Sunday, May 25, 2008

Watchers

I am doing taiji with my taiji teacher in the park. People stare at us. One man walks up to us. He stands about two or three feet about from us and watches. I feel like someone from Chinese intelligence is checking up on me, making sure I am not saying anything illegal to my Chinese friend.

After five minutes, our intelligence officer walks away, lights a cigarette, and heads back to his office to type up a report on the foreigner learning Wu style taiji.

I imagine that my government file has just gotten longer by one line: "RE: Laowai studying Wu style taiji in park. COMMENTS: Movements--slow and precise. Shoulders are a little tight. Nose--big."

Today, I am in a KFC studying Chinese. It's a convenient place to study, although I rarely go there because it is too loud. I find that it is quite a community gathering place. Behind me, a group of Filipina woman are yapping about, teasing each other. In front of me, there is a little play area where kids are laughing out loud.

The oldest girl, probably about nine, is really sweet with the other kids. She always has a smile on her face. There is a little boy of about four who is not a happy kid. He either tries to hit other kids or frowning, moans. The big girl protects the others and she holds little troublemaker's hand.

I try not to focus on the kids and focus on writing characters. I love writing them in my elementary school notebook, which has many little squares where I can write the same characters over and over again, just like elementary school students do every day.

As I am writing, I feel someone is looking at me. I look up and see a fifty year-old guy watching me write. His face is red, like he drank too much bai jiu last night. I'm not going to say anything to him. I'm already used to this. I keep writing, and he keeps staring.

It's a little uncomfortable. I look up at him. I extend my hand, turn my palm up to invite him to sit down. I smile and say to him in Chinese, please sit down, qing zuo. He smiles back at me and politely declines my offer.

His family walks by and they are leaving, their fried chicken gently digesting in their stomachs. Now they all look at me. The bai jiu drinking dad says to his family: "He's using his left hand to write characters." They all look curiously.

One day, I won't be so alien to so many people here in China. In the meantime, I continue to practice my characters and do my taiji, seemingly unperturbed.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

The Sichuan Earthquake


I've always wanted a pair of green jeans. And so recently, when I was visiting Nanjing, I couldn't help myself when I saw a pair at the local Baleno, which is a store like the Gap here in China.

In China, when you buy pants, you only have to worry about width. I don't think I have bought a pair of pants here that is the correct length. It's easy enough--after buying your pants, you take them over to the tailor in the Xijiahui district of Shanghai, across the street from the used cell phone repair shops, and he cuts them to the right size. All for 5 yuan (I think that is 75 cents US). What a deal.

He likes me because I always try to crack jokes in Chinese with him. A few times, I asked him to make the waist smaller because "I just gave birth to a baby". I didn't have change last time and he just said, pay me the extra kuai (quarter) next time. Today, I give it to him. "I forgot all about it," he says, laughing.

As he is altering my green jeans, I stand inside his shop (well, actually, it's his house--his "shop" is in the alley just outside his front door). His wife is getting dinner ready inside and I stand in front of the kitchen, where he has a small digital TV with the news on.

While she is soaking her slab of meat, she talks to me about the quake. I tell her that I feel for everyone, that I have been sad, too. I tell her my friends in the States who watch the news have been moved to tears, too.

We watch together and talk. Lately, I am interested in the news, am interested in TV. Since the age of 18, I have probably watched a total of 6 hours of TV (okay, maybe 10; and this definitely does not include movies rented at 5 Star Video in Berkeley).

One time, when my uncle was visiting my place in Berkeley with my cousin Oren, we came back to my apartment after dinner, where my uncle expected to sit on the sofa and watch TV. Unfortunately, I had neither a sofa or a TV. This threw him into an unexpected, momentary existential crisis, which resolved itself when he said, "Hey, Oren, go out and get me a New York Times."

Of course, the reason why I am watching TV these days is because of the earthquake. For the first few days after it happened, I felt out of the loop until I started watching the news. To see the images of rescuers, of victims, of the military and doctors at work--it's been quite important, and quite moving. There was a show with people from Sichuan, mostly young people, and each got up to talk. They all cried, and I cried, too.

