The Dao of Cellphones

Did you know that when your cellphone is working, it has profound effects on your life? Listen up...

I call my friend on my cell and the phone indicates that I am connected, but I can't hear anything. Later in the day, I call a restaurant. Again, the phone says I am connected, but I can't hear anyone. After the third time this happens, I realize the speaker in my phone is broken.

Later on in the evening, my friend Michael calls. I speak into the phone and tell him that I can't hear him, that my phone is broken, and that I'll call him back.

So, the next day I take the phone to the young cellphone fixer guy who has a little station in the corner supermarket. I tell him the problem with the phone and he looks at it for a minute. He tells me it will cost about $10 to fix and so I give it to him to fix.

I can see that he replaces a part and then he screws the casing back on, but there's something wrong. He does this several times. I'm worried that maybe I shouldn't get my cellphone fixed at the same place where I buy my soymilk. Finally, after waiting for over an hour, he gets it right.

It works, but the next day, someone calls me and says she can't hear what I'm saying. I hear her fine. It looks like my phone has a new problem. The speaker seems to be malfunctioning.

So, I decide to head back to the soymilk cellphone fixer and see what he says. I know he is going to be a little defensive. After all, it doesn't seem like this problem is related.

I tell him about the problem, and tell him I didn't have this problem before he worked on my phone yesterday. He, of course, is defensive, but I tell him to not worry. I tell him I will pay him to fix it. And so, he puts in a new microphone and doesn't charge me for labor. He is very kind and tells me if there's anything I need to come back.

For some reason, after these repairs, I feel more at peace. More clear, perhaps, because my cellphone has a new speaker and microphone.

I don't know, call it cellphone fengshui.

Memorizing the Card Catalog

I'm immersed in studying Chinese. I love it.

It's hard to convey to people who've never studied Chinese what it's like. For those of you who've studied French or Spanish or German, I would say that it's nothing like studying a language related to English, because it's not.

Here's the best that I can do. If you are old enough, you might remember the wooden card catalog at your elementary school. Well, once you learn how to use it, it's not a big deal. Just look up whatever book you need and then you can start looking for it on the shelves.

Well, learning Chinese is sort of like that. Except you have to memorize the card catalog. Unlike those other languages above, you can't really make associations with cognates, because there are none (except email, which is pronounced "yi-mei-er", and aspirin, which is pronounced "a-si-pi-lin").

Of course, perhaps there's another way to describe it. Perhaps it's like visiting a little village in a fantasy novel, like in Lord of the Rings. You meet all these new people and see things you haven't seen before, and have experiences that you haven't seen before, and then after you've been there for a while (and you think you know it), more is revealed to you and you realize there is a little pond you've never seen, a quiet elf who never goes to the town square, a path behind the tavern that goes to a meadow in the woods....

The Old Man with the Cal Hat

The weather has been beautiful in Beijing lately. As I ride my bike down Qinghua Street, I see an old guy. Face wrinkled, looks like he has a lot of stories to tell.

He's got a Cal (University of California) hat on. I'm sure he has no idea what those letters mean. But it makes me think of Berkeley, of walking around campus, on Telegraph, and up near Strawberry Canyon, near the football stadium.

I want to stop and tell him what his hat means to me. Even for me to stop and talk to him, much less about the University of California at Berkeley, would be strange in China.

So, I keep on going, enjoying the sunshine and those memories.

The Little Red Book

In the school library, there is a little bookstore where you can buy texts to study Chinese. I find a small dictionary that I want and bring it to the cashier at the front.

On the desk where she is sitting are a stack of Chairman Mao's Little Red Book. They're all over China, sold as kitch to tourists. Let's just say I (and plenty of foreigners, and lots of Chinese people, too) don't like Mao all that much. (Dear Chinese censors, please don't deport me. I really like Chinese culture and I have some good friends here who can vouch for me.)

As I give her the dictionary, I point to Mao's book and I tell her I don't want it. She is a little confused as to why I am telling her that I don't want the book, but she realizes what I am trying to say.

"Why don't you like the book?", she asks.

"Because I don't like Mao," I answer. I can see that the air is becoming a little thick, and the air around her coworker, another young Chinese girl, is even thicker.

"Why don't you like Mao?" she asks.

I explain to her that I like Chinese culture and I support the Chinese people, so I feel that if I answer this question honestly, she will think I don't like China. But I tell her my answer, "The Cultural Revolution".

I am surprised to hear someone so young so interested in talking to a foreigner about politics.

She responds by saying that the Chinese people also believe that the Cultural Revolution was a big mistake. But, she says, we don't think it was Mao's fault. He was old, he wasn't really in control of China. The people around him were the ones who orchestrated the Cultural Revolution.

I don't buy her answer. In the West, we tend to not make excuses for leaders who make mistakes. We just say they fucked up.

I expain to her that in Western countries, you are allowed to criticize the country's leaders. As a matter of fact, it's sort of like learning a new language. If the teacher doesn't point out your mistakes, you're never going to get better.

I thank her for telling me her opinion and head out for some more studying.

The Two Jiao Heist

Back in Shanghai, for change, they use coins (like in the States). But here in Beijing, they prefer paper. Even for tiny amounts.

Today, someone gave me a tattered 2 jiao bill (there are 100 maos in a yuan) that would be like a 2 cent bill in the States). You can't buy a small piece of candy with it.

