quelquefois

It’s not easy being a woman in China. In the workplace, women face the glass ceiling phenomenon, but there’s also a sticky floor, wherein women in low-paying jobs get paid less than men of equal skill level. In their personal lives, they are bombarded by images in mass media, telling them they need to be thinner, fairer, taller.

While many societies promote equal political and social rights for women (China being one of them), it’s rare to see it fully implemented in practice. This entry is about when I’ve received some sort of discrimination based on my gender at the pool. I don’t have any specific conclusions or policy recommendations; this is just a story of my life in China.

When I was studying in Harbin last year, I often went to Heilongjiang University’s pool. Every time I went, I stuck out as one of the fastest swimmers in the pool. I befriended the lifeguards there, who welcomed my presence every time with a smile and a wave. One lifeguard, 李 (Li), in his late 40s, single, would often swim with me and race me. He always tried to invite me out to another pool he worked at during his off days from Heilongjiang University, though due to the distance and time constraints, I never made it out.

In order to let him know when I’d be heading to the pool (we became swimming partners), he took my mobile number. Sometimes I received texts that were written to be mass forwarded to friends–ones that wished health and happiness, success in life, and happy holidays. Eventually, he asked me to have a meal with him. I agreed, seeing no problem–friends have meals together, too. We dined, and afterward he insisted he show me his shabby apartment, adorned with tacky posters and trinkets collected from his many years in Harbin. He had a medal and trophy case, for the many times he’s won swim races. We took a photo together and I left. Simple as that.

At one point, he started telling me he loved me, that he wish he could be with me, lamenting the age difference being the only barrier to our being together. I cut off communications then. And then that’s when he would call and text nonstop. I felt sorry for 老李, but never responded. How did the concept of friendship become “love” so fast?

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Once I moved to Beijing, I got a gym membership and spent most of my gym time in the pool. Again, the lifeguards immediately noticed me, smiled whenever I came, asked me how I was, and suggested workouts for me. Then, over time, one lifeguard, 老田 (Laotian), would introduce me to other swimmers.

One time, a swimmer, 王 (Wang), and I had a conversation:

Him: 我怕移民到美国，因为我怕受到歧视。I am scared of immigrating to the U.S., because I am scared of discrimination against me because I am Chinese.
Me: 这是免不了的，无论在哪国家，社会不是完全平等的，有些人会在某方面（社会地位、职业、性别等）受到歧视。But this is unavoidable. Regardless of what country you live in, society is not completely equal, you will face discrimination in some respect (be it social status, your profession, your gender, etc).
Him: 在中国我很满意因为我不受到歧视，你在中国应该没问题吧？不会受到歧视？I am happy to live in China because I am not discriminated against. You shouldn’t have any problem here either, right?

I went on to tell him that, in fact, China is a very discriminating place. He did not believe me, so I started giving examples. First, I told him that if I don’t speak Chinese absolutely fluently, I can be marked as an outsider, a non-Chinese. Secondly, I told him that if I were not a woman, but a man, that swam like I did in the pool, he would not have even noticed me. And that’s not even touching on the many other ways women and foreigners are discriminated against in China. His eyes showed a glimpse of understanding, though he never conceded to my argument.

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While the topic of “discrimination” is worthy of many posts and debates, how it has affected me personally led me to wonder whether I would have gone without this sort of attention if I were male. I wouldn’t be watched and pointed out to every time I swam when the lifeguard(s) I knew were on duty. I wouldn’t have to defend my right to ride a red and black road bike as opposed to the low bar, pastel-colored, single-gear bikes. Any male friend who swam well has never gotten the kind of attention I have, but is that a result of Chinese females being less forward and confrontational? Are men better swimmers than most women?

Is the attention negative? Never. These men have all been incredibly nice and well-meaning. However, their professions of love, the fact that I cannot swim in peace, and the need to worry about how to turn someone that I might have to see every day down is more than I bargained for when I signed up for the gym.

Today, my roommate Jules and I were biking to the train station, and at a stoplight we ran into an American who was out on a run. Jules and I were speaking English about alternate routes to the train station.

Man: Wow, people who speak English! (then he looks at me) Both of you!
Jules: Yeah, where are you from?
Man: I’m from New York. (directed at Jules) China is great, isn’t it?

Then he proceeds to look at me as if he was saying, “Your country is great!”

I hate that all white people in China think you can’t speak English. And if that isn’t enough, Chinese people don’t believe I speak English well (nor do they think I speak Chinese well enough, either).

Where do I belong in China? Where do I belong in the world?

There’s this man whom I met two months ago named 周杰 (the name is so close to 周杰伦, or Jay Chou, but he couldn’t be further from it). He insists on calling me “小胖子” or “little fatty,” when I’m not even fat, I just (to put it in the words of Vicky Chao) weigh more than 100 pounds. Apparently, he also thinks I’m an idiot. Here is an excerpt of a conversation we had today:

Man: 我吃的是绿色的菜花. (I had a green floral vegetable.)
Me: 西兰花？(Broccoli?)
Man: 哇，对！你怎么知道？我还以为你不知道中文怎么叫呢。(Wow, yeah! How did you know? I didn’t think you knew how to say it in Chinese.)
Me: 开玩笑吗？(Are you kidding me?)

西兰花, xī lán huā: n. broccoli

Who doesn’t know how to say “broccoli” in Chinese? Even foreigners learning their first year of Chinese know how to say it. Is this a jab at my intelligence? Should I be making fun of him for not being able to fit into regular pants (he’s a student at an athletic university in Beijing, and I think his legs are too 粗, thick, to fit into anything but sweatpants)? Should I make fun of him for his st-st-st-stutter?

No, I won’t reduce myself to his level. I’ll just stop picking up his phone calls. I didn’t come to China to have my intelligence underestimated and to feel bad about my body when there’s nothing wrong.

My roommate and I arrive in Wuhan (Wuchang, specifically) and try to find a cheap place to stay that’s close to the train station (unfortunately we both ended up taking trains from the other train station on the other side of town, about a 40 minute drive away). We find this “hotel” (after seeing the bathrooms/showers at this place, though, I don’t know what to call it) that must not see many foreigners. Here is a conversation I had with employees at check-in:

Hotel staff (Chinese): May I have your 身份证 (shen1fen4zheng4, identity card)?
I hand over my passport.
Hotel staff: What is this? Where is the number?
Me: I don’t have a national identity card; that’s my passport. I’m an American citizen.
Hotel staff (to a co-worker): What do we do? Where’s the number? Where’s her name? What should we put?
Me: Can’t you just input my English name and passport number?
Hotel staff: You’re sure you’re not Chinese? Do you have any other form of identification? What’s your Chinese name?
I go on to show them my school ID from last semester, as well as my work ID, neither of which are acceptable. I have no idea what they ended up doing, but I have never seen anyone so confused to see an Asian wielding a foreign passport before.

On Tuesday, I had this conversation:
Woman at camera shop: Are you from (whispers) Xinjiang?
Me: No, I’m Chinese-American. You thought I was a Uyghur?
Man at camera shop: Uyghur women are very beautiful, you are very beautiful, that is why we asked you. 
Me: Ummm.

I don’t know what goes on in Chinese people’s minds when they get all wound up in determining someone’s ethnic background.  

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.

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.