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.                       

 

Evil Laugh

This being the first Halloween I’ve felt worth a flip pretty much since I got here, I decided to ‘do it’ in a big way. Fortunately this coincided with the fact that China is just now catching on to the spirit of Halloween – no pun intended, and Metro had a selection of costumes, makeup and decorations in the festival’s traditional black and orange.

Not a large selection, mind you. Like with Christmas, the Chinese have caught on to the idea that Halloween is big fun in the States, but they shy away from the meaning and history of the tradition.

Fundamentally this culture is terrified of ghosts, goblins, ghouls and gremlins. Yet these manifestations hold a morbid fascination for them. My students love to watch horror movies, but when confronted with a real live materialization of someone (me!) dressed up and/or painted, they will cringe, scream, shy away… or, more likely, run away. Such was the case 2 years ago, when Dash and I prowled the campus on Halloween night, giving away candy. All I had done in the way of costuming was to put on a blond wig, draw age lines on my face with eyeliner and walk around stooped and limping. Really didn’t have to fake being an old woman because I certainly felt bad enough to be one.    

Now, for the first time there are cool Halloween things at Metro, like: fake fingernails and witch’s hats, face paint and vampire teeth, capes and costumes and, and, and…. I bought a little bit of everything with the intent of freaking my kids out.

Here’s how it worked: for the first part of the class I was Ms. Normal Foreign Teacher, who had prepared a PowerPoint show with pictures of demons, vampires and zombies with a bulleted list describing each. The students learned how to say ‘ghoul’, ‘witch’ and ‘goblin’, among others. I taught them the evil laugh: MU-HAHAHAHA! While hunching forward and rubbing their hands together. I had to remind them they will not be scary if they intone that laugh while grinning ear to ear. How I wish you could have seen them: they were priceless!!!

For the presentation’s ‘tombstone’ slide I showed pictures of tombstones, and made it a point to inform them that there is a city in Arizona called Tombstone. With the picture of Tombstone, Arizona projecting, I demonstrated how two fighting factions duel, even falling to the floor when my volunteer student ‘shot’ me.

The kids loved it!!

Of course, they do tend to have short attention spans, so I didn’t drag the presentation out too much. I did get a big kick out of seeing them write down words like ‘zombie’, ‘ghoul’, ‘witch’… as though this were a serious lesson and they were learning valuable vocabulary that they could use every day.

Just prior to their break time I unwrapped the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I had brought for them. I firmly believe that studying culture is essential to language learning, and what could be more iconic than PB&J? Besides, these kids are eating machines, as I’ve disclosed more than once in this blog.

For them it was a delightful treat. For me it meant 8 loaves of bread, 2 big jars of peanut butter and 3 jars of jelly, to say nothing of the time spent producing this bounty and the logistics of transportation. Monday and Tuesday classes were not difficult, but my Friday groups are in 2 different buildings, across the campus from each other, and I only have 20 minutes between classes. Somehow I had to figure out how to get sixty four sandwiches from my house to the kids’ mouths without going stale, getting crushed or smearing all over the place. I ended up filling 2 plastic totes, along with stacking remaining prepared sandwiches on the cutting board and saran wrapping the whole lot.

While they munched away I cued the movie: It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!. No subtitles, but quintessentially American. Palates appeased, they settled in to watch Lucy, Linus, Sally and Charlie cavort.

Meanwhile I repaired to the back of the room, where my backpack awaits. I whipped out my little mirror, the paint, the wig, the fake nails and teeth, ‘uglied’ myself up and bided my time. Come the end of the cartoon, when Charlie Brown and Linus talk about The Great Pumpkin’s supposed existence, I crept forward.

Sneaking up from behind, I slunk around, grazing this student’s hair or that student’s neck, growling: “I VA-hnt to DRRRink your BLOOD!!!” and then, of course, the evil laugh: “MUHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Here is what I don’t get: these kids had to know it was me. I didn’t look that radically different. Besides, how many people are as tall/big as me in China, and more specifically: on our campus? Yet upon approaching one or the other, especially the girls, there was genuine fear in their eyes. They leaned away and even hid their faces. Only a few truly enjoyed the prank; one or two even wanted my fake fingernails and my witch’s hat.

