

Incidentally: that dinner was actually a misnomer. Sasuke did not eat anything, and wouldn’t even sample my fried rice. So, knowing I am no knight on a white horse riding to the rescue, the question remains: who will save Sasuke?

Answer: Only Sasuke can save Sasuke by seeking professional help for her pain.

Don’t Stop!

We’ll address two topics under this title, and they both involve stopping: one of my favorite ongoing topics, traffic, and school kids. Believe me; you don’t want to get in the way of either one in China. Doing so can have unwanted consequences for you.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve been a passenger in a car only a handful of times, and I’ve driven nothing bigger than a shopping cart. Even that, I do seldom. In China, you just don’t shop the same way you do in America. Bulk buying is virtually unheard of, except maybe at Metro, Carrefour or WalMart. Usually, you don’t even need a shopping cart at a regular grocery store for the little you buy at a time. Shopping is done as needed: a bottle of soy sauce here, a pound of rice there, or going to the baker’s or butcher’s or the farmer’s market. It is kind of like shopping was done in the ‘50s and ‘60s in America. Quaint! Charming!

Even though I do not drive, I do still try to reason out the traffic situation. How does it manage to get so snarled? How does anybody get where they are going? How is it that there are not more accidents?

And then, it hit me: I have not seen a stop sign since I’ve been here. I have seen red lights and amber lights and standard traffic lights that are fully operational (and sometimes ignored). But, coming off the side streets onto the main roads, or at merging intersections, or for buses coming off designated bus lanes into mainstream traffic there is nothing to denote which vehicle has the right of way. No lights and no signs. There is nothing compelling traffic from anywhere to pause and look for oncoming traffic before they jump into the fray.

And they don’t. They just keep driving as though there is no oncoming traffic: no buses or cars, no pedestrians, no scooters, no ambling dogs and no human-powered pushcarts. I suppose everyone has to look out for merging traffic from side streets as they progress down the main roads. As a pedestrian, I certainly make it a point to check for cars or scooters coming off side roads before I cross those streets, even when I am in a crosswalk. You just never know.

One reason traffic does not get snarled is because of mandatory speed reductions school zones. There are at least two primary schools on the main road in front of the University, and countless others throughout the city. Five to six days a week these schools disgorge hordes of little ones, who take to the roads and buses with gleeful abandon. And, when I say little ones, I’m talking about five- and six-year olds, all the way up to tens and teens. There are no designated school zones where vehicles must slow to a crawl and there are no lines of school buses seeking safe passage onto main thoroughfares. There are no crosswalk monitors that insure these kiddies have priority crossing the road and only a relative few parents and grandparents wait at the school gates to see the children home.

I used to despair in America that, wherever there was a school – kindergarten through high school, that all vehicle traffic must slow down to twenty miles per hour. Crosswalk officers stop traffic whether pedestrians have a green light or not so the kids can cross and policemen are not shy at all about issuing tickets for speed offenders.

First off, I can understand such precautions for wee little ones, but shouldn’t older kids, at least high school kids be accountable for themselves? Especially if said high school kids are actually driving? Why must there be speed restrictions in front of high schools? And then: if a school of any grade range is on a side road, why does traffic on the main road have to slow down? Isn’t that overkill? What kind of message does that send the kids? “You do not have to be accountable for yourself and your safety because the whole world is being made to slow down for you.” Is that the best way to teach kids personal safety and accountability?

As a result of those traffic laws and the ensuing snarls and delays, when I lived in the States I would avoid being out between 2:00PM and 4:00PM. Of course, immediately after the school zones ended their asinine speed restrictions for the day, rush hour started: when everyone got off work at the same time and jumped into their individual vehicles and tried to get home. In short, going anywhere between the hours of 2PM and 7PM was too frustrating a venture for me when I lived in America.

Now I deal with traffic delays all of the time. But, I can manage these so much better because there is a logical reason for them. Mind you, I didn’t say sensible, I said logical. As in: the reason why traffic snarls so hopelessly here is definable. No one stops for anything, therefore everyone must stop for everything.

