Memories – 回忆

On January 30, 2024January 30, 2024 By JordanIn Culture, Writing3 Comments

I have been thinking about my mom lately.

I find myself thinking of random memories of her. That time she pretended to cut my hair and just snipped some bangs, waved her arms around my head while snapping the scissors, and then asked me to look in the mirror – I told her it looked great. My best friend, with his view of the whole thing, laughed his head off. The two of us driving at night even though she had a hard time seeing and I had to “be her eyes” so we didn’t hit anything. Music she introduced me to – she’s the reason I love Bon Jovi and anything 80s. Books she and I read and talked about. She is probably a huge reason why I am a teacher today. I’ve been thinking of all kinds of memories. Even little things I said I’d do, like bring home one of those darn Chinese Zodiac stuffed dragons.

She asked about that dragon a few times…

And now the Year of the Dragon is fast approaching. Again.

It is the second time this one is coming around for me while living in China. For each new Chinese New Year, they release these little red stuffed animals that correspond to the Chinese Zodiac. Every year, the style is slightly different. The dragon that first year had the exaggerated cartoon features you would expect, but somehow, it still looked very cool. The ones this year just aren’t as good looking. I have this mental image of it hanging from its suction cup on the kitchen window of that first apartment I lived in, but then nothing else. I must have taken it down when I moved. I have no memory of it beyond that. My mother saw it in a video call and said she really wanted one. By then, the season had passed, and I could not find the dragons anywhere. If I had known about TaoBao (China’s Amazon and Ebay combined) then, I could have found it, no problem. I kept promising her that I would get her an entire set soon. Always soon. I’ll look them up. Next time I visit. You’ll have your dragon.

~~~

It has been almost a year now—eleven months—since my mom passed away due to complications with AML and infections. I still talk to her on WeChat. Send her pictures. I told her about Asher learning to ride his bike. Our summer fun. After he broke his arm, I sent her updates. I catch myself wanting to tell her something interesting or ask her questions. I think, “Mom will know. I’ll just send her a…”

I never did get her that dragon. Jade Buddha necklaces, purses, scarves but never the dragon.

I woke up thinking about that this morning. It has been on my mind for a while, actually—this dragon, hanging from my kitchen window, a cute red thing with wings and big eyes that my mom wanted me to get her. The memory, the way memories do, slips into more recent ones about my mom and even older ones. Memory may be set in time, but life has a way of twisting and turning and stretching and pushing layers of lived experiences around in your mind the way the Earth’s layers can be moved closer or farther from the surface of the crust.

I tried to get home every two years to see family, especially my mom. I was only supposed to be in China a year, and so it was always a touchy subject she’d bring up at times – When are you coming home? Will I ever see my son again or my grandson? When I got married here and had a child, I brought them home to meet her. My son was three months old, and that trip was during an Ohio winter. Ohio winters are dismal affairs. It was important to be there that first Christmas with my family. That was the only time my mother held her grandson. His age kept us from returning the following year, and then COVID restrictions kept us in China for a few more.

That Christmas trip was six years ago.

~~~

My mom was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML) last year, in November, and due to complications with infections, her battle was short. When she took a turn for the worst, I came home. Due to the exorbitant airline ticket costs right after China opened up and loosened travel restrictions, only I was able to fly from Dalian back to Ohio.

I felt cracked, fractured. I knew why I returned. I knew what it meant.

Unable to say the words, I turned to what I have turned to many times before: books. I did not want to live in my head, in memory, for the twenty-plus hours of travel.

On the flight over, I finished for what might be the fifth or sixth time, The Sun Also Rises. Hemmingway often gives so much, paradoxically so, if you consider his sparse style, but Jake’s “Isn’t it pretty to think so” left me bereft of hope or solace this time.

I wanted something more from that reading. Something I could not name. I wanted to get off the plane with an epiphany that would steel my nerves or calm my heart. I opened my Raymond Chandler collection next. The small worlds of his stories are usually so vast, like falling into a tiny hole in the ground only to find it is this bottomless well. Something stirred as I read a few, but it was more an amplified version of what I already felt: this yearning, seeking sensation. I think Chandler must have felt it, too, and put it there for others to find. I put him away and pulled out my slim Dickinson collection. It has about 180 of her poems organized by themes such as “Life,” “Love,” and “Eternity.” I’ve written on the back cover a few of the poems that I love but that this editor leaves out. This selection usually has what I’m looking for. I must have read every single poem right then and there. If you cannot find a Dickinson poem that matches your state of mind or the occasion, you’re not looking hard enough. But there on that plane, her lines didn’t fill that need I had.