Later on in the day, I was paying for some things in the campus grocery store. It cost 5 yuan and 2 jiao (let's say 78 cents). So, I say to her, I think I have 2 jiao. I reach into my wallet and grab the 2 jiao bill. I am excited to get rid of it.

The cashier, a young Chinese girl of about 20 says I can't use it. I tell her someone just gave it to me earlier today. She starts to get on the defensive and says that she didn't give it to me earlier in the day. It's torn and wrinkled, no one will accept it, she says.

I think she is making a big deal, so I laugh and say, "I'm not trying to cheat you, I'm just an innocent foreigner trying to buy something at your store. Here, take this other bill."

Her friend laughs, and so does she. And I'm off to go study at the library.

Writing What I See in China

Because of the Olympics, Chinese people can now read my blog (Blogspot is not censored for the time being). A Chinese woman reads my blog and writes me a long letter about how I don't understand China, how I don't like China, how I like Taiwan too much, etc. She says that there are other countries to criticize, why criticize China?

Well, my dear friend, I live in China right now. I write what I see. The old guy at the Xierqi subway station who pops popcorn in a kettle over a fire. The guy in Shanghai trying to cheat me. People spitting. All the beautiful Chinese kids. Old guys transporting goldfish on the back of their bikes.

You can leave the censorship to your government, protecting you from, well, whatever it is they are trying to protect you from. As for me, I'll continue writing what I see in China.

The Chinese Matrix

Remember in the Matrix when Neo sees a black cat, and then it repeats, a deja vu? It's a sign that something's going on in the Matrix. Maybe that can explain some of the mysterious things I have seen in the last few weeks here in Beijing.

The other day, I was riding my bike along one of the roads on the campus of the university where I am studying. I large bus speeds by all of us and honks. Very loudly. Of course, none of the students make a fuss about this. I like that about the people here in China. It seems like they are aware that life has its hassles and they don't make a big fuss of it.

Suddenly, I see a student look back at the bus and turn to his friend, obviously pissed off, raising his hands. It's like it's happening in slow motion. I see his facial expression, his turning angrily to his friend. I am totally surprised that a Chinese student would ever react like this, to anything.

Then suddenly it all makes sense.

"Seriously!" he says (in American English) loudly, adding a "What the fuck!" to make his American English more authentic. And so I realize that he's not a Chinese student after all, but most probably an ABC (American-born Chinese) studying here for a semester.

It makes sense, but for about two seconds, I felt I was in the Matrix.

Then yesterday, I was washing my hands in the bathroom when a young foreigner walks in (he looked European or American). As he heads to the urinals, he spits on the bathroom floor. I find this quite strange.

In China there are some people who spit indoors (not everyone, but for instance, at subway stations and other public places, it is pretty common). But, I have never seen a foreigner do it (and I have never seen anyone do it in the university where I am studying).

I laugh and say to him, "Wow, that's a first." I don't think he understands.

Another day in the Chinese Matrix.

The Turtle of Longevity

I bump into my real estate agent on the street the other day and we start chatting. I tell him a "secret": a few days after moving into my apartment, I hear something rustling near my TV, and see that there's a turtle, about eight inches long, walking around. I don't freak out, I just buy him some vegetables and put him in a plastic basin in some water. I now understand why there is a big plastic basin under my bed.

My real estate agent thinks for a minute: "Oh yeah, in Chinese culture, turtles mean longevity."

I knew it was a good sign.

Dropping It

To get an apartment in Beijing, as most people do, I used the services of a real estate agent. The good ones don't charge a commission, as the landlord pays them a fee.

And so, I got an apartment not far from the university and a few days later needed my agent to help me with a tricky problem. I'll spare you the details, but I was hoping that he could talk to my landlord and work it out. But, he was too busy cashing in on the rush of foreign students moving to Wudaokou and, like a genius, I interpreted his slow responses to mean, "I couldn't care less about your problems, bud, I already made your money and there's a lot more to be made before the end of September."

I got a little upset about this, but I figured this was a very natural way for him to respond. He is a forty year old Chinese guy with a wife and a kid. He needs to make as much money as possible in the next month or too before the student market dries up. If I taught English full-time, I might make three times as much as he does in a month.

So I decided to completely drop my American expectations of how he should have responded.

A few days later, a few foreign friends were looking for an apartment and I connected them with my agent. A few hours later, my friends had found a nice, modern two-bedroom apartment near the university and my agent made a lot of money.

He called me up and told me he had a present for me and that he wanted to take me to dinner. I told him that was fine, I didn't need a present.

I'm glad he could make some more money and I hope that kid of his grows up to be a smart, wealthy CEO.

Shanghainese Couple in Beijing

I've been in Beijing for a month and I like it. Since I am in China to learn Mandarin, Beijing, despite the pollution, is a breath of fresh air because everyone speaks Mandarin here. You see, in Shanghai, everywhere you go, everyone, young and old, is speaking Shanghainese.

Of course, I miss all my friends in Shanghai, and I miss my apartment in Puxi. But I don't miss people always trying to sell my "watches and bags" on the street. For that matter, I got tired, really fast, of all the "wheeling and dealing" on the street and in the stores, in Shanghai.

I once tried to make small talk with a Shanghainese woman who I had just started to work with. Using typical Shanghainese logic, after about one sentence, she stops me and say, "Oh, you are practicing your Mandarin with me." "No," I responded, "I am saying hello to you, just like I do to all my other friends and coworkers." I tried to never speak to her again.