Due to a spate of attacks on school children in China last year, schools are more closely guarded and parents do try to be at the school gate when their little ones are released for the day. That means that there is a collection of adults standing outside school gates. They park their scooters haphazardly along the road because there is no room on or along the sidewalk. The result: traffic problems.

Because more adults are seeing their kids safely to and from school, buses are more crowded – parents who do not have scooters or cars ride the buses. The buses take longer to load and unload passengers, especially at popular stops – in front of schools and… the neighborhood where my university is at, for example.

I really don’t like being out while the school kids are making their way home. They are loud and rambunctious just as are kids all over the world. It is difficult to enjoy a bus ride when the kids are on board. They fight for and take up all of the seats. They squeal and fight and play and shout. They like poking fun at the foreigner, saying their “Hello’s” and trying out their English language skills, as well as testing out my Chinese skills. Although they are rather adorable, I would just as soon avoid the noise and having to stand on the bus all the way home.

However, I can’t help but admire these little ones – very little ones in some cases, who make their way home on mass transit or in the world by themselves. They navigate traffic and the bus system as well as any adult and they see themselves and each other safely home. They do not operate under the illusion that they have some sort of extra privilege because all traffic stops for them; they KNOW they have to be careful and watch out. They are held accountable for themselves and they take that accountability in stride. Short little strides, because their little legs cannot manage big, deep, adult strides.

They stride nonetheless, on their own. And they make it home every day, whether there are stop signs or not. Not bad, for a collection of little ones, no?

It Is Raining!

If it is true that April showers bring May flowers, what do March showers bring? And, if the goodness I’m being showered with in March manifests itself in wealth and material goods, what can I expect for April, May and June?

While I make this play on words with regard to my good fortune, let me take a moment to express my concern over the droughts in Texas. For the little bit of rain that has fallen on my old stomping grounds, I have to admit I am concerned about environmental resources (water tables dropping, unhealthy bacteria in local water sources, food prices soaring, electrical rates skyrocketing, rolling brownouts and possible blackouts) as well as the health and well-being of all my friends living there. Take care, you guys! You are in my thoughts and prayers. I hope that rain will soon come your way.

Let me mention as well the people of Japan. I have been remiss in writing about the double-hitter tragedy they suffered with the earthquake and the tsunami. I will soon remedy that. For now I’ll just say that I cannot consider my good fortune without thinking of their devastation. Indeed, there but for the grace of all that is good and powerful and right, go I. Go we… right?

Now, let’s get on with these showers of mine.

The first bit of fortune came at the beginning of the month when the school made good on their promise to deliver a new television, complete with Internet TV connection (see ‘Building Guanxi entry). This new TV is a flatscreen, top of the line, 32-inch model to complement my living room. Not only do I get all of the Chinese channels but I also get movie channels, music channels, special interest channels, the channel that broadcasts in English and other features. It will even pause, TIVO-like, while I watch a movie so I can get up and get a snack or a cup of tea. It is really much more TV than I anticipated or dreamed of.

As I write this, an old Jackie Chan movie is playing to keep me company. Now nice to hear people speak within these four walls!

The next bit of luck came with the renewal of my contract. It is still a bit early in the year to renew contracts; according to my current contract we weren’t supposed to renew until closer to June. Never mind that, let’s just sign and get done with it! I got a 200Yuan a month raise and an option to renew after Year Two. According to Sam, not many teachers get raises, and even fewer are offered a third year. He avers that the faculty really likes me, and the students consistently report the quality and content of my classes as high, thus the administrators are very interested in keeping me here. I don’t have the first problem with that; I am glad to have a measure of job security.

My third bit of chance comes in the form of a promise: a new apartment in September. Not that I’m complaining about this apartment; it does have its advantages: large rooms, no stairs to climb, no need for air conditioning in the summer (but a desperate need for heat in the winter!). Besides, who am I to complain? I have a place to live; there are some that don’t.