Due to the infections my mom contracted, her lucidity and coherence was almost nonexistent for about two weeks before I arrived. The doctors prepped me before going into her room. She might not respond to me or recognize me, they said. When I walked in, I didn’t recognize her. She’d lost so much weight and couldn’t hold herself up. All hard angles and sharp points where she used to be smooth, soft.

She stared at the white wall of her hospital room, mumbling something in a whisper while an aide sat in the corner. She’d been trying to take her IVs out and had fallen out of bed a few days before and always needed an aide in her room.

How could this be my mom? She’d video called us that Christmas morning to watch Asher open his gifts. She was at her home, having just gotten back from a hospital stay. She laughed, joked, made squeaky elf voices. We had talked about her plans for New Years…

Right after Christmas, though, she’d gone quiet. For nearly a week I didn’t hear from her. Then on New Year’s Eve she got back. She’d been sent back to the hospital. Infections causing her pain, muscle spasms – Chondritis, she said. As bad as this was on top of everything else, she sounded just like herself. Still able to laugh, complain about Ohio’s weather, talked about her doctors. And then, in a voice message only eleven seconds long, she joked about being so young, that the Leukemia would go away, but that something else would creep up and give her trouble down the road. We talked back and forth until late in the evening, even as 2023 arrived for me and the last day of 2022 ended for her.

And then I didn’t hear from her until January 17^th. Three messages, all unintelligible.

M my mmmm MB by one read. Another: X. The third and final message I ever received from her WeChat account: Mp

In the time between our New Year’s Eve conversation and then, my mom’s condition had gone from bad to worse. My brother and family members tried to keep me in the loop, but information was not clear. Things didn’t add up. I couldn’t tell if she was just in a bad stretch – one she could come back from – or if it was something else. No one knew. Or they wouldn’t say. It was early February when my step-dad finally got information that made sense. It is the phone call that brought me home.

And so I was home.

Just then, she looked my way and her eyes lit up. She lifted her arms, and as clear as day, said “Come here and give me a hug.” The aide asked if my mom knew me, and she said, “Well, yeah, that’s my oldest son, Jordan.”

I hugged my mom and cried. I didn’t want to. I couldn’t help it. She…I was not ready. I guess I hugged her until she, like she used to when I was my own son’s age now, told me, “Don’t cry, my boy. Don’t cry.”

I was with her for the last three weeks of her life. During this time, she was more lucid and coherent than she’d been in weeks. Her team of doctors couldn’t believe it. She was talking, joking, laughing. I spent as much time with her as I could. I had room and board at the Cleveland Clinic’s Hope Lodge but ended up just staying the night in her room with her, sleeping in the recliner there. In some ways, I felt like a kid again. She and I talked and talked. On February 16, she and I were just chatting, when she took my hand and said, “That’s what I yearn for. I yearn for that time with you boys. Some people complain about their kids – oh, they’re being annoying – and so on, but not me. I love being a mom. It’s been the greatest blessing to just have been your mom and raise you.”

We talked about memories, dreams, and about her cancer. She knew she was dying, but never got angry and never cried about it. I am still in awe of her courage and the peace she seemed to have found. We caught a Rocky marathon on AMC one day, laughed about bad day-time TV, looked at family photos, discussed good books, and ate our favorite Mexican dishes from the restaurant we used to go to when I was younger.

When she slept, snuggled in her blankets, her beanie on her head, huddled in a ball, she looked like a baby. It was hard to reconcile what I saw with what the doctors told us. Sometimes she talked and ate almost like normal. She can’t be dying! Other times, she retreated into herself and her bed. And I knew.

