quelquefois

Chinese people do not know any limits. This, of course, has both positive and negative connotations.

One day in November, when only 2 elevators in my 40-storeyed apartment worked (which is often the case), I decided again that descending 11 flights of stairs is not a strain. However, when I reached the dark stairwell around floor 2, I almost stomped into a  huge pile of shit.

Seriously? You’re almost home. I understand the urgency associated with having to wait for the elevator, but–excuse my description–if it was still a recognizable mass, it really couldn’t have been that bad, could it? And let’s not mention the time in Harbin when I saw a grown woman crouching at a bus stop during rush hour doing you-know-what. Oops, I just did.

Public urination and defecation should really be censured and discouraged. If not by the government, then at least by passersby who I am sure find it just as uncomfortable to watch as I do. This applies to other nasty habits that Chinese people exhibit, from public spitting to cutting in line to smoking inside the elevator. It’s not Western cultural imperialism, it’s basic respect for other people.

Though on the positive side, their knowing no limits means they can replicate sections the Great Wall in chocolate and likely pull it off in a kitsch-tastic manner , and like my coworker demonstrated earlier this week, they can come into work immediately after the last final exam of their undergrad career. They can erect buildings with cunning speed, they can they persist and maintain positivity through tumultuous times, all while remaining relatively modest about their achievements.

In a strange turn of events, Yang has severed ties between himself and us. I am still unsure of the exact reason why, or whether multiple reasons all came together and prompted him to act this way. It could be many things, but some things aren’t meant to have an answer. It must stem from assumptions made on both sides, and the inability to completely explain oneself due to linguistic and cultural differences.

Yesterday, he texted me and asked me to forget we ever knew each other. Later that night, he said he felt like our relationship had suddenly changed back to being strangers. He started to speak to me condescendingly, “Is what I’m saying so profound that you cannot understand what I am trying to tell you?” Then, as if we were all of a sudden equals again, says “all banquets come to an end,” and that he wants to “end the banquet earlier,” so leaving won’t be as hard, so he wouldn’t feel 依依不舍 (unwilling to part).

It was a weird way to terminate a relationship with someone, and I learned the lesson of being more careful when making friends. I don’t know how willing I will be in the future to put myself out there for people like this. I just hope that I made his life happier, a little more bearable while he worked at Pingod. Maybe one day he will appreciate what Julia and I did for him.

From a NYTimes article titled China’s Financial Industry Recruits Abroad:

Despite the swelling number of unemployed financial service employees, those qualified to work for Chinese firms is extremely small. Mr. Leggett’s background in Chinese — he studied Mandarin for four years as an undergraduate student at Columbia — made his move feasible. He has shocked many recruiters with his Chinese ability: “They see a tall, white guy and they’ve got low expectations. When they find out I can say a lot more than ‘hello,’ in Chinese, they begin to take me seriously.”

Oh that’s great. But when they see an average-height Asian girl they have different expectations. Every time I speak to a Chinese person, they expect me to be completely fluent.  Here are five different circumstances I find myself in:

1. I tell them I am Chinese (or Chinese-American). Laughter. Okay, seriously, what am I? Proceed to point out certain superficial features that lend then to believe that I am of a different race.
Conclusion:  I speak Chinese, but I look Korean or Japanese. Therefore, I am Korean or Japanese.

2. I tell them I am Chinese-American. Disappointment. Believe that as a descendent of Chinese people, my Chinese should be fluent.
Conclusion: My Chinese is awful. I should be ashamed.  

3. I tell them I am an American. Disbelief. Succumb to the fact that I am American, but think I’m probably lying.
Conclusion: My Chinese is stellar (opinion may change upon finding out I am Chinese-American)

4. I do not tell them what I am, where I’m from. I speak Chinese. They ask what I am, where I’m from. They notice I’m not fluent, but still Asian. Korean? No. Japanese? No. Confusion. 
Conclusion: My Chinese is good…for a Korean.

5. I am completely ignored because I am standing with a non-Asian person. All interest and attention is paid to the amazing white man who speaks impeccable Chinese.

Sometimes I want to study harder and harder and become fluent, so that I can show them I  can be taken seriously. But at the same time I want to be happy with my own fluency, because in reality, my Chinese is much better than many Chinese-as-a-second-language learners. Sometimes their accusations are so piercing and offensive that I begin to question my own identity. I have neither found a way to cope with it, nor have I found the best way to avoid such questions/accusations.

Then, the same NYT article points out bilingual Chinese people who transition more easily into a Chinese lifestyle:

The transition is easier for bilingual overseas Chinese like Kenneth Chen, 29, who is studying for his M.B.A. at the New York University Stern School of Business. Mr. Chen said that if he was offered a job, the decision to move to China would be a no-brainer: “In this environment, I don’t need anyone to persuade me to go to Shanghai. I want to go.”

But I have a strong belief that that notion only applies to men. Women in Chinese society, especially in the business world, have a very low glass ceiling, despite the supposed 男女平等 (equality between the sexes). There are many, many unachievable standards and prejudices that keep women down, I guess you can call it a fusion of vestiges of Confucian society and Western misogyny. 

And that’s why it sucks to be a Chinese-American [woman] in China.