Naturally I did not carry on with the charade. In deference to their feelings, I quickly returned to my old, jovial self, even with my painted face (I did remove the wig because it was just so darn hot!) We went on to play word games, like hangman and anagrams. All’s well that ended well and regular class resumes next week.

It seems many people here believe All Hallow’s Eve is a holiday, with the same import as Thanksgiving, Christmas or New Years. For that matter, they believe the same thing about St. Valentine’s Day. While eager to partake of the celebration in grand western fashion, they are essentially ignorant of the significance and tradition the observance is founded on.

There are times to not be a teacher. I don’t want to deny these kids their fun. I enjoyed treating them to a taste of American food. They enjoyed sending me “Happy Halloween” messages and wishing me a nice holiday. They thought they were doing a great thing, remembering a foreigner holiday and paying tribute to their teacher. How precious!

In part because of Halloween, it’s been a busy week for me, socially speaking. On Sunday afternoon I rode home from Metro with Red, one of my freshman students. She didn’t know that in my shopping cart lurked the makings of a treat she and her classmates would partake of, as well as the materials to make her cower. Tony stopped by on Monday evening, presumably to catch up but also to ask what my holiday plans are. All week, walking across campus to my classes, current and former students of mine have been very generous with their greetings. Students that are not in any of my classes have cheerfully hailed from all four corners of the campus. On Wednesday, Tristan, my friend from Shen Zhen, and Cindy came to dinner. I prepared meatloaf, pasta and a nice vegetable soup, and then we finished the evening by singing our favorite songs, using bananas for microphones. While we were singing, Stephen texted an invitation to dinner on behalf of his friends/classmates. The 8 of us enjoyed dinner together on Friday.

On Thursday evening, Halloween night itself, I had to teach. This class is a constant bone of contention between Victor and me. We are both scheduled to teach on Tuesday and Thursday nights, but seldom are there ever enough students to fill one classroom, let alone two. He and I have it worked out now: he will teach on Tuesday night and I will cover Thursday. 

I had about fifty kids in class on Halloween night. They were all treated to the PowerPoint presentation I gave my English Majors students but they did not get any sandwiches, nor did I do the makeup and movie portion of the lesson. We did play word games, though. They must really have enjoyed the class; they did not want to leave! The week rounded out with a visit from Sam on Friday, right after morning classes. He’s been busy moving into a new apartment, so we haven’t had time to catch up. Between lunch and chatting, 3 hours flew by!

So what if my friends and students, and for that matter all of China see Halloween as a reverent holiday? With the fun times we had this week, who am I to dissuade them?       

            

3 x 1; 2 x 2; 2.5 for 30

Much to your probable dismay and certainly to mine, I’m writing about the state of my health again. The topic is not so much about my health as it is about the Chinese attitude toward their own system of traditional medicine versus modern medical marvels. Unfortunately I have to give you some background information. That is where my health woes come in.   

Those who have followed this blog with any loyalty know that I’ve been sickly since I’ve been here, plagued with this discomfort and that malaise pretty much from the outset of my China adventure. My infirmity actually goes ten years farther back, when I was diagnosed with a low thyroid condition I inherited from my mother.

She could have given me something better than a disease. I would have settled for a nice ring or a necklace.

I was diagnosed with the thyroid condition in my mid-thirties. For 9 years I methodically popped a pill every morning and ‘fed Dracula’ – gave a blood sample for testing every 3 months. All was well and good despite the fact that I resented being saddled with, and to an extent limited by a reputedly incurable condition. At best I could look forward to maintenance by daily ingestion of hormone… until I learned that acupuncture can cure thyroid conditions.

According to ancient Chinese medicine, thyroid disease results from an imbalance in the ‘qi’ – life force. Acupuncture clears up the obstruction, allowing qi to flow properly. Hormone production and thyroid function return to normal. Treatment ends upon confirmation of proper levels of TSH, T3 and T4 hormone levels. As I had in fact suffered a major trauma just prior to the failing thyroid diagnosis, I accepted acupuncture’s explanation for my condition.  

I have reason to believe in the effectiveness of acupuncture. After the first session to treat a long existent lumbar injury and plantar fasciitis in my left foot, my back pain went away and I was able to walk normally again. A total of 7 sessions completely cured those conditions and to this day I have neither back pain nor foot problems.