I am looking forward to the new apartment though. This complex is being built solely for the teachers of this school and will be offered for sale at a reduced price. I do not have to buy mine; it is a part of my contract. I don’t have any particulars about the new apartment, so the anticipation is akin to a child waiting for Christmas. What I can certainly look forward to is an environment more conducive to socialization, because…

Sam told me that, since my performance in the New Year show last December (see The Year End Parties) and the teachers have realized that I am open and friendly, many have expressed curiosity about how I live, why I want to work among them and why I abandoned life in America. They are also being much more friendly as we pass each other on campus: smiling and nodding, even speaking a few words occasionally. Perhaps, should we become neighbors, some of their curiosity can be assuaged by my inviting them over. What do you think? I think I’m looking forward to it!

The forth blessing comes in the form of my restored good health. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to no longer feel run down and miserable. I think sunshine and the temperatures warming up have something to do with my good feelings, but feeling physically well and not waking up in the middle of the night, wondering if I’m dying a tortuous death plays the bigger part in it all. There’s nothing like feeling good!

The last bit of joy comes in the shape of a job offer. My friend Carrie Ann told me that recently, they had five teachers out and not enough subs to cover. The administrators and even Carrie Ann herself, the librarian, had to cover a class. Would I consider applying at the school she works at as a substitute teacher? This is at Mapleleaf International School, where the curriculum is taught exclusively in English, and the pay is $100 a day.

I went for my interview last Friday. It wasn’t really an interview, at that. I simply talked with Ewan, one of the directors, who referred me to Darrell, the Head Administrator. I had met Darrell before at the Wuhan Christmas pageant. He remembered me and did not feel the need to interview me; he just welcomed me to his staff. Now have the opportunity to expand my teaching experience at one of the most expensive and prestigious schools in Wuhan. I am ‘fourth sub’, meaning that all of the other substitutes would be called before I am but that suits me fine.

You know, it has not been easy being here, sometimes. But you will never hear me say that I do not have it good. Better than a lot of folks, even. I have great friends, a gravy job, a place to live, money in the bank and a future to look forward to. But this month, with all of these blessings raining down on me, I state positively that coming here has been one of the best moves I’ve ever made.

A Million Ducks

“Uh Oh! What could this one be about?” I imagine you thinking. What kind of visual does the phrase ‘a million ducks’ conjure up for you?

I think of the training center my erstwhile employer would send me to. It is a lovely facility with athletic concerns, a swimming pool, a lounge for socializing, a great dining hall that offers Steak Night every Wednesday… and a duck pond, right out front. As you walk the path around the duck pond there are dispensers from which, for a quarter, you can obtain a handful of food and feed the ever hungry ducks. Anyone who approaches the food dispensers is treated to the sight of a swarm of ducks, furiously paddling and quacking, trying to be the first in line to get the food.

Walking that path, you would swear there were a million ducks, and they all left their mark in such a way that you would have to step carefully to avoid duck droppings. Cleaning that path every so often would have been a good idea.

More prevalently I think of my friend Paul, a fellow with a sense of humor similar to Mel Brooks’, who, in his wackiness could turn such terror-inducing visuals as ‘snake and mice screams’ into a birthday gala event – ‘cake and ice cream’. In part, this post is a tribute to Paul, whose wacky sense of humor and staggering intelligence make him such a memorable character.

The most elaborate gag Paul ever played on me was attaching a dongle to my computer at work and remotely operating the mouse. I watched the cursor sail all over the screen and exclaimed out loud that my computer must somehow have contracted a virus, or have been hijacked. Meanwhile he, sitting across the room, never cracked a smile or chuckled at my increasing panic. Straight-faced, he watched as I summoned all who were in the office at the time to witness my flying cursor. Of course, when someone did get up to look at my screen he quit moving the mouse, and my coworkers accused me of going crazy. They were all in on the joke, of course.