Sometimes she saw things, but mostly knew they weren’t real. She saw her old dog, Dallas, a lot. She loved that poodle so much it’s ridiculous. There were times when she thought she’d been smoking. Would ask me to find the cigarette she dropped in the bed. Once she asked me to make sure all the animals were out of the room because they kept biting her toes. Out of nowhere, she once said, “I’d rather you not use that word, ‘ministry,’ because, you know, the Pope’s dead.” I looked and her and said, “Mom, we’re not Catholic.” A lot of the time, she knew when she was getting loopy. She’d say so herself. I got into the habit of asking the same four questions at the beginning of each day, something I picked up from the nurses: Who am I? What’s your full name? Where are we? When’s your birthday? On good days, she’d tell me to knock it off.

When it became necessary to move from the hospital to a hospice home, I stayed with her there, too. Even in that decision, she showed me what it means to face your life and death with grace.

Her doctors had suspended active treatment for her Leukemia and the serious abdominal infections because of her body’s adverse reactions. Her swollen torso and constant pain made it impossible for them to continue anything more than pain management. They needed her room if she was not going to be receiving treatment, they said tactfully but clearly. The Friday before, five days after I arrived, her team sat the family down for a meeting. They laid out the choices: resume mom’s treatment and cause her more immediate pain and do, in their view, little overall good, or begin transitioning her to hospice care. We had the weekend to think.

My grandparents, my brother, my aunt, my step-dad, we were the family. But in the end, it was me who made the choice. I chose to talk to my mom about it. That Sunday, February 19, when she was crystal clear, surrounded by family and her close friend she’d not seen in years, I talked to her about her choices.

Her friend had just painted her nails. She began talking about her feelings, about waking up some days not knowing where she was and other times knowing. Her voice was low but strong. Always this raspy, airy quality to it. She wasn’t angry, but she knew she didn’t want to feel this way. It was as though she knew she had a choice to make, even though she hadn’t been in that meeting. She started the conversation when it was too hard for us to.

“Mom,” I said when I realized where her mind and heart were heading, “knowing what you just said, what do you want?”

“I want to go home. I know it’s not going to be much longer. I want to go home. I don’t want to spend my days in here.”

I reminded her that she needed rest and a clean, peaceful place and people watching her. Because of where she had been living before getting sick, that place was no longer an option, and she knew that. But she wanted to go. Get out of the hospital.

“I have another question, okay,” I said. “And I want you to really think about it.”

The words…words I needed to say, would not leave my mouth. In a room full of people, I dropped my head and let the tears fall. It was so important that she help us make this choice, that she understood. And I couldn’t do my part.

“Don’t cry, my boy. It’s okay. Come here.”

I took her hand in mine, or she took mine in hers. The next words I spoke, words I still sometimes hear in my head, came slowly and painfully; her responses, her slow and deliberate answers, I still hear them almost every day.

“Mom we have two choices, okay. I need you to understand this. Both of them, both mean you’re fighting. Both mean you’re fighting. Here’s choice one. Choice one is that on Monday they try to put medicine in you. They put the stuff you had in a while ago. That means tests and pokes and the other stuff. That’s choice one. That’s Monday. That’s choice one. On Tuesday we’ll know if it’s working. Option two. Option two is Monday we tell them that we don’t like the hospital. We don’t like the shit in your nose. We get out of here. Go to a place where you can be comfortable and be closer to people who love you. That’s where you’ll be when you…Mom. Do you know what you want to do?”

She nodded. Slow. She looked at her hands and then at my brother and back at me.

“It is so hard to choose. The second choice will let me take the end on my terms. Peacefulness. Without all that crap in my face. You know I hate drugs and all that. And the first one, you know, it’s let’s try this and then that. I’m sick of that. Am I jumping the gun here? You know, I don’t think so. I think this will go on and on. And I don’t want to drag you kids through that.”

“Mom, it’s not about us.”

“Well, it is to me. It is to me. It’s always been about that. And I always said that when it was my time, I would not want to drag it out. You know, we talked about that a lot. And I think that if that’s the way I’m supposed to go, then that’s the way I’m supposed to go. Die in my sleep. But at least I’ll be around the people I love.”

She looked around the room then again. At each of us.

“But I never thought it would happen this soon. I’m so young.” She squeezed my hands and smiled. “But you know what? You and your brother bring out the best in me. And Asher will get to,” she laughed at the thought of him, “he’ll get to hold on to it. It’s okay.”