Upon discovering acupuncture could also correct thyroid imbalance, I was eager to free myself of my pill taking and blood test rituals. After 5 sessions the results were confirmed: my thyroid functions were restored to normal. Under doctor’s advice I stopped taking medicine. Shortly after that I moved to China, relieved I would not have to continue that formerly declared lifelong treatment.

And then Montezuma struck (See Montezuma’s Revenge, posted in October, 2010). Since then I’ve been… not myself. Uncontrollable coughing. Inability to breathe, which disturbed my sleep. I would wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding and gasping for air. No energy. No appetite. And that was just the beginning. Fortunately I had brought some Benadryl and, after putting myself on a regimen of antihistamines, my symptoms lessened.

 And then things got worse. Any dairy product consumption resulted in an abnormally bloated stomach, as did produce consumption. Eating wheat products put me down for the whole day. My right eye could be counted on to at least drag as though I had suffered a stroke, or worse: not open at all. When it did my vision was blurry. Sometimes I had not so bad days but most of the time, I wasn’t doing so well, even with Benadryl.   

I had wondered at times whether my thyroid condition was back, but I showed no symptoms of hypothyroidism: dry skin, brittle nails, excessive fatigue, hair loss – especially eyebrows. Vertical ridges in fingernails are a dead giveaway to a thyroid condition. In fact my nails are growing faster than I can manicure them. My eyebrows require daily maintenance. Every time I questioned the possibility of thyroid I kept coming back to the fact that I showed no classic symptoms of the disease. Besides, everything from upper respiratory blockage and inability to breathe to eye/throat itching and nagging cough was alleviated by antihistamines.

Everything pointed to allergies and nothing pointed to thyroid. But I wasn’t getting any better.

Things got so bad I asked Sam to please take me to a doctor. I enthusiastically agreed when he asked if we should consult a traditional medicine doctor. Remembering acupuncture’s success in treating my back and foot pain, and my thyroid condition, I was keen for another quick solve.

I couldn’t help but notice a certain derision in Sam’s tone when he asked me if I believe in traditional medicine: fire cups, acupuncture, herbology and all that. I found his stance rather intriguing, considering he is, in many aspects, very traditional. However, his wife is a nurse in a modern medicine hospital, so I could see where his loyalty might be at least divided, if not deterred.

We ended up going to the hospital where Penny works. I doubted the doctor’s ability to diagnose me. I was still taking antihistamines and thus would show no symptoms of allergy. However, I had catalogued every manifestation: if I ate this, that was the result. While divulging my medical history Sam told the doctor of my previous thyroid condition. The ENT ordered a blood test. And that is how we found out my thyroid condition was back.

The hematologist interpreting my readings was appalled that I had stopped taking my medicine. When I explained that, through acupuncture I was cured of the condition 3 years ago she inferred that hypothyroidism could require lifelong treatment. She prescribed a synthetic hormone similar to the one I was formerly attached to, with instructions to take 1 pill for the first 3 days, 2 pills for the next 3 days and 2 and a half pills for the next thirty days, and then come ‘feed Dracula’ again.

What surprises me is the disdain of those Chinese who stand firmly on the side of modern medicine for their culture’s traditional medical practices, while I, a foreigner believe wholeheartedly in the benefits and wonders of traditional Chinese medicine.

The hematologist based her diagnosis and prescription solely on the blood test results. The only time she actually looked at me was when she exclaimed, aghast about my not continuing my medicine. She did not examine me or palpate anything.

A traditional medicine doctor would have taken the whole body into account before formulating a diagnosis. Had a traditional doctor examined me, he/she most likely would not have concluded ‘thyroid’. One look at my skin would show it to be well hydrated. One look at my hands would show long, strong fingernails. One look at my face would reveal shaved eyebrows and strong, healthy hair. A few questions would have clued him/her into my appetite and eating habits. Hearing that bit of a rattle in my upper respiratory system and the wheeze in my breathing would have revealed there is indeed an obstruction.