Paul kept the charade up for twenty minutes before detaching the dongle and allowing himself a great belly laugh… a laugh he later regretted, because I got him back for his prank. I forged a job reassignment, sending him to the overnight shift. I bought a huge cake that said ‘So Long, Paul’ and some ice cream, and I got the Big Boss involved, who presented him with his new duty assignment. The whole crew was there to witness poor Paul, crestfallen, trying to think of how he was going to break the news to his family. Only when I gave him the accompanying card that had just one word: “Gotcha!” written in it did he get that he was being pranked. We all enjoyed a great laugh and good, sweet snake and mice screams.

Change of subject, now.

When I wake up morning, I take a few moments to inventory. How do I feel? What kind of day will this be? Do any of you do this? I have the luxury of doing this every day. It helps me focus on positive feelings and energy, especially since I’ve been feeling so sick and run down for so long.

But today I woke up, took inventory and found that I felt like… a million ducks! A million ducks, all organized and paddling in a row, as one great organism, toward a single goal. All flying in formation toward some great, preordained migratory destination. No conflict and no fighting, no barriers and no bad feelings. For the first time in a long time, I woke up feeling really great! No depression, no problems breathing, no racing heart, no bloated stomach, no muscle cramps, no creaky tendons. Every system go, everything wonderful: I felt like a million bucks!

Except in my head, it became a million ducks. And, in conjuring up a million ducks I thought of my friend Paul, who would use such a wacky phrase.

And that is another novelty. I have been living in survival mode since being here: where will I shop? What will I eat? Who will I talk with (before I go insane from lack of human contact)? What will I do? How will I manage… whatever issue was at hand: money, food, communication, transportation, teaching, ect. The fact that I now have the luxury of thinking beyond myself and my immediate circumstances is definitely a step in the right direction. It means that my affairs here are under control, and I can reach beyond right now and think of others. It is my distinct pleasure, and a huge relief to do so. Today, because of all those ducks, I think of my goofy, sagacious, helpful, generous friend Paul. Oh, the good times we had! Oh, the precious memories!

He recently celebrated his birthday. Happy belated birthday, Paul! I hope you enjoyed snake and mice screams, and I wish you a million ducks.

Mystery solved

There is one dish indigenous to Wuhan that I truly enjoy eating. It is called ‘hot, dry noodle’, a noodle dish served with a sesame paste and peanut sauce. Unlike most Chinese noodle dishes that are swimming in broth and are sometimes overspiced, this particular dish has no broth and no bad-tasting spices. It is a breakfast favorite that one can enjoy all day long. Being as I enjoy eating it, I sometimes have it for dinner as well as for breakfast.

Several vendors all over Wuhan make Hot Dry Noodle, and they put their own twist to the standard recipe. Some add hot peppers, others add vegetables. I prefer the standard dish and only one husband and wife vendor team near the school makes it perfectly. As a result of their culinary know how, I patronize their stall the most. He and his wife feel quite blessed at the foreigner’s patronage because, invariably, if I’m in the restaurant having a bowl of noodles, several more people will come in just for the novelty of watching me eat. I’m really not kidding when I say this. It simply cannot be coincidence that the restaurant is empty when I get there, and by the time I leave every table and every stool is full, and the husband and wife team are kept hopping with calls of ‘fu wu yuan!’ (Waiter!)

The other day I had a craving for a bowl of hot, dry noodles and made my way up the street. My favorite vendors were happy to see me and greeted me with a big smile. They were in the middle of cleaning up after their mid-morning rush. As he wiped the tables, his wife asked me if I wanted my usual. “Of course!” I affirmed, smiling. The husband invited me to a clean table, and I sat down to wait for my delicious treat.

Shortly after I was seated, a woman new to the neighborhood came in. I had not seen her before, but later I learned she works at the farmer’s market around the corner. I am always eager to meet people in the neighborhood and make use of my growing lexicon of Chinese words. I thought that just such a chance materialized when she entered the restaurant and sat down at the table next to mine.

This new patron did not engage me at all. However, she did stare at me unabashedly. I cannot get away from being a novelty when I eat out, not just because I am a foreigner, but because I can use chopsticks and I eat with my left hand. After a minute or two of watching me eat my noodles, she asked the ‘waitress’ what country I was from. The response came swiftly: “America”, of course.