Life in Beijing is a little slower, and people are friendlier. Nobody is trying to sell me things on the street. The Shanghainese people are famous for their arguing prowess. Every week, as you walk around Shanghai, you can hear many people yelling at each other in Shanghainese, which to put it nicely, is not the most beautiful language invented. It's hard to describe, but if you go three nights without sleep and drink lots of coffee (and to make it authentic, have your landlord or someone else do something to really piss you off) and then try to speak Chinese. It will probably sound almost like Shanghainese.

I haven't seen anyone here in Beijing argue on the street.

Of course, after a while, you get used to whatever place you are living in, and nothing really phased me anymore in Shanghai--the arguing, the hawking, the attitude.

Tonight, I was waiting in line at the supermarket with my groceries and, I'll be darned, I hear an old couple speaking Shanghainese, or more accurately, arguing in Shanghainese. The old man grumbles something to his wife and then stamps off to another part of the store. Then he comes back and they start arguing again in Shanghai. Or then again, maybe they are discussing dinner (or maybe he is reciting a love poem to her). In Shanghainese, it all sounds like arguing.

I couldn't stop laughing. It's like a caricature of what I saw in Shanghai every day.

As I collect my bag of groceries and leave the store, I see them walk toward the exit of the store, and I say to them, "You are from Shanghai!"

The man gets a big smile on his face and he tells his wife, "He heard us speak Shanghainese!" I tell them I used to live in Shanghai and they light up. They ask me if I know Shanghainese and I say no, but I say a few words. They tell me that they are both professors at Beijing Aerospace University around the corner and have been living in Beijing for a long time.

The interaction is very warm and they are very kind people.

It makes me think of my friend Bruce in Taiwan who once said to me, "It just personality." In other words, those characteristics we inherit from the city we live in, or country we live in, aren't who we really are.

With a smile on my face, I get my bike, load my groceries in it, head home to cook some of my famous soup and continue my Beijing life.

Alpha Male

My new life in Beijing is mostly occupied by studying Mandarin, but you still gotta eat sometimes.

I notice it's a little late to eat in the school cafeteria, so I decide to stop at the cheap Chinese restaurant near my place. It's a Friday night and it's packed. In addition to all the other full tables, there are two tables full of young guys surrounded by lots of green glass bottles of Qing Dao.

Luckily, they have a seat for one, so I sit down and look at the menu while the waiter waits for me to make my decision. Different from Western waiters who give you the menu and then leave (although Chinese waiters do this, too). In most restaurants, I have to say: "Could you give me a few minutes?"

Actually, I don't give her a few minutes and just order a Gong Bao Ji Ding. You can tell I didn't really thoughtfully look at the menu. You know this because whenever I don't feel like reading through a Chinese menu, I order Gong Bao Ji Ding. In the United States, this dish is known as Kung Pao chicken. I seem to have permanent amnesia that the dish is too spicy and way too sweet for my taste, but I guess I really want to eat and then go study.

While I am waiting, the host seats a girl at my table and says, "Here's a new friend for you." On this Friday night, when all the tables are packed, the two people who are eating alone cannot take up their own tables. So I being the friendly guy that I am, begin talking to her. I find out she's a year out of university, majored in English, and works as an editor of English texts at a publishing company in Beijing. We talk in Chinese the whole time because even the English majors in China, not to mention most everyone else, is shy about their spoken English. This is good for me because it means I can always easily find a little English teaching gig or two (or three) on the side to support myself.

We are trying to communicate but we can barely hear each other. The two table of young guys next to us are getting rowdier and rowdier. They're making toasts and one guy in particular seems to be the leader of the rowdiness.

Alpha male is thin, has the face and skin of a boy of sixteen, but my friend tells me he is most certainly a university student. He grabs the bottle of baijiu (Chinese hard liquor) and pours glassfuls (not shotfuls) for himself and all his friends. They all make a toast and drink. Suddenly, there's the sound of a loud crash as the young Alpha Male slams his glass on the table after downing it. It hits the table and breaks. This is when I start thinking, "Okay, there is something wrong here, get ready for anything to happen. Use aikido moves if necessary."

I continue talking with my friend, who is probably still ecstatic that I am not making her talk in English. But as we talk, I am distracted. Alpha male is about two feet from me, just over the railing that divides the restaurant. His skin is flushed and his arm is around his nerdy pimply friend who's wearing glasses and who is totally wasted. Nerdy talks to his friend and at times sounds like he is going to cry.

The boys pop up again like a flock of birds rushing toward the sky for another toast. This time Alpha Male and another friend end up chugging large beer bottles. While his friend quits after chugging for about thirty seconds, Alpha Male keeps going. That's a lot of beer to chug at once, and it seems like two minutes have passed and he hasn't even finished half the bottle. This boy's going to be in big trouble soon if he keeps drinking like this.

Fortunately, one of his friends grabs the bottle out of his mouth. I go back to talking to my English major friend some more. The boys are still rowdy and now they are going up for another toast of baijiu. I can't believe it. And then Alpha Male starts yelling for another round of beers.

I look at him. I think, people only drink like this when they hate life, when they are not brave enough to just kill themselves. I mean, this is a form of death what he's doing. The phrase "the folly of youth" comes to my mind.This kid is going to paying all weekend for his few hours in the restaurant.