Two days later we moved her into the hospice home.

~~~

As the oldest son, despite all the family around, it fell to me to make many of the final choices. During this painful ordeal, the last things you want to deal with are financial, legal, and logistic details. But you have to. I did the best I could—arranged everything possible, signed papers, made the phone calls. My stepdad, his girlfriend, and my aunt, my mom’s youngest sister, were lifesavers. They helped so much. It would not have been possible – nothing would have been possible – without them. Beyond just being a ride taking me places, my step-dad and his girlfriend were these rocks that just supported me the whole time, kept me moving and my head clear. At some point, my aunt set up a GoFundMe page, and friends and family around the world donated to help cover crazy costs that kept coming up. It was remarkable and incredibly touching.

My aunt is a wonderful singer. She used to sing at family events, and I remember thinking how amazing her voice was. When she had time alone with mom, she sang to her songs they both loved. On one afternoon, close to the end, she and her daughters brought bubbles for my mom. The four of them sat in her room, laughing, and telling stories—and blowing bubbles like kids. My mom had the heart of a child – open and loving and willing to just believe in people. It sometimes got her in trouble or got her feelings hurt, but she refused to change. Live well. Laugh often. Love much. As trivial as it may sound, this kitchen motto was indeed one she embodied without irony or regret.

I knew I had to return to China. My wife and son were struggling, work was making demands, and the longer I put off buying a return flight, the more expensive it became. It was an impossible decision. I knew that if I left, I would not be there when she passed. No matter what the date was when I bought the ticket, I just knew in my heart that I was not going to be there by her side when she left this world. The thought paralyzed me. I didn’t know what to do. I did the only thing that made sense. I asked my mom for advice.

She told me to get my butt back home to her daughter-in-law and grandson because they needed me. And when I cried, she hugged me and once again said, “Don’t cry, my boy. Don’t cry.”

I thought coming home was hard. Leaving nearly broke me.

Meetings with hospice nurses were painful. Every night was hard. I stayed with her constantly. When she tossed and turned, the pain flared up, she needed to talk or just be listened to, I was there. People from her life – many I hadn’t seen in years – came by. There was a lot of love.

Her lucidity went in and out more frequently that last week. Even so, she knew me the whole time. There is no doubt. She always knew my name, and that I was her son. Even when she didn’t know where she was, she remembered that.

The last words I spoke to my mother were simple and true.

“I love you so much. I’ll see you again, mom. I’ll see you again.”

~~~

On the flight back to China, I began reading Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan. His worldview is one that slaps you around a bit but for a good purpose. I’d never read this one before and hoped for the best. My mind and thoughts were absolutely fried. Exhausted, stressed – these words don’t even cut it. I had to distract myself. A few dozen pages into the book, I put it down. His voice, the absurd qualities of Malachi Constant’s tale, the plot – something about it wasn’t working for me just then.

For weeks after returning to China and my mom’s passing, I kept searching for a way to make my mom’s death make sense or my feelings…just calmer and clearer. An episode on a literature podcast I like ran a show about a book called Three Roads Back. A book about how well-known writers dealt with grief in their life. I scoured the web for what I could find of the three writers and how they overcame the loss in their lives. Again, the stories and lessons were powerful, but not what I needed. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is a favorite of mine, too. I found her Notes on Grief that she wrote after the passing of her father. Her work is so intimate and personal that I read it and was put into her grief.

And then I found my old high school senior scrap book. It was one of the things I brought back from Ohio. Just looking at it brought back the memories of when I sat at our dining table with my mother and put it together.

This scrap book is something else. My senior English teacher had all of us put together scrap books of our lives as a big project. I started on mine much too late to make anything special on my own. But when I complained that I was probably not going to do well and told my mom about it, she lit up and said she’d help.