I thought it was rather strange that the stall owner did not encourage this new customer to ask me directly. Both owners are not only proud that I patronize their stall habitually, but also of the fact that I can speak Chinese. They usually encourage their customers to engage me in conversation, something that I gladly do. It earns them brownie points (guanxi) within the community and helps me too. Perhaps it was because the poor, harried chef was still in ‘rush hour’ mode, running back and forth from front to back of the restaurant replenishing supplies, that she barked a response rather than suggesting that the customer ask me.

The woman stared at me some more, using no discretion whatsoever. She started at my feet, taking a good, long look. She then let her eyes cruise up my legs which were somewhat uncomfortably folded around a pink plastic stool that is about the height of a kindergartner’s chair. Feeling ogled, I looked up to find her leaning forward, her glance lingering somewhere around my knees. I smiled at her but she still said nothing to me. Her roving eyes moved up my body: the length of my arms, the size of my hands, my face, my hair.

She then asked the stall owner: “Is that a man or a woman?”

I put down my bowl and replied: “I am female.”

“You understand me!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I understand you.”

Horrified, embarrassed, she then threw her hands in the air and apologized over and over. I reassured her, explaining that it is a question I am asked often.

That is the truth. Even in the States I get mistaken for a man. “Honey, move over and let the nice man by” a young mother said to her small daughter once, when I was shopping at a grocery store. And this was when I wore my hair long, and was wearing a tee-shirt and shorts, in the summer. In fact, the only place no one has ever mistaken me for a man is in Auto Zone.

I don’t get where people could possibly mistake me for a man. I’ll admit I am a tall drink of water, but I have distinctly feminine attributes: long legs, hips, shapely derriere and, the most telling: breasts and longish, styled hair. My nails are long and manicured. I have no Adam’s apple. Even on days where I don’t much feel like it, I still apply at least eyeliner, mascara and a light lip-gloss, as well as jewelry before leaving the house. And those are just visual clues. My mannerisms, voice and gestures are feminine. I don’t know how I can be more female than I already am, and yet I am still mistaken, or at least confused for a man, even under close scrutiny.

Most of me thinks it is rather funny, but there is a part of me that thinks: “Oh, come on, now! Do I REALLY look like a man to you? How is it you cannot tell the difference?”

I can see where this patron might have been confused if I were standing up and she had to look up at me. Bundled up as I was that day against the cold wind, most of my physical attributes were covered up. Maybe there could have been some debate as to my gender. But, I was sitting down, knees together, and my face was level with hers. My manicured hands maneuvered the chopsticks from the bowl to my mouth. Our eyes met evenly when I answered her. Surely she must have seen the nails, the makeup, the shoulder-length blond hair and the jewelry. And still:

“Is that a man or a woman?”

The poor woman left before her noodles were done. I suppose she felt so embarrassed… not at asking the question, but at the fact that I understood her. I felt bad for her, not getting her noodles. But, this incident did finally answer a large, looming question for me.

I now know why people stare at me all the time: not because I am a foreigner, but because they are trying to figure out if I am male or female. Maybe I should start wearing a sandwich board when I go out, to answer the two main questions that pique people’s curiosity. The front side would say: ‘I am from America’ and the back side would say: ‘I am female’.

That should take care of the staring, don’t you think?

Plain Stir

I have grown fond of a brand of yoghurt called Plain Stir. Its packaging is indeed quite plain: blue lettering on a white bottle. Only one small logo, akin to the Starbucks logo in size, except for the Plain Stir logo is of a cow in a field and the Starbucks logo is of a mermaid. The rest of the labeling is all Chinese characters, except for the ‘Pro-B’ designation that indicates this yoghurt contains active cultures.

I really don’t care about the packaging; all I care about is that this yoghurt contains those active cultures that aid digestion. For nearly a year I have had problems with my stomach. Drinking Pro-Biotic yoghurt helps a lot. And, it is not bad tasting. I have one 4-ounce glass of it with my breakfast and a second small glass after dinner, and my stomach ills have virtually disappeared. No heartburn, no gas, no bloating. I think my stomach problems are a result of aging and I’m very glad to have a natural remedy, rather than having to take a supplement or an actual medication.