I begin to wonder about this boy. I was a teenage boy once and I can understand his impulse. Most of us guys have memories like this. For me, it was speeding my car in the rain on the Balitmore beltway at age seventeen or eighteen. I was upset about something, and fortunately I didn't kill myself or anyone else. So, I can understand this kid.

I wish I had someone to talk to at that time so many years ago about whatever was going on, and I pray that this kid doesn't hurt himself. Tonight's drinking isn't child's play. This kid is in trouble.

Suddenly, they all get up and Alpha Male stumbles out, supported by a friend. I think about how he's going to be tomorrow. I wonder if he's going to alive in five years. I pray for him and hope he makes it.

Soymilk

I'm getting used to my new neighborhood in Beijing. Finding a small market where I can buy some dou jiang (soy milk, 豆漿) every day for my breakfast has been talking up more of my consciousness than I am willing to admit (hey, breakfast is important).

On the way home today, I find a market about a block away from my home that sells little plastic bags of it. In the back, there is a little stall where they sell chicken eggs, tofu, and soymilk. It's run by a kid who must be about 16. I like his Beijing accent and I like how he's not afraid to talk to me in Chinese. He's a working class straightforward kind of kid, and I really appreciate that he talks to me like he talks to everyone. He even understands what I am saying.

I pay him and walk home. It's Friday evening and I'm in no rush. You gotta love that feeling.

Next door, there's a fruit stand, and so I buy some big fragrant peaches, some soft purple plums, and a few apples. Some fruit stands in China are better than others (I suppose like any other country), and I hope this one is a keeper.

The fifteen year-old girl who works there is rushing, helping customers and tells me to hold on. I tell her to take her time. I'm still not in a rush.

I pay her and thank her. She replies as everyone in China does, and with feeling, bu yong xie (不用謝), there's no need to thank me.

As I walk home, the small bag of soymilk drops from my hand. I turn around to pick it up and behind me there is a grandmother and her three year-old granddaughter. I slowly pick up the soymilk and of course, she is looking at me, curious. Her mother moves her aside so I can go about picking up my little plastic bags.

I give her a big smile and she gives me a big smile back. It is unfettered joy, our natural state, as only children are in touch with.

I pick up my soymilk and say bye to her. She is still smiling, and I'm almost home.

The Temple of Heaven

I have just arrived in Beijing. I am downtown with nothing to do. There's a station where Olympic volunteers are hanging out in their blue and white shirts. They're all patriotic Chinese twenty-somethings who have been practicing their English intensively in the past few weeks. Thankfully, I just missed the Olympics and the city is quieting down.

I approach them and can see their faces get excited ("Get ready to talk English, here comes a foreigner!") I approach them slowly because I want to savor the moment. I want them to savor the moment, too.

And of course, I want to surprise them. So, I ask them in Chinese, "So, what can I do around here?"

I think the guy talking to me is relieved that he can talk to me in Chinese. In this way, he can speak with authority. As we talk, I notice another volunteer is photographing us with her high-tech super-expensive Nikon digital SLR. Maybe I will be in the newspaper tomorrow: "Chinese Volunteers Help Foreigner Enjoy Beijing".

They tell me the Temple of Heaven (天壇) is nearby, and so I start walking.

About twenty minutes later, I get there. You pay a fee to enter, but before you enter the actual temple grounds, you need to walk through the adjacent park. It is full of Chinese retirees doing what they do best: singing, dancing, playing cards, drinking tea. I sit down and watch two women in their 50s do some traditional Chinese dances.



If you want to see real life in action in China, you can always hang out with kids, dogs, or old people.

I figure I should continue to see the famous temple.

I walk through the grounds, picturing the old emperors doing their prayers for the land. It seems a little superstitious. The emperor would come here every year and go through all kinds of ritual so that the coming harvest would be good. But I think, it's good to have a reverent attitude toward nature, so I think, "Yeah, you go Emperor!"

After walking around for over an hour, I want to sit down, and I find there's a park on the grounds. There are many older Chinese people and a few of them look at me while I pull out my guide to Beijing and read it.

Across from me, there is another bench with an old couple. The man is lying down and his wife is sitting next to him, combing his hair. I just watch.

And now I know why I was supposed to come to see the Temple of Heaven today. When you are old (or young), and someone can comb your hair like that, isn't that heaven?

A "Chance" Meeting

In a few days, I'll be leaving Shanghai. The old mystics say that at the threshold, when the water meets the land, magical things happen.

I'm in Pudong and I walk down into the Dongchang subway station to go home to Puxi. On the train platform I see a guy who looks like my friend CJ from Taiwan. He's sitting on the bench waiting for a train to Puxi. As I walk closer to him, I think, this really is CJ. I have forgotten his name, but I walk up to him and say, "Taiwan."

CJ turns to me and we are both a little 不知所錯 ("like, no way, dude!"). The train is coming and we both get on. CJ is just visiting Shanghai for a few days. He wants to know what I am doing here. The last time we saw each other was at the 市政府捷運站 subway station in Taipei.

He tells me he doesn't like 大陸 at all, and that every time he gets back to Taiwan, he kisses the ground. I have to admit, I understand the feeling.

But for now, I like the grit of China. There are good people everywhere, and the good thing about life is that if you want to grow, life is always giving you good lessons, especially here in the People's Republic.

Taiwan will always have a place deep in my heart, and it's nice to have this reminder from my Soul (in the form of CJ), right here on line 1 of the Shanghai subway.