Every channel is reporting on the Wenchuan earthquake. There are no commercials, no soap operas. Just the government news station, CCTV reporting on every channel with a few programs.

The rescue efforts look efficient and impressive. Everyone's impressed with the premier and president, as they are both out there in the field holding peoples' hands and kissing babies. "Don't worry, the government will take care of you," the president says to a child orphaned by the quake.

A broadcaster reports on the latest rescue efforts and then pauses to say, "We will overcome this, we are strong." Every day there are poems about the situation shown on TV, with a moving reading by someone in the background, someone who knows how to read poems in a moving way.

On Monday morning, my Chinese teacher announces to the class that the government has announced that at 2:28 in the afternoon, for three minutes, there will be a moment of silence to remember those dead in the quake. The next three days will be official days of mourning. All karaoke joints, bars, movie theatres, and the like will be closed.

This has never before happened in the history of modern China. My teacher says she is impressed--these days of mourning in the past have been used to mourn heads of State like Deng Xiaoping and Mao. But these three days are for ordinary, common people, more than 30,000 of them (update: as of May 26th, the death toll is 63,ooo with 24,ooo missing).

On the subway, some kids are wearing red stickers with the flag of China in a heart. I'm finding people here are super-patriotic. It is common for people these days to say, "What a bad year it has been--first the snow storms in winter, second the Tibet protests around the world, and now this." They feel they are terribly unlucky. They know that many in the world don't support them, and they are sensitive to this.

At this point, some might say it's time to talk politics. However, what I'd like to do instead is to just pray for everyone here--the people in Sichuan who have lost loved ones and friends, and for the people of China, who are desperately trying to turn their developing country into a modern society.

Monday, May 19, 2008

The Kindness of Strangers

While in Beijing, because I didn't bring the right clothes (and no jacket), I "caught a wind", as we say in Chinese medicine. A couple days after I get back from Beijing, my voice suddenly becomes low and scratchy. One of my students says it sounds sexy.

I'm on the subway, and am coughing a little. Even though I know which Chinese medicine I can take, for colds, I rarely take anything. All you need to do, rest, drink enough water, and wait it out. A healthy body knows what to do and I try not to interfere.

Next to me is a young girl, maybe 22. She takes out a shiny orange flyer and start writing on it. Three stops later, she turns to me, point to the piece of paper, and asks in Chinese "Can you read this?" as if she knows me, knows that I speak Chinese, knows that I am intersted in Chinese medicine.

I look at it and say yes. I can make out most characters. "Drink more water. Drink ginger ale. Rest. Take Yin Qiao San. Take Yu Xing Cao."

That's good advice, I say, but I prefer to boil up fresh ginger instead of drinking ginger ale.

She tells me her mother is a doctor. A "Chinese doctor?", I ask. "No, a Western one, but we like Chinese medicine," she replies.

I tell her I know a little about Chinese medicine. I am curious to hear about her thoughts about traditional medicine. It is rare to run into young people who know much about Chinese medicine, and I find that she is a "fan." She tells me she doesn't like Western medicine much, that it ends up doing more harm than good.

I ask her what she does. She tells me she's an accountant. I tell her she should be in the health profession, but she tells me she'll probably stick with accounting.

"Very stable," I say.

We've come to the end of the line. We get off together. She's got a rolling carry-on suitcase, and I offer to take it down the stairs of the station for her.

I thank her for her advice and we say goodbye.

Saturday, May 03, 2008

Worried About Internal Heat?


Chinese medicine pervades Chinese culture, because it is Chinese culture. Some of its concepts are just basic--everyone here understands them. The West has its way of integrating this medical tradition, and it is slowly becoming an accepted part of what is called "alternative medicine".

But right now, I don't really care about that. I just like the fact that this toothpick holder in the restaurant where I am eating beef noodle soup (and it is very good, I must add) says, "Worried about internal heat? Drink Wang Lao Ji!"

