quelquefois

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.

Today I wanted to make sandwiches for dinner, and since it’s not convenient to purchased sliced meat nearby, I went to a few places that sell 肉夹馍 (rou jia mo, meat sandwiched between steamed bread) to buy some meat. I asked them if they sold their meat separately.

Me: Do you sell your meat separately?
Supermarket woman: This meat is expensive and hard to cook.
Me: Okay, can I buy some? How much would 10RMB buy?
SW: 3 pieces
Me: 3 pieces? You put more than that in one 肉夹馍, and those only cost 3 RMB.
SW: This meat is tasty! It is hard to cook! I spent a lot of time making it!
Me: Fuck you. (walks away)

I try another place that sells the meat outside the supermarket.

Me: Do you sell your meat separately?
Meat man: No, this meat is expensive.
Me: Why can’t you just cut some off like you were making a 肉夹馍 and just give me the meat equivalent and I will pay for it like it was a regular 肉夹馍?
MM: Why do you just want the meat?
Me: I want to make a sandwich:
MM: Then you can bring your bread slices here and I will cut the meat for you.
Me: Why can’t you just give me the meat?
MM: I just can’t do that.
Meat Man’s Friend: Are you Korean?
Me: No, I’m not fucking Korean! (walks away) Fuck you!

If anything, wouldn’t benefit more financially by just selling some of your meat and keeping all the extras that come with it? Also, I approached them towards the end of the day–are you going to keep the meat and use it tomorrow (knowing China, though, probably)? I don’t understand the lack of entrepreneurial spirit and inability to think outside the box. Chinese people have so many of these rigid rules and criteria that often make no sense or contradict each other. For example, I cannot bring a backpack into the supermarket, but I can bring a huge tote bag. Are these rules made up because there are too many Chinese people, and thus, too much hassle, to make exceptions?

I just wanted some meat for my sandwich…

Around this time last year, I unknowingly developed an allergy to dust. My nose was constantly stuffed and I had an intense and loogie-filled cough. By springtime I was so uncomfortable that I went to health services at Brown, but the doctors there couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. She suggested I see an allergist, but I never did.

Things got worse, and persisted through the summer, long after hayfever season. After finally visiting an allergist this summer, I found out that I had developed an allergy to dust. I took antibiotics that cleared up my nose, but I still had a phlegm issue that often left me short of breath.

It was hard to figure out what was going on, primarily because I was moving around so much. By the time I went to the doctor at Brown, I had a few months left before going to New York for the summer, then home for two weeks, and then off to China.

I went to the hospital at Harbin Institute of Technology, and getting any help from the doctors was impossible. The doctor asked what was wrong, I started to explain, but before I got into my medical history she was pretty much done listening. Instead of asking questions about my condition, she asked if I was Korean. Then before I knew it, a crowd of people were standing 6 inches behind me, waiting for me to finish so they can be seen next. The doctor gave me a prescription for some useless pills and shoo’ed me away.

I often have these “I’m going to die from a collapsed lung or phlegm-filled lung” moments. So yesterday I went to Harbin’s “best” hospital and this is what I left the hospital with:

It was assuring to have an x-ray taken and have the doctor say that nothing was wrong with my lungs. And now, if anything pops up again, I have something tangible to show the next doctor I see. And it’s also awesome when I get to keep x-rays of myself. You can’t see it too well the above photo, but I didn’t take my necklace off and you can see a little silver airplane.

Here’s hoping the mountain of pills I was prescribed work!

This past weekend I went to Dandong with the language program I’m currently at. Some highlights included:

Bonfire on the beach at Dalu Island at night, with innumerable bottles of beer, pseudo-s’mores, and (literally) long walks on the beach (to get to the water, as it recedes at night).

Exploring Dalu Island, meeting fisherman on the beach and farmers on the mountain.

Beach at Dalu Island.

Seeing yet another Mao statue, this one at the Dandong train station.

Seeing the half-lit bridge that connects China and North Korea.

North Korea at night

On a boat on Yalu River to get a close-up of North Korea(’s border).

There were three things that I will remember about Dandong. First, that besides the riverside, the city looks like (get this) every other Chinese city in the country.

Second, there’s this phenomenon that I experience here in China, where many many citizens always ask me, “Are you Korean?” Coming to Dandong, a city that borders North Korea and has a lot of Korean immigrants, I was surprised when people came up to me and asked, “Are you from North Korea or South Korea?” AnnyonghaseNO? I am surprised by the inability of Chinese people (surrounded by Koreans) to recognize Koreans and non-Koreans. Or at least, instead of asking whether I am A or B race (if you were so curious), you could ask what nationality I am. Though they never believe me when I tell them I’m American.

Lastly, and most strongly, I was struck by–and I’m sure any tourist that comes to Dandong–the stark difference of standards of living between the two sides of the Yalu River. You saw what North Korea looks like at night–almost completely black. I didn’t post a photo of China, but the half-lit bridge pretty accurately describes the state of development each state is in. Flashing neon lights floor the Chinese side of the river, signs of a bustling economy are prominent on the riverside, and people are dressed in whatever which fashion they wish. High-rise buildings are featured prominently, and cars bustle all over the streets. As mentioned before, it is just like any other Chinese city.

North Korea, on the other hand, was characterized by a sparsely populated, propagandized landscape. Signs proclaming, “Long Live Kim Jong-Il in the 21st Century!” were plastered on buildings. The clothing people wore matched, and were various shades of navy, olive, and brown. Guards watched over everything construction workers and fishers did on the border, some of them shooting dirty glances when I caught their faces with my camera. Children threw rocks towards our boat (perhaps in spite?) and yelled at us. Some people say that North Korea was China 25 years ago. I wonder how true that may be, and whether any hope lies for the North Koreans.

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.