My New Taiji Teacher

I've been studying Wu style taiji for about six months now. I'm slowly loosening up my upper body and strengthening my lower body, both essential to good form. I'm unlearning some of the hardness I picked up in aikido (and in life) and learning how to soften and relax. I sometimes do miss the aikido samurai spirit, but taiji has its gifts, too.

On Friday, I had lunch with my Israeli friend Oren, who is a long-time practitioner of taiji. He told me that sometimes when he practices in parks, Chinese people (who usually have a lot less experience than he does) like to come up to him and correct his movements. We both wondered why Chinese people like to do this. I've seen Oren do taiji. He's quite advanced. For instance, when he and my teacher do push-hands, Oren wins every time.

We both laughed. Chinese people, upon seeing his caucasian face, perhaps, feel like it's a good opportunity to be cultural teachers. Chinese people are proud of their culture and they would like to share it with Westerners.

I practice taiji every day, and sometimes in parks, but I haven't been "corrected" by a stranger--until today.

This evening, while practicing outside of my apartment, I notice a slightly overweight, bald Chinese guy in his thirties watching me. He was out walking his little dog, which looked like Lassy, but was tiny and long.

I kept practicing my set, but after closing it, he began to present his evaluation.

"Taiji is supposed to be round, and soft. You need to be softer. Also, you should squat lower," he said.

Uh-oh, I thought. I guess this was what Oren was talking about.

"What kind of taiji do you practice?" I ask him.

"I don't practice. I mean I learned a little a long time ago. But my mother is an expert and has been practicing for a long time," he explains.

He suggested that I buy a video and study the movements to get the feel of taiji.

"But I have a teacher," I told him.

"You can still learn from watching the video," he says. "You can study how Chinese people move differently from Western people."

It sounds like he has a lot to express this evening, and I decide to be receptive and listen. After all, I am still just a beginner and I need all the help I can get. At this point, I think Oren would have wrestled him to the ground and thrown his miniature dog onto the roof of the building next to me.

"One thing you can do is do a standing meditation for a half an hour and feel a round ball in front of you. Your hands will also start to get hot," he explains. "And you can pretend like you are holding balloons in your hands, too."

"I see," I respond as I nod my head.

"You see," he continues, "taijiquan is based on the Doctrine of the Mean, everything is balanced. So you shouldn't be so tight. You need to be soft."

"You must live according to this Doctrine of the Mean," I say. "which is why, even though you don't practice taiji, you can still me taiji."

"Yes," he replies.

Actually, I appreciate the feedback and it inspires me to ask my teacher to soften my movements. I know I still have a long way to go.

"Thanks for your help," I tell him.

I ask him one more question: "Do you do Chinese calligraphy (shufa,書法) ?" I figure he's probably not really into exercise, but wonder if he practices a more sedentary art. And I figure even if he doesn't practice shufa, he'll probably still offer to teach me and who knows, he could probably teach me something.

"No, I don't," he response, "but I could probably find you someone who does."

"That's okay," I say. "It was nice to meet you." I thank him and he walks off.

Understanding the Chinese Mind

I have a new student on Tuesdays. He's around thirty, overweight, a Chinese manager at a German company. His boss has sent him to me to improve his English. Good thing, because he's got a heavy accent and has forgotton most of the grammar that he memorized in grade school.

During our first meeting, I ask him what topics he wants us to focus on and he tells me he wants to be able to explain to his manager, who is a foreigner, the fundamental differences between Western and Chinese culture.

He feels frustrated that sometimes his boss just doesn’t "get" the Chinese mentality. For instance, he tells me, his boss doesn’t understand that Chinese people will always choose the familiar and the stable over the risky, even if it’s fun, creative, and has been successful in the West.

In class lately, we have been talking about the youth of China and their views of their country. My student by now knows that I’m not a typical foreigner, that I’m interested in Chinese culture and that I’m probably almost as smart and sophisticated, intellectually, as he is.

First, he tells me how optimistic the youth of China are about the growth of their country, and how proud they are of China’s resilience. I listen and correct his English mistakes, but I can’t resist asking him a question. I suspect that he will like this, that it will enliven our class together.

I draw a line and on one end write “1949” and toward the other end write “1979”. I say to him that I understand that after Deng Xiaoping opened up China to the West in 1979, its economy has been developing. I draw a line from “1949” to “1979” and asked him, “What do young people think about this time period? If China had been developing during this time, don’t you think China could have become a developed country, like Japan? Was this period of time a waste?”

My student tells me that, in fact, he believes it was. But he says it was a “process.” I think that this means that China needed to go through this period to get to where it is today. He likes to emphasize that Chinese people focus on process.

I ask him what he thinks of Mao. “Winston Churchill, who led England during wartime, when asked to continue leading the country after the war, said that while he was good at leading England during wartime, he wouldn’t be a good leader during peacetime, as he didn’t especially understand economics. So, Churchill was better than Mao. Mao didn’t step down after the revolution. In fact, he wanted to be another emperor of China,” my student responds.

I have to say, it is refreshing to hear a young Chinese person criticizing Mao.

My student is making a lot of English errors, which I correct from time to time, but our conversation is getting juicy.