Even though I had enthusiastically agreed to visit a traditional medicine doctor when Sam suggested it, he immediately tempered his offer by claiming many foreigners cannot tolerate the bitterness of the potions or the duration of treatment, sometimes months long. As he has been wont to do, learned from past occasions, he arbitrarily decided what would be best in spite of my wishes. I’m used to that phenomenon; many Chinese take that tack. That is why we went to Penny’s hospital rather than the traditional medicine hospital first.

Now medicated for 3 weeks I have to admit I am feeling better. On the other hand, I have been moderating my food intake strictly, only ingesting what I know does not adversely affect me. I’ve regained muscle control, I’m sleeping through the night, my stomach is behaving and my hands and feet no longer tingle as though just ‘waking up’. Sam has noticed the difference too: more vibrant, more energetic, more ‘there’.

Recently at lunch he asked how I was doing. Glowingly, I related my joy at rediscovering my former self. We discussed my follow-up examination – to take place in about 2 weeks. And then he told me Penny had suggested to him that I visit a doctor trained in modern medicine as well as traditional.

That should be interesting.

               

   

At Risk

Another school shooting this week, this time in Nevada. Fortunately, not much in the way of casualties: only the teacher, who leaped in front of his students, saving their lives. Of course, there is no barometer to indicate the degree of damage done to the community, to the witnesses or to the family of the fallen one. They will carry their burden from this lone incident for years to come.

America has long been aware of social pressure causing irrevocable harm to individuals who, for lack of better means of expression or emotional outlet, go on a rampage. It is frightful, unpredictable behavior. However, America and Americans have taken long strides in recognizing at risk behavior and identifying potential meltdown situations.

In China, the subject of mental health, so long taboo but now unavoidable, is gaining ground. Incidents of random attacks by knife wielders are multiplying. Those on the street corner or public parks seen muttering to some invisible conversation partner or yelling to citizens at large have now become a legion.

On my little corner, this campus, we have our very own Crazy Woman (see The Campus Crazy Woman entry, posted April 2012). Some of the students are coming unraveled (see What’s Happening to my School entry, posted November 2011). A few have become cutters, maiming themselves in order to feel something or to let their toxicity out (see Who Will Save Sasuke entry, posted March 2011)

A current student of mine has openly admitted to cutting herself, much to the horror of her classmates and to my dismay. She seems like a cheerful girl, full of smiles and joy. I would not have pegged her for a cutter, but I will definitely pay close attention to her, just in case.

Clearly mental health is not a new phenomenon in China. Until recently, the Chinese have hidden any form of personal or familial weakness – physical, mental or emotional behind the characteristic stoicism endemic to this society. Only because of sweeping changes in the culture have these ‘weaknesses’ become prevalent. The dilemma is that people are free to remove barriers behind which these ‘flaws’ were hidden, but the medical/psychological community is not caught up on the demand for treatment or rehabilitation. In fact, according to Sam, there is only 1 clinic that treats mental or emotional illness in Wuhan.

One clinic for over 8 million people. That would be one busy doctor!

The educational community is not caught up on recognizing at risk behavior either. To my knowledge, there is a mental health counselor on campus. Whether effective or not is not the issue. More to the point would be that students and teachers recognize at risk behavior and make recommendations or seek to intervene before something drastic happens.

Enter Leo.

When I met him last year, he was a self-confident freshman with the world at his feet. He joined my classes for a while, expressing the wish to learn as much English as he could. He wanted to be rich, famous and own a sports car. For Leo, everything was falling into place. Everything about him smelled of success: his upright walk, his cocky grin and his energetic presence.

During the intervening months, something happened. He stopped coming to class. Regretfully, with a plateful of activity, classrooms full of students, armfuls of friends and lingering health problems, I lost track of him. Sometimes we would connect by text message but even that fell off when he changed his phone number.

We ran into each other about a month ago. I was coming home and found him ambling around the Over the Wall Community. He was a little more stooped but otherwise recognizable as the brash young man I remembered. As we walked back to school together, he asked if he could talk with me sometime. Remembering his enthusiasm, and being the keeper of many student secrets anyway I told him he would be welcome anytime.

He called me later that evening, asking to borrow 900Yuan. I was shocked. Students have asked to borrow money before. Each time I demur, stating that I do not lend money on principle. Not that they ask for much: maybe 100Yuan, or just enough to buy food or a book. If it is for such things as food I will treat them to a meal or take them to the grocery store, but never do I fork over any cash. 