Buying this yoghurt is not as easy as going to any of the stores on The Street. Some of the stores around campus sell certain brands of yoghurt, but none are Pro-Biotic and Plain Stir is not sold at all. I can either buy it while I’m out at one of the major stores in town, or else the closest outlet is a store eight bus stops from campus. I have to ride the bus, and then cross the street and battle construction debris to get to that store. On good days I walk there. It is a nice workout, as well as a sport to dodge traffic and not inhale too much dust. To me, it is well worth it because of how well that yoghurt balances my digestive system. Usually, as I return to campus from some foray I’ve taken into the city, I simply get off the bus, go to that store and pick up a bottle, board the bus again and go home.

For as well as Plain Stir yoghurt worked on my digestive system, and for as long, imagine my perplexion when my stomach ills returned. Very strange: I’ve been drinking my regular two glasses every day, as I have been nearly since I discovered how much it helps me.

I think I discovered the problem when I set out to buy my next 1.5 liter bottle of Plain Stir: the label no longer said ‘Pro-B’.

That’s a little strange! Why did they stop putting active cultures in Plain Stir? I don’t know, but I did take a minute to reflect on the irony of Plain Stir yoghurt now actually being plain, instead of enriched with cultures. Luckily I found another brand of yoghurt that is Pro-Biotic and bought it instead of my habitual brand. I admit: I’m not brand loyal; I just don’t want any stomach troubles.

When I got home that day I looked at my current bottle of Plain Stir. Sure enough, it did not say Pro-B. So that’s why my stomach was acting up again! And I never even noticed the absence of Pro-B, I just kept drinking happily away, thinking I’m doing a body good. I finished what I had left of Plain Stir and started on the new brand, relishing the thought of imminent banishment of my stomach woes.

About two weeks ago I started getting really sick. Stuffy head, blocked sinuses, swollen eyes, wheezing breath, inability to breathe and pounding heart, especially at night. All of this coincided with the arrival of Spring and the fact that I had started throwing the windows open at the first hint of sunshine, so I thought it was just pollen allergies. Although I’ve only had such a severe environmental allergy reaction one time before, when I visited New Orleans, I did recognize it for what it was and just blamed the terrible air quality of Wuhan for my current host of respiratory ills.

I also thought that the mold growing on my walls might have something to do with my steadily worsening condition. Not just the above listed symptoms, but also a terrible ear infection which required a round of antibiotics to get over. I felt like I was deteriorating fast! As I wrote in A Certain Lassitude, things got to the point where I could not bring myself to face another day.

Until the day that Lavender had to hustle me out of the house without so much as a breakfast under my belt. True, my breathing problems continued all through that day, but the next morning, after about 2 hours of violent coughing to clear my lungs, my wheezing, gasping breathing gave way to clear, deep breaths. Blissful, blessed air! I was once again able to breathe like a normal person: full lung expansion, no wheezing and no gravelly voice when I tried to talk.

It is a miracle! I honestly thought that the mold on the walls was the culprit and now that the mold was gone, my respiratory system breathed a sigh of relief – pun intended. After my usual Sunday morning Skype chats, I fixed my breakfast of eggs, rice and bacon, a piece of fruit and a glass of yoghurt.

Much to my dismay, my breathing problems returned full force that night. At 2AM I woke up gasping for air, heart pounding, coughing and wheezing so loud I could not catch my breath, let alone get back to sleep. I confess that I lay in my bed and cried. I couldn’t handle going back to being sick again after this one-day respite. I simply could not embrace the prospect of such a crippling problem continuing on. Not that my lifestyle has been particularly active since I’ve been here, but still: the idea that I could not even so much as walk The Street or to my next class without panic and agony filled me with such bitter and impotent rage that sobbing in my pillow was all I could think to do. And I couldn’t even cry very well because I couldn’t breathe enough to cry effectively.