He knows Western people always criticize China for its handling of the Tiananmen Square protestors in 1989 and he wants to explain his governments actions to me, a Westerner. The governments actions, he says, were understandable for several reason, and he enumerates them:

First, at that time, the government didn’t have a police force capable of dealing with the protesters, so they had to send in tanks. Second, army men aren’t used to dealing with civilians, so they used their war strategies with the protesters, which explains why they killed them. Third, he explains that at that time, the army didn’t have tear gas, and so they had to use guns and bullets against the protesters.

I am incredulous and I can't quite believe what I am hearing. For some reason, the word "BRAINWASH" starts flashing in my brain.

I ask him, “In 1989, did the Chinese government have nuclear weapons (of course, I know they did)?” And of course, he responds affirmatively. “So, you are saying the government had nuclear weapons, but didn’t have teargas?”

“Yes,” he responds. He honestly believes that the government didn’t have teargas. I suppose at this point I should have asked if the government had water and hoses.

I laugh and I tell him, “Honestly, you are not going to find a foreigner that is going to believe that the Chinese government didn’t have teargas or didn’t know that you can use teargas against protesters instead of killing them.”

I tell him his reasons are “interesting”, but I ask him, ultimately, do people think that what the government did was wrong? I make an analogy to Germany, saying that although there are probably some Germans who understood the intellectual reasons why the majority of Germans behaved the way they did during the war, still, most of them are ashamed of what happened and their government apologized for the atrocities.

He tells me no, we Chinese people don't believe the government was wrong. He tells me that Chinese people are different from Western people. Chinese people have an obligation to love and take care of their parents, and they also have an obligation to love their country. He tells me that if his boss, for instance, tells him to cheat or lie, he'll do that, because he also has an obligation to his boss.

I explain to him that in the West, if your boss tells you to do something unethical, you are expected to refuse, and if he threatens you with your job, you say, "Okay, bahbah-yi!"

He just continues to smile and says that in Chinese culture, there is no "right" and "wrong", that Chinese culture believes that everything is relative. "Our cultures are very different."

He says that Chinese people don't understand how anyone in the United States could criticize China. Is the United States a perfect society? And he brings up the Iraq War. He says that Chinese people know why Bush invaded Iraq—oil.

Perhaps he thinks that all of us in the United States are like the Chinese, that we unthinkingly support our government. Does he have any idea how many people in the United States would agree with him about Iraq?

I tell him, in fact, I agree with him. I am critical of my government, and I know a lot of Americans who are also very critical of the US. At this point in our conversation, I think it’s a good time to talk about freedom, specifically freedom of speech and freedom of information.

I bring up Tibet and he smiles.

I tell him how my Chinese teacher didn't even know Tibet was an issue until a foreign student of hers mentioned it to her last year. And as I mentioned in a previous post, she concluded that "there are two sides to every story."

I tell my student the conclusion I came to after hearing my Chinese teacher's story, which is that while there are two sides to every story, that you've got to let people have access to both sides so they can make up their own minds. I tell him that in the West, we have access to both sides and we can make up our own minds. Yes, we know how the Tibetans are better off economically than they were a hundred years ago, how they have better infrastructure and universities, but most of us still are opposed to China's policy on Tibet.

My student responds by saying that you can't give the Chinese people full access to all information because it will cause chaos. In fact, restricting this access if an important way of keeping China stable.

I am beginning to understand the Chinese mentality better. China has been through so much upheaval through the ages that this stability is of utmost importance. This perceived need for stability means that most Chinese people are willing to forego a lot of freedom and democracy so that they don't have to go through another period of chaos again.

I imagine that if Chinese magically became a democratic country overnight, it might collapse. I tell my student that I understand this, but I hope that China can move gradually to more freedom. I tell him if young people in China also want to move in this direction, then perhaps there is hope.

He tells me that they do want China to move forward, slowly, in this area.

I am happy we can talk freely about these things and I would like to learn more about what Chinese people think. My student is also happy and says that he believes he can learn more from our conversations.

I think there might be hope for China.

The Trashman Gets Busted

Today the Trashman got busted. Let me explain.

The Trashman is the eighty year-old guy who lives next door to me. Every time I see him on the stairs or in front of the building I say, "There goes the Trashman" or in Chinese "你好，垃圾人”.

The Trashman's day consists of dozens, if not hundreds, of short trips to the collection of trash bins in the center of our apartment complex. As a matter of fact, I can always be sure that if I am taking out my trash, he is either there fishing for trash or on his way back (with his arms full of trash) to his apartment.

In the beginning, I thought this was strange. The front door of the Trashman's apartment is usually open. When I have friends over, they get a look at the Trashman's kitchen. It is packed with--you guessed it--trash. They ask me, "How can he live like that?" and say "He must be a little crazy."

I am used to the Trashman. Despite his habit, you could say he is a sweet old man. Every morning, I do taiji in front of our building, and almost every morning, the Trashman walks by, his hands full of his catch for the morning, and he smiles at me, like the Buddha of Trash.

The Trashman's operation is multifaceted. He uses a corner of the garden in front of our building as a station where he dumps trash and sorts through it. At least he doesn't want to dump those rotting fish innards and papaya rinds on his kitchen floor. The other day, I was doing taiji and suddenly smelled something terrible. Sure enough, the Trashman was in his corner, cracking open a new shipment. It definitely affected my qi.

The Trashman has always had an operation on the bottom landing of our building. He has a small stool and he sorts through all his wares there. A little pile of plastic bottles, paper, all kinds of shit. Usually, it is hard to walk out of the building. But, he politely steps aside so I can get through.