Don’t tell me you have a photo contest that “should have creative composition” and then once I submit them, tell me that my photos are too “抽象” (chou1 xiang4, abstract). And don’t go even further and tell me that the winner will have 2 or more students in it. If you told me you wanted Asian-style group photos, you could have just said so, and I wouldn’t have wasted all my time post-processing my photos.

I want all my photos back. You cannot use them as propaganda for your crappy program.

Sincerely,
A artistic girl in an unartistic country

(image of bicyclists in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square via nytimes)

The UN Environment Program released a report last Thursday (side note: good typography, color choices, UN!) about the thick clouds of smog and soot over Asia and the likely effects it has on health, food security, and environmental changes. Due to the unprecedented nature of these noxious brown clouds, the exact consequences of their presence is not confirmed. Regardless of the consequences, it seems like countries are dilly-dallying around until the human/environmental toll is too hard to ignore, which may be years away. By then it will be too late. The world needs to get on this shit, pronto. And seriously this time.

On a related note, though I may not be dying, I am still suffering. Now that I have finished consuming about 200 pills in the past two weeks, I don’t feel much better. I don’t really want to continue taking these pills. For one, I can’t bring myself to trust Western medicine produced in China. Second, I don’t like eating too many antibiotics over a long period of time. I mean, what if I created a mutant bacteria and created the next Avian Flu? Anyways, every time I work out or climb a shit ton of stairs, my throat constricts and I can’t breathe. I still have phelgm that impedes my breathing, but it’s so deep that I can’t cough it up. I wonder how I will survive in Beijing.

So while the world is working on fixing itself, and while I’m still living in China, I think it’s time for me to invest in a gas mask. I wonder if they have them in neon pink, yellow, and blue (Chinese hipsters?).

Due to extremely poor internet connections (we’re talking 20 minutes to load one single page here), I have failed to update as much as I’d like. In a few hours, I am headed to Shanghai and Nanjing for a little over a week. I have opted not to bring my laptop, which is a bold move on my behalf. I think I will survive.

The Shanghaiist reports of the many more products that have shown traces of melamine. I can’t believe how this is turning out, and I don’t even want to imagine the many other [as of yet, unnoticed] harmful chemicals that are in the foods we consume. Way to lose major face, China.

Today I will be throwing out all of my dairy products. The melamine milk scandal just continues to spiral deeper and deeper into trouble. Not long after I posted about melamine in milk and yogurt products, I went on a rampant search to find what exactly those “eight out of 30 [Yili] products” were. I searched English news websites, Chinese news websites, the Chinese Ministry of Health website, all to no avail.

But then all of Hong Kong’s supermarkets started to recall all of Yili’s products. When precautions made on behalf of a government are that intense, something’s gotta be up.

I have to wonder, why does China not take preemptive measures so that events like this don’t have to happen? It is only when it it’s too late (i.e., people die, are hospitalized, etc.) that the government takes action. Talk about losing face. But that’s how China works, and something tells me that unless major government reforms are implemented, it’ll stay this way.

Last Wednesday, a friend (named Jon) and I decided to take action against our aching backs and decided to get a massage. We had two choices: go to a hospital or to a massage parlour. One of our Chinese friends told us that there was only one masseuse at the hospital, so we opted for the parlour.

Once we entered the door we were a little sketched out. Men started trying to explain to us the different types of treatment. We finally decided on the 100 kuai (about $15 USD) 2-hour treatment. We went to our respective rooms to change.

The second I entered the ladies changing room, there was a half naked woman eating porridge and watching me. I have no idea why she was just sitting there half naked eating. Another lady asked if I wanted to shower before my massage. It seemed that if I chose to shower, I would have to do it while they watched me. I chose not to, and despite trying to find a corner to change, they watched me. Why? I have no clue.

I walked out and started to wait for Jon but the masseuses quickly rushed me into one of the massage rooms. There were about six beds separated by a half wall. In the room I was in, there were a few heavyset men smoking cigarettes and talking loudly. I was not very comfortable. The masseuse started to talk to me.

My masseuse asked me, “Are you Korean?”
“No, I am not.” I answered.
“Are you sure?”
“Look lady, I know what I am and I am not Korean.”
“Oh…well you look like a Korean. What are you then?”
“I’m American.”
“American? You don’t look American.”*

Once Jon came we started our massages. Highlights include her sticking her fingers into my ears, her putting her fingers close to my crotch, her climbing onto the massage table with me and massaging me wit her legs, her sitting on my ass and “massaging” my back (more like rocking back and forth on my ass), and ending with her lying on top of my back. I asked her if mostly men came in, and she replied, “Yes.” And as these incredibly unprofessional massaging techniques occurred, I realised that they were for the benefit of the male clients.

After the massage, I quickly changed back into my clothes. As I waited for Jon, I noticed that there was a board with 70 female masseuses’ head shots that men could choose from (there was only one male masseuse, and he only worked with feet). Jon later reported that the male changing room was more like a spa. There was a jacuzzi, Chinese chess, *two* floors, and many showers. My changing room was the size of a dorm room with a tiny shower.

Well, we learned our lesson. Our backs still ached, we were 100 kuai poorer, but we now know never to return to that place again.

*To the Chinese, being an American means you’re white, with deep-set eyes and a pointy nose.

There’s a student in this program who is the splitting image of Lupe Fiasco. Except this guy’s a douche from Princeton.

What a waste.