Don’t ask me why or how, but last night, as I was drifting off to sleep fortified by a dose of Benadryl, the words ‘anaphylactic shock’ drifted into my head. How every curious, but then this is not the first time I’ve had this type of epiphany. As I fell asleep I resolved to look up the symptoms of anaphylactic shock first thing in the morning.

Another agonizing night, interrupted by a struggle for air. Again too wrung out to cry properly, I propped myself up in my bed in the wee hours, waiting for the latest dose of Benadryl to start working.

My mind was effectively blown when I read what constitutes anaphylaxis the next morning. Anaphylaxis is a result of an allergic reaction to a toxin, either insect sting or bite, food, or drug. It is very serious, leading to shock, and in worst cases, respiratory and/or cardiac failure and death.

I had nearly every symptom: wheezing, not being able to breathe, coughing, swollen eyelids, dry skin, heart palpitations and rapid pulse, mental confusion and low energy, just to name a few. The only symptom I did not have was nausea and vomiting. I stared at my computer screen, trying to figure out what was trying to kill me.

Then I remembered that I had not had any yoghurt on Saturday, and Sunday I felt better. Sunday afternoon and night I partook of yoghurt and by Sunday evening I was feeling like at death’s door again. Monday I had yoghurt and Tuesday I could barely make it to class. I actually had to double up on the Benadryl just to make it through that hour and half of teaching.

I have not had a glass of yoghurt since that revelation on Tuesday morning. I am still on the mend and still having to take Benadryl, but now my ears have gone back to their normal size and feel, my eyelids are no longer swollen, my voice is not gravelly and my heart is behaving as it always has. I no longer itch uncontrollably and I no longer cough incessantly and unproductively. I can draw deep breaths, one after the other, and enjoy the feeling of full lung expansion. I do not feel dizzy, lost, confused and anxious.

I do not blame Plain Stir yoghurt. That brand worked really well for me although I did have a few problems. I only got terribly sick when I switched brands, and I think the new brand has something in it that I’m violently allergic to.

What I am deeply grateful for is the ability to listen to my body when it tells me something. I caution you: if your body starts acting dramatically different, take stock and think about what you have changed in your diet or routine. Keep a food diary if you must, even though it is a tedious task. There is nothing less than your life at stake. Anaphylactic shock is nothing to play with. Being able to trace the beginning of my symptoms back to when I started ingesting that new brand of yoghurt may well have saved my life.

Especially because people here seem to think I wasn’t drinking enough hot water!

When The Universe Speaks

I’ve always been fond of saying: ‘If everything you undertake toward a certain venture goes wrong, consider that the Universe might be telling you this is a bad venture’. In my case, and in the case of some spectacular failures I have witnessed, this has proven true.

I’m not saying my move to China was a wrong move as far as the universe is concerned. I think all of the serendipitous events since I’ve been here prove rather conclusively that this has been a good move for me. Unless the universe is preparing to make me the butt of some monstrous, cosmic joke, that is. But I don’t think that will be the case.

Ken’s marriage to Della, on the other hand… (see Bah Ling Ho entry). Nothing has gone right for him since he got together with her. That is a good example of the Universe telling you you’re making a bad move.

Here is another good example:

Today, the weather started out terrible: cold, windy, rainy. I had an early class to teach, so I was out in this weather. Fortunately I only had to walk to Building 2, so I was only out in the elements for a few minutes. But, that was enough to sour me to the idea of going anywhere after class today.

However, in the hour and a half that I spent engaging these students of mine, the weather changed for the better! The sun came out, the wind and rain stopped and, even though it was still a bit chilly, it turned out to be a nice day. A great day to go out, in fact.

I had heard word that there is a certain bookstore near Wuhan University (not the one I teach at) that sells books written in English. I figured it would be fun to get on a bus, find the University and browse the bookshelves for a while. With the weather being what it is and me already dressed and ready to face the world, why not go?