In the mornings, when I am cooking my breakfast, I look through the window and see him bringing his haul in. I realize that everyone has their routine, their work, their livelihood--something that keeps them going everyday. Some might say that the work of the advertising executive is unnecessary, that it is "Vanity, all vanity" as one famous dude in the Ecclesiastes once said.

Yet, perhaps in whatever we find that keeps our interest, maybe there is something holy. Maybe it keeps us going, looking forward to the next day. It keeps us curious, young, keeps that spark in our eyes. Michael Jordan would spend hours and hours on layups and jumpshots. The Trashman has his own practice.

Sometimes I find myself wondering, "What kind of stories does the Trashman have?"

Up until last month, there hasn't been much of a smell. Only a little inconvenience because the Trashman's annex at the bottom of our building has gradually gotten larger. And if he wants to keep his kitchen knee deep in trash, what business is that of mine?

But recently, there has been a smell. And I have wondered why no one has said anything.

I thought, well, this is China. The rules are different here. I figure no one has said anything because, perhaps, people think this is normal. You know, all that suffering for the past sixty years and that Cultural Revolution--peoples' thresholds are different here.

It's true, China is opening up. But while you can build skyscrapers and shopping centers like Xintiandi, it takes a little more time for peoples' thinking to change. Think, "another generation."

Any foreigner living here knows what I am talking about. In the beginning, it's a bit apalling, but you get used to it. People spitting. Parents holding their kids while they pee in a corner of the subway station. A guy sitting across from me in the school cafeteria from me shoveling down his food with chopsticks, directly from his plate into his mouth.

It doesn't really phase me anymore, especially since I have made friends here and see the good that exists here, the humanity.

So, the smell isn't that bad, this sorting through the trash is probably keeping this sweet old guy alive, and besides, I think, he is doing a hell of a recycling job. Save the earth!

This morning, though, while doing taiji, two official-looking dudes and a lady descend on the Trashman and start lightly scolding him in Shanghainese (actually, to tell you the truth, I can't honestly tell you if they were scolding him, because everything said in Shanghainese sounds like a scolding). But I think they are telling him, "Look, guy, you can't do this."

Suddenly a woman yells from her window high in the building across from us. In a few minutes, she's down talking to the dudes and the lady, telling them something obviously related to the Trashman. They all look at the rags that the Trashman has hung on the tree across from our apartment (I forgot to tell you about the trash-hanging operation). A bamboo pole with about fifteen small white rages hanging from balances on two trees. Sometimes, the Trashman dries newspapers.

People walk by and linger. I want to put in my word, so I grab one of the dudes and tell him, "I am his neighbor. I just want to tell you that if I leave, no foreigner seeing all that trash in the front of our building will want to rent my apartment, and my landlord will be very upset."

The dude is very nice and says they are trying to take care of the problem. He tells me that someone else in the building complained of the smell and the trash on the landing. I go back to doing my taiji, away from the group of people who have assembled in front of my apartment. It looks cathartic.

The nice old lady who doesn't speak Mandarin (only Shanghainese) in the next building over sees me doing my taiji and she starts talking to me in what sounds like very heavily accented Mandarin, only some of which I can understand. She says, "He is crazy, he is crazy!" (“病了病了！”） and "I always see you doing taiji every morning--good job!".

There's an older man, let's call him Da Ye, about sixty, in our building who is always talking to the Trashman. He comes back and see the ruckus and starts arguing (again, it's Shanghainese, so for all I know, he was reciting Tang love poetry). I know that he is the Trashman's friend. I assume that in a very Confucian way, he is doing his best to honor the elderly and honor his neighbor. He helps the old man clean up.

Later today, I return home and see Da Ye and the Trashman doing more cleanup. I feel relieved and hope there won't be so much trashing lying around and I won't have to smell some of those smells. I see them bring back an old, battered suitcase from the trash bins. I go out to get dinner and see the big suitcase in the Trashman's kitchen.

Somehow, I don't think that Buddha smile has left the Trashman's face. He hasn't really said a word today, as usual. He just smiles at people. I figure tomorrow morning, he will be at it again, running a tighter, leaner operation, but nevertheless, still in business.

You got to keep on going.

A Walk in the Park

My Chinese reading class at the university has been cancelled this morning, so instead of practicing taiji in my little xiao qu (neighborhood) in front of my apartment, I go to Fu Xing Park. I ride my bike there and find a spot to do taiji.

In the background, I can hear retired people singing in a chorus, and in every direction there are people practicing taiji. Next to me there is a young Chinese man in his late 20s practicing taiji. As soon as I see his movements, I know he is practicing the same style as I do, wu shi, as I do. Shanghai is a center for Wu style taiji, so this is not uncommon.

I start doing my stretches and watch this guy practice. He looks like a beginner just like me. Behind me, there's an older man, probably in his late 60s. He looks at the young man and it looks like he is imitating his movements. He doesn't look like he's been practicing very long, but I figure, better late than never.

After my stretches, I go up to the young man and ask him if he wants to practice the basic form together. He asks me "Which form?" I say Wu style and tell him who my teacher is. He tells me that he practices Wu style and that his teacher is right behind us! It's the old man. In fact, his teacher is probably the most senior Wu style teacher of southern style Wu taiji in Shanghai!

We practice together and his teacher, seeing me practice, asks his student where this laowai studied. I'm sure he can tell that I am only a beginner. My new young friend tells him who my teacher is. In his lineage my teacher would be considered a "nephew." We are essential "family."