Over a two-week period, she and I poured over hundreds of family pictures, wrote up captions, cut out crafty inserts, and brought to life what I now consider a family heirloom. We designed the scrap book to look like an actual novel. We bought a thick binder that looked like an old-fashioned leather book and organized all the pages and sections as chapters. I remember those two weeks that we worked on it. I wanted to go out with my girlfriend and friends. As a sixteen-year-old, I wanted to do just about anything else but work on an arts and crafts project with my mom. But I stuck it out, and we worked side-by-side on this book that is now on the shelf behind me in my office here in China. This is a huge book. It includes pages with my pregnant mother, my first photos, family pictures from trips, holidays, and normal goofiness. Friends and pets and all kinds of stuff are in it. The teacher had us write a series of letters to important people in our lives – friends, siblings, parents. The letter I wrote to my mom is in there.

When I found it again after getting back from the States, I reread it. The letter and the whole scrap book. And then…

Something happened. Looking at my family, seeing our faces, reading the words I had written when I was younger…and then thinking about my own wife and son now…I saw the story I was already writing with them. The one my mom helped write in her time, the one she shared with me and helped me start. It occurred to me then that the reason I couldn’t find what I thought I needed in books, in literature, was because a part of a story’s power comes from the reader somehow recognizing a piece himself on the page.

No story encompasses all of what you may feel, and it doesn’t teach you how to deal with your specific troubles or take them away. We find pieces of ourselves in the books that we read because the stories they tell, they’re not always maps or instructions, they’re dreams and nightmares, wishes and hopes. They are messages in bottles. They’re shooting stars that we see and watch with wonder and sometimes fear and awe or curiosity. They are voices that remind us, over and over again, that even though we must do the walking, go through the heartbreak, the excitement, the pain, the loss that life brings, even though we have to go through it ourselves, find our own way, we are not alone.

I am still working through the death of my mother. She was only 55. I thought I had more time with her. I wanted my son to know her. I wanted her to laugh with him and tell him stories about how troublesome his father was when he was a kid. I wanted him to see how cool she was, see all her crazy hair styles and colors, see how brave and loving she was. It is up to me now, to tell her story to him. To bring her to life for him. It is a task I’m up to, even if it still hurts.

My mom used to read a book a day when I was a kid. We’d get to the line at the bank or the pharmacy, and while my brother and I ran through the aisles, she’d stand there and read. It wasn’t long before I became interested in what she read. I’d ask about the story, and she’d explain what she could. When I was an angsty teen writing short stories and poetry, she encouraged me. She helped me select poems to submit to competitions, and let me bounce ideas off her, even really bad ones that involved vampires (I was fourteen!). She brought the world of literature to me, opened it up and made it a part of my life. I now have a book in hand or in my backpack wherever I go. My son sees this and asks about the stories I’m reading, just like I did.

All the books I read, searching for a way to process my mom’s sickness and then her death, those could never have done what I asked them to do because I wanted a book to deal with the pain, take it away. Books don’t do that. They walk with you through the pain.

My mom passed away at 9:25 pm, March 4^th Ohio time. 10:25 am, March 5^th China time.

I think about those three weeks I spent at her side a lot. That time is mixed in with all my memories of her now. I see her in her hospital bed, her eyes shining brighter than what you think is possible. My aunt putting lotion on her arms to keep her skin and all the tattoos smooth. I see her hugging my wife and holding my son as a baby. I see her laughing at something ridiculous my brother has said just before the camera takes the picture, the one I have hanging up in my classroom with a bunch of other family photos. She’s telling a sixteen-year-old me that I can get a tattoo if I want. I see her on my step-dad’s Harley, decked out in leather. Her hair is short, blonde, and spikey. I see her in her white wedding dress, styled after a western cowboy theme, standing next to my brother and me as we give her away. I mess up and try to say my line twice before finally getting it right. We’re all traveling to NYC together, hanging out and eating cheap food to save money. I see her dancing in the kitchen to Motown with my brother. I see her fighting through depression, teaching me how to do it, too. I see her excited, standing in line with her sister and me and my wife at Cedar Point, waiting for our turn to ride. I see her smiling and crying as I come out of customs at the airport, arms up, waiting for a hug. I see all these memories and more.

I have been thinking about my mom a lot lately, but I have also been telling my son about her, too. He will know his grandma. That’s a promise I can keep.