I believe that, if word got out that the foreigner teacher lends money, I would have students lined up around the block with their hands out. Much better to refuse all requests, even for small sums.

One time a student asked to borrow 300Yuan, but never has anyone had the audacity to ask for as much money as Leo had. Having talked this matter over with Sam, I learned that the school has discretionary funds for students in a jam. The process of applying for and receiving school money is humiliating for me, a ‘westerner’, but ten times more so to the proud Chinese.

When I told Sam about Leo and the amount of money he asked to borrow, it was because I wanted Sam to explain to him the process of asking for money from the school. Sam, apparently angrier than I thought he was, essentially chewed the kid out and told him I was forbidden to lend anyone money and he’d better not ask me again. I understand that my friend would be outraged, but I don’t believe he needed to go as far as he did in chastising the kid. Nevertheless, I appreciate him standing up for me. Until Sam called him, Leo called or texted me several times each day. After that dressing down all contact from Leo stopped.   

Since Leo’s loan request, thought niggled at me that he might be in a bad way. Actually seeing him, two weeks after Sam’s dressing down convinced me. Leo is an ‘at risk’ student.

His complexion is now pasty verging on ashen, and pockmarked with blazing red acne. He has put on a substantial amount of weight. His movements are sluggish and his tone is lackluster. He walks with his head down and constantly travels alone – no dorm mates or classmates to chatter with, as is so common here. His clothes appear unkempt and he seems unwashed and uncared for. Between his appearance and demeanor, coupled with the amount of money he asked to borrow, if I didn’t know better, I would swear that Leo is on drugs, at the very least.

To my knowledge the teachers on our campus have received no training in recognizing at risk behavior in students. I don’t even know if it is our responsibility as university teachers to deter or identify at risk students. My greatest concern is that students who are at risk will harm themselves of course, but now, with growing numbers of public attacks, I also think about how students living in close proximity to each other, as they do in the dorms might harm more than themselves.

I don’t know what to do. It would seem cruel to finger Leo as ‘at risk’ and subject him to humiliating exposure as a danger to himself and others if in fact he is not at risk and I’ve misread the whole situation. On the other hand, what if I’m right and the kid ends up maiming his dorm mates before doing himself in?

That actually happened in some far flung city in China, about a year ago. A student killed his 3 dorm mates and then hid their bodies because he was A. ashamed of himself and B. didn’t know what else to do. Earlier this year in Shanghai another student poisoned his dorm mate over some grudge he held.

As I reported in the Social Studies entry posted October of this year, either crime is on the rise or salacious reporting of crime is on the rise. Either way statistics are on the rise. I would hate to have Leo or any Leo action fallout on my conscience because I failed to act when clearly all warning signs were there. Conversely, I am not the only teacher who interacts with Leo… but I may well be the only teacher with any training or experience dealing with at risk behavior. Besides that, for all of my guan xi and acceptance, both in this community and with my fellow teachers, I am still a bit of an outsider when it comes to Chinese ways, tradition and lifestyle.  

What should I do?         

  

         

Going Disney

“So, I was thinking, when you come this year, we could go to Disney World…”

Although still about 5 months away, stateside trip planning is in full swing. Surprising that I don’t already have plane tickets. Loose itinerary includes all the usual hotspots: Cali, Texas, Florida, Pennsylvania. Possible stopover in North Carolina. No Memphis this year. What I’m doing is gearing up for a grueling but happy reunion with all my loved ones. What my loved ones are doing is planning to make the most of their allotted time with me.

That is my Jenn’s big plan for my visit this year. Going to Disney World and cruising the Everglades. Our conversations of late sound like a Dr. Seuss book, something straight out of ‘Green Eggs and Ham’:

“Would you like an airboat ride? O’er the water we would glide!”

“I surely do like airboat rides! O’er water it’s best to glide!”

“Would you go to Disney World? See Magic Kingdom’s flag unfurled?”

“I would NOT go to Disney World! I don’t care if their flag’s unfurled!”

“Would you go if it were free?”

“I would not go if it were free!”

“Would you go if lines were short?”

“’I WILL NOT GO’ is my retort!”