After we practice, I ask my friend to introduce me to his teacher, Zhou Laoshi, and we begin talking. A few old men join in our conversation. Zhou Laoshi asks me if I have done some other martial arts, and I tell him I studied aikido for a few years. He asks me to do push-hands, tuishou, with him so he can feel my level, but I have never done tuishou. He say, "Just do aikido." And so, I practice aikido with him.

He is what you would expect a taiji master to be. My big samurai moves are nothing for him. You expect him to fall back, but instead you find yourself falling back. There is no resistance, but at the same time he is strong. I've never explored this martial aspect of taiji, and I'm inspired.

As usual, the old guys think it's cool that I'm a laowai who does taiji. We talk about martial arts, Chinese medicine, calligraphy (shufa), and more. They tell me to come back and practice some more with them.

I get back on my bike and return home. On the way, I realize that there's no use in seeking any kind of peak experiences, of planning a "glorious life" in the conventional way. Maybe that's the way I was when I was when I was a young punk living in Upper Haight in San Francisco, but thankfully, life has its way of wearing down your rough edges (and I think I've got a hell of lot more to go!).

This morning, my Chinese class was cancelled. All I had to do was to take a walk in the park, and life naturally presented me with aliveness, warmth, and some new friends.

The Precious Korean Boy

A company has hired me to teach business English to one of their up-and-coming managers. From Korea, he and his family have just relocated to Shanghai. Like most Asian managers, he's got his bad speaking habits. He doesn't know when to use the present perfect and when to use the present continuous. He gets lazy and drops things like the "s" on the end of words and those annoying prepositions. He needs my help.

I go to his house in a wealthy section of Shanghai once a week and his wife gives us tea and I teach him. His young son, about three years-old, always greets me--he's shy but he always has a big smile. I've been teaching at their house a few times, so he is used to me. This time, he gives me "five" and I pat him on the head and smile back. He is supercute and his smile gets bigger every time I see him.

At the end of our lesson today, my student, who is in his early thirties and is exhausted from his recent business trip to Europe, tells me of something that happened in his son's nursery school class this week. Since it's almost Father's Day, the teacher asked the children to talk about what Daddy does at home. Some kids said their dad fixes things, helps clean up, reads me stories, plays with me, etc. But when the teacher asked my student's boy this question, he started crying.

My student said that his son was sad because he didn't know what his daddy does at home. The fact is, his daddy comes home late and often goes on business trips. I imagine that this is quite common in Asia (as it is everywhere in the world).

To imagine this precious boy crying in class was a little heartbreaking. I know his dad works really hard to be successful so he can be a good husband and father. The pressure is incredible. I know, because every week I hear stories of his corporate battles (in English).

But, somehow, I hope he will be able to spend some more time with that beautiful boy of his.

First Taste of Yangmei Berries

It's early June in Shanghai, and you know what that means. It means that the short, bronzed waidi ren from the provinces who live in Shanghai start selling cherries and yangmei. They carry them on their shoulders on a bamboo pole, two baskets swinging beneath, one with cherries and one with yangmei. You can find them on street corners or on the sidewalk your way to take the subway.

What is yangmei, you ask? Well, in my opinion, yangmei (also called red bayberry in English) is the most beautiful of fruits (although you have to admit, most fruits are beautiful, aren't they?). They're deep wine red-purple, a berry, a little larger than a cherry, with a textured surface like some exotic sea creature.

For a few weeks after they appeared on the streets of Shanghai in late May, I got curious about them, and then one day, while walking on Yan An Road, I saw one of those hardy waidiren selling them. "How much?" I ask. "Ten kuai for a jin (about a dollar and change for a pound)," he says. "I'll take a jin," I say.

He pours a basket into a bag and hands it to me, charging me for two jin. I can't tell you how Shanghai this is, but I am used to it, so I just say to him, calmly, "I'll take a jin." He's obviously disappointed, and he pours out half the bag. I put my yangmei in the basket of my bike. It's a beautiful summer day in Shanghai and I get to ride through the tree-lined streets of the French Concession, anticipating my first bite of yangmei.

I finally get home twenty minutes later, wash them, and taste. They are wonderful. Sweet, juicy, and just a little tart. For the next day, I eat my yangmei. I give one to a friend and she says, "You got some good yangmei."

A few days pass and I want to get more before the season passes and they're no longer available. So, while shopping in the upscale grocery store near my house, I pick up some more. Once again, I take them home, wash them, and then take a bite of the new batch.

They're all too sour and not sweet at all. I eat a few, hoping that there will be a sweet one in there, but they're all disappointing. I throw them away.

Today, while waiting for the light to turn green on Huang Pi Road, I notice another yangmei/cherry vendor. "How much is a jin?" I ask. I can see him thinking for a second, wondering how much his markup should be because I am a foreigner. "Thirteen kuai," he finally spits out. This is at least seven kuai more than I would pay in a typical fruit stand. In a generous mood, I tell him ten and he gives them to me.

I lovingly take the bag of yangmei with me on the subway, get off at my stop, and walk them home. I wash them and take a bite. They're better than those sour berries from the frufru supermarket, but they still aren't close to my first bite.

I'm thankful for those first berries and I figure, with any luck, perhaps next year, I'll taste them again. In the meantime, I still have a few more to eat of this last bag of yangmei.