Talking With Xiao Ming – 和晓明的对话

On June 11, 2017June 13, 2017 By JordanIn Culture11 Comments

LastNightOut.JordanInChina

The other night was my school’s end of the year dinner. It was at this new Japanese style spa/restaurant/hotel/resort/compound thing. Yeah, I’m not sure how to refer to it, obviously. There was a buffet, our school’s teacher-band played, and people gave speeches to those who are leaving at the end of this year. I gave a speech for a friend that I’ll miss (but will visit in Korea), and tried not to make a fool of myself at the mic. Oh, and we all had to wear sandals the whole time.

The next morning Xiao Ming and I had one of our talks about the night.

Not an I’m-in-the-dog-house talk. A culture-differences-pop-up-everywhere talk. I love the second type of talks, and mostly actively avoid the former.

For four years Xiao Ming and I have been attending events with my colleagues – birthdays, dinners, bar nights, anniversaries, memorials, concerts, and graduations. After nearly every single one she and I sort of debrief the event.

I’m constantly amazed at how objective, attentive, and curious she is about the world around her, so much so that I actually record some of our conversations because I don’t trust myself to remember what she says faithfully. And I do want to remember. Her point-of-view as a highly educated Chinese woman with extended experience abroad and a deep, objective love of her culture and country makes her a fantastic conversationalist on most topics related to China.

“Your co-workers are so free and expressive,” she said to me. Her opinion piqued my interests and I followed up, asking her what she meant.

What follows are parts of our conversation. All of the requisite PC statements are in place here – we’re not sociologists, harbor no agenda that would benefit anyone by championing one culture at the expense of another, know that generalizations are not entirely accurate all the time, and welcome all constructive dialogue that might spring up around any of these topics.

Thoughts on Expression

After crying through several of the farewell speeches, Xiao Ming told me that in China something as heartfelt as personal, touching, sentimental goodbyes like that would never happen. You’d get printed out speeches where people read completely from paper with little emotional register in their voice. You’d get words like “you’re great,” “good job,” and “good luck” with no humorous anecdotes, no choking up, no passion.

Inhibitions often control the masses everywhere, but maybe more so here. I myself am not much of a dancer without some liquid courage, but Xiao Ming says that so many more Chinese people are lead-footed because of culture differences. Dancing, singing, playing in bands, these are not Chinese habits. Our staff band, she claims, is something that wouldn’t exist in a Chinese company due to the workers not being “professionals.” My colleagues are good, but they’re definitely not moonlighting for Bon Jovi on the weekends. That doesn’t stop them from putting on great shows at many of our school events and getting teachers out on the dancefloor. Save for the nearly soundproof rooms at KTVs, Spring Festival events, and contest television shows, Chinese workers don’t perform much on a regular basis.

Sentimental statements of gratitude and love are simply not a part of the conversation for families and close friends. Any culture book about China will tell you this, and it is mostly true. Xiao Ming has no memory of her folks telling her that they love her, nor would she feel comfortable telling them that she loves them. They don’t even thank each other or say goodbye on the phone before hanging up! By comparison, every time my mom WeChats us she makes sure to tell Xiao Ming and me that she loves us.

Thoughts on Age and Decision-Making

I work with some pretty great people of all ages, and so many of them are full of a zest for life that quite frankly puts me, at only 30, to shame. Some of my co-workers are in their fifties and they dance, laugh, sing, and party like they’re still in college. Women of the same age in China dance a bit, too, but only in the city squares and only when they’re lead by people doing choreographed movements. There’s no way in hell they’d be in bars or dancing at parties.

“Old Yellow Cows,” Xiao Ming calls these types of women. Apparently a term used to describe some of the generation that’s in their 50s and 60s now. “When they don’t have anything to do they just stand there like they’re mooing, they have no entertainment. How many times has my mom said she wants to travel, but then at the last minute she changes her mind? She’ll watch the kids, or do something else. If she does go she comes back complaining about spending money,” Xiao Ming says without pulling her punches.

Younger people, mostly women since Xiao Ming likes to ease drop on them, constantly worry about not being married, losing weight, or shopping. Sit in Starbucks a bit and you can overhear conversations from those around 30 and under and they almost always revolve around obsessively wanting to find a significant other, going on blind dates, and-or their latest romantic fiasco. If they aren’t fretting about who their Mr/Mrs. Right is then they’re posting to WeChat about losing weight while also taking Food Porn shots of their daily meals. Or they’re just flaunting their newest bargain buy with selfies of perplexing angles.