In Memoriam: The Rape of Nanjing


Today, I went to visit the Memorial to the Rape of Nanjing. If you have never heard about it, you can learn more by going here or by reading Iris Chang's book, The Rape of Nanking. In short, during World War II, in December 1937, the Japanese invaded Nanjing, the capital of the Republic, and in the course of six weeks, brutally killed 300,000 people. The massacre is called the Rape of Nanking because so many women of all ages were raped by Japanese soldiers during the massacre.

Perhaps some don't want to think about such terrible events. I understand. We all want to be comfortable and avoid suffering. But perhaps being able to face this fact of life can make us better people, more compassionate, more awake and alive. Maybe you want to flinch, but you try to face the brutality. Sure, you could keep watching reality shows and going to the gym and reading low-carb diet books. But perhaps this accumulated ignorance is what led to such an event.

And perhaps if we can listen to the cruel stories, see those terrible pictures, we can see how precious our freedom is, how insignificant our dramas really are.

Thursday, May 01, 2008

Visiting the Tomb of Sun Yat Sen in Nanjing


I am visiting Sun Yat Sen's tomb today. If you don't already know, Sun Yat Sen (孫中山) is the founder of modern China. He wished to be buried in Nanjing, and his tomb is located about a five minute drive from that of the first Ming Emperor. This, of course, is no coincidence. Sun Yat Sen is as important as any Chinese emperor.

As a matter of fact, his tomb is about three or four times as crowded as the Emperor's. I would estimate that on this national holiday, about two or three thousand people, every hour, are entering the grounds to climb up to his mausoleum.

Since I lived in Taiwan and saw his image often (on money, mostly, but in parks in the form of statues as well), I feel at home.

To tell you the truth, I don't feel "at home" when I see communist statues. I see Mao's image all over the place, and I definitely don't feel at home looking at the image of a man whose rule brought the death of millions upon millions, whose whims caused not only the loss of lives but also of pieces of Chinese culture which can never return.

I am starting to get close to my Chinese friends on the mainland, and I want them to forget Mao. A Chinese person I met (who will of course remain nameless) tells me, in fact, he doesn't like Mao, and that about half of the Chinese people don't like him either. This makes me hopeful. I don't like seeing his face everywhere.

But I am happy to see Sun Yat Sen again. As I approach the memorial, I hear a Chinese person trying to make out the old seal script characters above the hall where the founder. In fact, the characters are the three principles of the revolution of 1911: Nationalism, Democracy, and Livelihood. It's funny (or sad?) that he can't quite make out the characters and isn't sure what the third principle is.

Unfortunately, Sun Yat Sen died too early. The Chinese people were left with a choice between Chiang Kai-Shek (Sun's successor) and Mao. In the words of my ABC (American-born Chinese) friend (who will definitely remain nameless), it was a choice between a pr&ck and a d%ckh$d, and the Chinese people chose the d%ckh$d.

Having lived in Taiwan, and now living on the mainland, I can't help but feel I am witnessing an old, deep family feud that hasn't gone away, even after almost 60 years.

You want dear old Sun to come back and set things straight.

But, it's too late, and all you can do is hope and pray.

A Sudden Realization on the Bus in Nanjing

I'm on a bus from the outskirts of Nanjing to the center of town and the bus is jam packed. It's a national holiday and everyone wants to go shopping or see the sights. People can't get on in the front and are packing in through the back door. This prompts the driver to get up and start yelling at people who haven't paid their fare.

I often see people in China arguing on the streets. People store up frustration and arguing gives you a way to vent it. So I always watch with unattached amusement, like a marriage counselor.

The driver continues to yell and somehow they figure it out. I suddenly figure something out myself. When I first started using buses in Shanghai, I couldn't figure out why there was always a lady collecting your fare seated toward the back of the bus. Isn't this a waste of money when you can just put a little electronic box up at the front? I concluded it was just a remnant of over 50 years of communism. There are lots of Chinese people--you gotta give them all jobs, somehow, even if they don't make sense, even if they only make the equivalent of $250 a month.

But today, I get it. If there were a lady at the back of the bus today, she could be arguing with the people trying to get on the bus, allowing the bus driver to drive....