I made sure I popped a Benadryl, and set off. My not-so-trusty-anymore website indicated that Bus 564 stops directly in front of Wuhan University, and the first bus stop for that bus just happens to be one stop removed from my campus. I could ride a bus from my regular stop, down one stop to connect to Bus 564, but why bother? The sun is shining and the next bus stop is only a half-mile away.

Famous last words. I had apparently forgotten that it had been raining earlier today, and the mud slathered itself generously all over my shoes and pant cuffs. The Benadryl had not yet kicked in and, try as I might to force my lungs to work right, they just wouldn’t get with the program. Heart pounding, gasping for breath, slogging through mud, I finally made it to the bus stop.

I waited and waited for my bus. I might have waited twenty minutes before asking a nearby traffic cop if bus 564 still stops at this stop. “No”, he informed me, “It now starts its run 3 stops further up the road.” Well, that’s not good, but its not all bad, either. My breathing was getting a little easier and walking certainly wasn’t going to hurt me, so I take off. Again, with mud leaping about, just waiting for the chance to adorn my pant cuffs and shoes. In addition to that, the ongoing road construction incorporates overhead ramps, so now I’m slogging through a tunnel under construction, as well through mud. Cars and trucks bumbled by. No sidewalk, of course. I’m sharing the road with the traffic.

It was a bit chilly in the tunnel, but luckily I still had on my parka and a light jacket I wear under my parka on cold days. It was not that cold a day and soon I started sweating as well as laboring for breath, even though I was in the tunnel portion of the construction and not getting any sunshine. I walked only two of the three stops needed to reach bus 564’s first stop, and then decided that I could not do this anymore. I waited at that bus stop for the next conveyance that would take me to the desired bus stop.

There goes one bus fare in order to ride two stops to get to Bus 564’s first stop. I stand and wait yet some more. Now I’m really getting sweaty from wearing what essentially consists of two jackets as well as thermal underwear, in full, glaring sunshine. Oh, and I forgot to tell you: I did not change my pants after teaching, so I’m wearing my work slacks out, and it is they that are covered in mud. I guess I’ll be washing clothes tonight; I have to have mud-free slacks for class on Thursday.

Again I wait for my bus, and again I am disappointed. I start asking random bus drivers if they go to Wuhan University as they stop to pick up passengers, and all of the them tell me that only bus 564 goes straight to that destination. One kind passenger told me that that bus no longer originates at that stop; I now have to go nearly to the train station to catch Bus 564.

In for a penny, in for a pound, and there goes another bus fare. I board the bus and ride 3 more stops, nearly to the train station. By this time, my disposition is not so sunny, but still: I hadn’t been out of the house in two days and I wanted to go somewhere. I wanted to go exploring, even though, by that time, I had never felt less like exploring in my whole life. Matter of fact, this was beginning to feel like tedium.

I checked the time: 2PM. I had been trying to catch a single bus for nearly 2 hours. Two hours, and I was still only a few kilometers from my house. Muddy, lungs constricted, nose running, and still no bus in sight.

Now comes Bus 609. If I remember correctly from my not-so-trusty website, this bus also goes to Wuhan University. Before I pay yet another fare I ask the driver if he goes to Wuhan University. He holds up two fingers, indicating the fare is 2Yuan. Apparently, he is one of those who, thanks to my appearance, hears English when I speak Chinese. I hold up my bus card to indicate that I know how much the fare is, and ask my question again. Again, that mythical Bus 564 is invoked. Again I wait and wait.

By 2:30 I decide that going anywhere is going to be a lost cause. Sure, I could still get on a random bus and ride it somewhere, but then I’d have to face rush hour traffic and crowded buses full of schoolchildren going home. I just didn’t feel like dealing with all that. I cross the street and get on the homeward bound bus.

Muddy clothes and shoes, uncomfortably hot and burdened with a heavy parka, breathing difficulties and a pounding heart, thee wasted bus fares and two and a half hours getting nowhere… That is a classic example of the Universe telling me that this venture is not a good idea.

The outing was not a complete waste though: I did manage to go by the store that carries my Pro-Biotic yoghurt and pick up a liter.