Younger Westerners just don’t seem as bogged down by the same concerns, she theorizes.

I’ve talked to Xiao Ming about how financial burdens can seriously hinder choices in America, and how bills can all but annihilate your day-to-day happiness, but she still feels that Americans tend to have more flexibility than her countrymen and women.

“There’s so many times when I interact with your co-workers and I have these thoughts,” she tells me. “Like the other day when I asked Sherry when she and Ryan were leaving and she said they were all packed up and ready to start their new life next week in Singapore. You know, it’s their life, and I don’t totally want to do that, but I do admire that. They have the choice and chance to change their life. Their life is light, no burden. They can stay somewhere for a few years and then pack up and leave. Even Pat and Cassady. They have two kids and they are free, too. Nothing in their life makes you feel like they have a big stone on their heart. But Chinese people are different. They will always think about how to be stable. Find a house, a job. Settle down and focus on their kid.”

“Even your older co-workers are so free. You can tell they live for themselves. They’re confident. Happy. I can’t even do that. I can’t stop thinking about how other people will judge me. So many Chinese people are this way. Very few Chinese people live for themselves. Even the most selfish actually do things in their life for other peoples’ eyes and judgement. There’s always a thing you have to get done or follow. Like on WeChat you can see that they post about finding a husband, losing weight, or what they eat so others can see.”

“Also like your co-workers in the band. They played instruments and sang. None of them are professional, right? I don’t see Chinese people do this if they’re not professional. They don’t play like that just to relax. Unless it’s KTV, they won’t, and that isn’t real because the machine helps your singing. They can’t be in a group and be themselves.”

Thoughts on Education

“I think this is connected to the way the kids are educated. Even with something like music it’s not about enjoyment. Chinese teachers won’t just let students play songs to get interested. They will force them to do the Doe, ray, me, fa, so, la, tee again and again for a month. There’s no creativity or passion. We can be great students, but we can’t apply the equation or function in the real world. Everything is too practical. Teachers think they need to train the kids to answer the questions as fast as possible. You know that even for GaoKao preparation the teachers will show the students how to answer the questions without even reading the whole sentence. It’s all test-taking skills, not about the knowledge itself.”

When I ask her what she thinks of this Xiao Ming says without hesitating, “I think this way of education kills the intelligence and innovation of students.”

“I thought it was only in schools, but since I teach in college now I see that it’s even there, too. Some majors are better than others, but still most are the same. I attend meetings and the heads of these departments just focus on what score will get you what job. Everything is about the score. They list and rank people for everything!”

“They had this so-called good student who gave a speech about how he was ashamed that he couldn’t go to Tsinghua (one of the best in China) like his brother. In the speech he talked about how important it was to get the scores, how hard he had to work, and he sounded very proud of himself. But I thought it was all bullshit. It wasn’t about the knowledge at all. He made it sound like everything is about fighting and the final result, not the process. No one talks about what you learn, what you can contribute to society, how the information makes you useful. They are still hooked on their scores, they’re still in GaoKao mentality. Maybe this explains a lot. About how Chinese people can’t innovate and why they copy so much. It comes from the education. They’re made into cows by the culture and what their parents tell them.”

“I can see this boy’s future. He will graduate and try to find a good job, a good wife, and won’t be able to change anything or be truly productive. The only kids that will be different will be the ones who aren’t great in this school system. Sometimes they’re naughty and they seem very strange to people, but they will become successful and useful people. I feel that even though you have people like this in America, some who just follow and others who stand out, in China most are followers. In America even if they’re not great, at least they have their own thoughts and personality.”

“No one can just express themselves here. It’s like in the speeches. Most of your coworkers spoke without reading from paper the whole time, but even our president can’t do that. He reads directly from his paper. And he never smiles!”

“We never had a charismatic leader, at least beyond that first generation of New China. Today they just don’t have that leader quality about them anymore. They can’t even give a speech well. And when I attended your school’s graduations these last couple years I feel that some of your students are different. It’s clear they have picked up a part of the American culture when they express themselves. A lot of the kids who studied in your school are very good. They have charisma because of the way they were educated. I think that is a great spirit.”