You get the idea. She was pleading the Magic Kingdom’s case. I was digging my heels in, equally determined: Goodness! That’s a lot of money! (military discount), we have to eat park food (we can pack a cooler), overnight lodging (park is 2 hours from home), the kids will be back in school (you’ll spend at least one weekend here). I don’t find standing in line for 45 minutes to ride a 2-minute ride fun (we’ll get speed passes). For every argument I had she had a rebuttal, and a few arguments of her own.

“I thought it would be something you’d enjoy doing with the kids.” “I don’t mind treating if I have time enough to budget and plan.” “I thought it would be something you’d enjoy, never having been.” “It is my Christmas gift to you: time at the Magic Kingdom with your grandkids.” The clincher: “I love how you get childlike when seeing new things!”

Clearly she wants me to go to Disney World. When did she get so persuasive? We left the discussion at her serving green eggs and ham, upside down, around town, and my not wanting them even if I were a clown, with the understanding that I would think about it and get back to her.

Life goes on. The school year has started. From the training field, freshmen shout cadences. If you’re in any way familiar with life at Chinese University or preferably, this blog, you know that college freshmen in China spend their first 3 weeks in ‘boot camp’: military drills, tai chi, learning principles of what makes good people good. But mostly military drills.

Teachers gear up for the new year. They’re a bit apprehensive about facing a classroom, especially those who’ve not exercised their English skills over the summer. Buses are crowded again - Wuhan’s student population having flooded back into the city underscores the fact that this burg is fundamentally a college town.

Sam is a busy guy these days. Besides teaching his full course load and managing Foreigner Teacher affairs, he’s been selected to be Teacher Coordinator, a position he had held in the past but had relinquished to Hellen Shao (the Unpleasant Hellen, for those in the know). In a sweeping declaration that took us all by surprise, Ms. Shao has quit her job, leaving that administrative position in chaos and her classes teacher-less. There goes all of her Guan Xi. 

There goes any free time Sam might have had.

Although missing my friend and in fact, having some bureaucratic matters that need his help straightening out, I’ve resisted contacting him. I’ve been here long enough to know that the start of school year is hectic for all, especially administrators. And he needs time to get used to being back in the classroom, too. And… well, he’s my friend. If he had time, he would contact me or drop in. That’s the way we roll, being the friends we are. After weeks of being incognito, Sam invites me to dinner with his family. Can’t wait to go! Since celebrating Baby Erica’s birthday a few weeks back, we haven’t had a chance to catch up to one another.

Erica is my little buddy. At first fearful of the big foreigner, she would shy away, hiding behind her parents, usually never saying a peep the whole time I’m there. Maybe something about my getting down on the floor and playing helped break the ice. I think it was the day we discovered we had so much in common, down to the same color panties that made us fast friends. Whatever clinched it, I thrill when she casts her elfin smile my way.

And so, we play. In spite of the language barrier – even at 3 years old, she speaks better Chinese than I do. We get along famously. She’s not really hungry come dinner time. She fills up on apple flavored milk and nibbles on deep fried spring rolls.

This precious, beautiful child, dressed all in pink! I’ll bet she would love to go to Disney World! I can just imagine her gamin grin as she runs from Mickey to Minny, from Goofy to Scrooge. And OH!!! When she sees Cinderella with her own eyes for the very first time! Why, I believe she would stop dead in her tracks, wondering by what alchemy the princess in her book became real.            

As is wont to happen at pivotal moments like this, thoughts came crashing in. As though in an arcade suddenly brought to life at the throw of a breaker, I saw the light.

Erica would love a trip to Disney. If they could, Sam and Penny would sacrifice limbs to treat their daughter. They might never step foot on American soil even though it is a dream of theirs, let alone have the chance to take their child, the only one they will ever have, to see fairy princesses and ride carriage rides. And here I sit, being given such an opportunity, and I balk.

When did I stop wanting to have fun? When did I decide to live so narrowly that, when offered an experience outside my rigid perspective I find reasons not to partake? Since when do my desires take precedence over what anyone else is so eager to share with me? And who am I to disappoint my daughter who, at this very moment is planning grandiose schemes to ensure I am fully entertained and will return to China with the memory of a once in a lifetime event?

Of course, you might argue the flipside just as persuasively. Over half the worlds’ children don’t have enough to eat. There are people in war torn countries that will bed down with fear and not wake up because of a drone strike. Lack of water, lack of food. Dysentery, tse-tse flies and dengue fever. Cholera, malaria, machetes and guns. And Disney World?

It is said that you grow old once you stop being a child. I’ve always seen myself as a child at heart, approaching life with élan. Going places I’ve never been, seeing things I’ve never seen, doing things I’ve never done… and then, of course blogging about it all. But maybe I’m not as zesty as I thought I was. Remember how I would not climb the mountain to the temple I waited 3 years to visit (See Wu Dang Shan, a few entries back)? Of late my adventures have become script opportunities: I constantly record impressions instead of just enjoying.

Have I *GASP!* gotten OLD???

I aspire to live my life at austerely as possible, in solidarity with those whose lives, by necessity are so. Comfort, luxury, frivolous spending… as long as there are hungry people in this world, running for their lives and sleeping on the ground, what right do I have to wantonly pitch money out in pursuit of a good time? On the other hand, what right do I have to dash my daughter’s desire to please me? Why rob myself of the joy shining from my grandchildren’s eyes and gleeful cries? And how can I look at Baby Erica, who will never be invited to the Magic Kingdom, and tell my daughter it is impractical to exercise frivolity just to lose one’s self in fantasy?

Most of my life is lived with the echo of the unfortunate. One month out of the year I indulge in frivolity, enjoying pleasures that perhaps the elite would see as their due. Sharing loved ones’ thoughtfulness and care is certainly one of life’s sweetest obligations. What are grandchildren for, if not to play with, indulge in fantasy with, hear their laughter and share their joy?

Sweetie, I gladly accept your offer. Not just to share the magic with you and the kids, but so I can bring Sam, Penny and Erica in my heart and share it with them too.

Get ready, Goofy: This kid is going to DISNEY WORLD!!!  

          

         

The Chinese Dream

This week is National Holiday – commemorating the birth of modern day China, when millions of Chinese take to the roads, rails and airways for their second sanctioned vacation of the year – the first being Lunar New Year.

To facilitate the massive influx of travelers on the country’s infrastructure, the government has ordered more trains and planes put into service, and has suspended toll fees on all national highways. Quite a difference from global tourist destinations that raise prices during peak travel times.

With the Chinese becoming more affluent more and more are taking to the highways and byways, visiting such exotic destinations as The Red Beach, located in south Yunnan province, the country’s second Club Med, opened just in time for travel season in Guilin and, of course, such landmark destinations as The Great Wall, Mount Hua Shan in Shaanxi Province and even amusement parks, such as Happy Valley, right here in Wuhan.

This carefree excursion period in China coincides with the government shutdown in America. Many Chinese are shocked that their America, idolized for her democratic platform and seeming freedom granted to her citizens should suffer from what apparently boils down to a simple argument over what one party wants and the other cannot agree on.

America’s citizens are the ones paying the price. The economy is still floundering from its crash 5 years ago and now, with so many government workers furloughed, with so many national attractions like parks, museums and monuments shuttered or barricaded, the economy may well suffer another downturn as the shutdown dams the flow of tourist dollars and reminds Americans to be cautious of their spending. Somewhere, in a dark, seldom explored corner of the Government Complex – Capitol Building, White House, Washington Monument and the National Mall, the Great American Dream whimpers under the force of these new blows.      

While the American dream suffers, the Chinese are realizing their dream… or, at least, their power to dream.

“The Chinese not only have the power to dream but the duty to dream” – quoted from a panel of scholars on CCTV’s English channel, on a program titled ‘Dialogue’.

What is the Great Chinese Dream?

People tend to think of the Chinese as collectivistic, and fundamentally they are. However, with growing business opportunities, larger salaries and dual income households, The Dream is becoming more personalized.

Today’s China is very different from the fledgling nation formed over 60 years ago when Mao De Zong vanquished oppositional factions. The China that he envisioned entailed an ‘all for one and one for all’ mentality, brought about so painfully that in the scourge, millions upon millions suffered economic loss, heritage abandonment and death.

Recovering from those dark days while still maintaining the ideal of what China might one day represent has called for a delicate balancing act. Too easily that ponderous pendulum could have swung the other way, resulting in hedonistic pleasure and secular lifestyle in an attempt to overthrow the shadow of The Great Leap Forward’s devastating impact on society.

Today’s China is capitalistic…within the confines of her fundamentally communistic economic system. She is socialistic…with Chinese characteristics. Today’s China is a mass of contradictions, operating nearly seamlessly to maintain financial stability, economic growth and present a marvel of 21^st century permanence… from its roots as a five thousand year old, continuously civilized feudal system.

Who are the Chinese Dreamers?

From my perspective as a college English teacher, my students and this generation of young Chinese are. However, I am not entirely correct in saying that only this demographic dreams. These jiu ling hou – those born in the 1990’s carry in part their parents’ and grandparents’ dreams, along with their own. The Great Chinese Dream, long stifled is now seeing the light of day from some who, by necessity denied ever having dreams. These industrialists, pioneers in business and those poised at the forefront of burgeoning markets are all Chinese dreamers, ready to make a go of whatever they aspired to, or their parents and grandparents envisioned.

They dream of riches, power and prestige. They dream of independence and of world travel, unimpeded by stuffy diplomatic guidelines. They see love as a real, not ephemeral component of interpersonal relations. And they see sex as an integral part of love, not just as a duty to procreate. They are almost vulgar, obsessed and arrogant in the need to establish their ideals before such possibilities are quashed.

What about the American Dream?

In my opinion, The Great American Dream is alive but maybe not well. Currently it is taking shelter behind the hooded eyes and peering out from the watchful gazes of enlightened Americans who know something is amiss in their political system, their country, their economy and their lives. It sleeps uneasily, tossing about, just waiting for a chance to manifest itself anew in a people who are not intimidated by budget crises, cries of the hungry, the malcontent or the invective hurlers.

Who dares to dream?

The audience of Britain’s Got Talent was blown away 4 years ago, when a frumpy/dumpy 49-year old church marm who confessed to never having been kissed took the stage and sang ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ in her pitch perfect voice. The rest of the world took heed and SuBo, as she is now colloquially referred to is an international singing sensation. She had a makeover, a few harsh lessons on the pressure and demands of superstardom and now she is managing just fine. So it appears. She dared to dream. 

Americans… do they dare to dream? I contend they do. While some surely bemoan the passing of the good ole’ days, others are fomenting their plans, just waiting for that proper moment to step to the forefront, take command, take control and exercise what is constitutionally guaranteed them: the pursuit of happiness. They intuit now is not the time. In these catastrophic days of budget cuts and political bickering, they sense it is best to sheathe their ideas, keep them tucked safely away until the sun shines again on the Vista of Dreams. 

The Chinese dare to dream. With every startup business, every new internet commerce venture and every step away from tradition, people in China are reveling in their newly granted license to dream. Maybe because of culture and societal demands their dream muscles are creaky and atrophied but every year sees a new group of graduates taking to the job market, initially trepidant, with only the idea to earn enough to live on and then eventually, ultimately to fulfill they and their families’ dream   

And they help carry the American dream. For every despondent American there are at least 3 Chinese who wish them well. For every disillusioned citizen of the United States, there are at least 5 Chinese who maintain the illusion of what America means. For every apathetic person dwelling in the contiguous 48 states, Alaska and Hawaii there are at least 10 energized Chinese prepared to do whatever it takes to encourage their American counterparts rouse the Great American Dream.

‘Jia You! Jia You!’ the Chinese say. ‘Go On! Go On!’ they rally their American friends. Even though all signs point in that direction, the Chinese disbelieve even the possibility that America could fail. And, given any kind of a chance they would do everything in their power to prevent the downfall of the America of their dreams.

If the Chinese dare to dream and carry a torch so high and bright that America, on the other side of the world cannot help but see it, then surely the country that the Chinese revere at least as much as their own will find that light and use it to guide herself out of its current eclipse.

Jia You!!

Note: In no way am I implying that the Chinese are poised to invade America. I’m trying to convey the disbelief, empathy and concern my Chinese students and friends have expressed over the current political situation in America. I couldn’t figure out a way to write about it without it sounding like the Chinese are just waiting for a moment of weakness to storm the borders and teach everyone Mandarin. Please don’t blame the Chinese. Blame me.