AudreyWang.Graduation1.JordanInChina

Thoughts on Parenting

“You can’t imagine how often I think of this when I interact with your co-workers. That’s why I always want to go. I don’t always talk or something, but I always watch and observe. I’m trying to understand them, understand your culture. It’s just so deeply different.”

“And I think all this is the same thing, the same phenomena come from the same root. It’s the philosophy of life, the way we think. Your people are all about being yourself. But the thing that Chinese parents often say to their kids is ‘kan bieren jia haizi,’ which means ‘look at other people’s children.’ They want you to be the same. You’re always told to follow examples.”

“Like the woman who works in the little store in our complex the other day. She was complaining about how worried she was about her son because he is getting 80s in class. She’s so worried about his future, and he’s so young, in fourth grade. And 80s aren’t bad! She said she’s so worried that he will become a useless person. It’s her main concern in life right now. So I told her that it’s okay, to calm down. It will be fine. But this is how obsessed Chinese parents are.”

“For Chinese parents everything is about their kid,” she continues. “If the kid fails in study the parents will feel like failures. They’ll feel hopeless. You can listen to the middle-age men and women talking about their children. They talk about needing to buy them a house, get them a car. They’re obsessed. If it’s a married couple they talk about this, but if it’s a younger person they talk about clothes, shopping, places they’ve been. It’s just, I feel that so many people now have no spirit. I don’t know why. Is it because we were farmers for so long? Is it just a farmer’s mentality?”

There’s no way to answer her last question, or at least I am hopelessly without an answer, so she takes a step back and considers again the role of the parent.

“The kid’s future is his. That’s the way it should be. Er sun zi you er sun fu, ‘your son and grandsons will have their own luck’ is a Chinese phrase that people should remember, but parents try so hard to control things.”

Closing Thoughts

It’s at about this point in the conversation that we pause and just sort of look at the people in the coffee shop. Who are we? Two over-caffeinated yuppies with too much education bashing everything around us like we have the answers? Maybe. But it beats playing video games and watching bad television.

P.S.

Look what a senior made me!!! She surprised me with it on her last day. Very touching!

That Time I Thought I’d Die in China

On May 26, 2017May 26, 2017 By JordanIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

kidneystoneshot2 — Somewhere on the lower right side, in that dark space, are two spots that should not be there. Those are those the kidney stones of death.

“I roll out of bed and crash to the floor in severe pain at 11 p.m. I cannot stand. Hobbling to the bathroom, I open the faucet and splash cold water on my face. A deep, sharp pain erupts in my side and my back breaks out in a sheen of sweat. I hover over the toilet, not sure what is about to happen. A ripple of pain drops me to my knees just as I hurl the contents of my stomach into the basin. Again and again.

Tears mix with sweat and six words become a mantra in my mind: I’m going to die in China.”

Read the rest of this at Verge Magazine’s website –

http://www.vergemagazine.com/work-abroad/blogs/2049-that-time-i-thought-i-d-die-in-china.html

A Language Litany – 语言祷文

On April 6, 2017 By JordanIn Culture3 Comments

KeepCalm1.JordanInChina

Excerpt: The Lonely Planet Mandarin Phrasebook & Dictionary sticks out of my back pocket. Pin Yin has been decoded during a few language classes, and some survival vocab arms me with the essentials. Time to put it all to use.

All my aspirations of being a language prodigy disappear the same time I ask a mall worker where the bathroom is and get a confused shake of the head in return. Bathroom, or as they usually say in China cesuo, toilet, is a very useful word to know. And I have to find one, fast.

Finally, when all hope seems gone, I cave and go with a term I’ve recently heard. “W.C.?” I ask in English. He points me in the right direction.

Round two. I’m in a restaurant that has a menu with pictures. Point and say, “Wo yao zhe ge,” and things are looking good. Chinese isn’t so hard. I got this! But I don’t want the hot water that everyone else in China drinks. I want cold water. “Bing shui,” I order.

Blank stare in return. Okay, my tones are wrong. Once more with different inflections. The waitress is looking at me like I’m requesting that the chef sprinkle salt on his leg before he cuts it off and serves it. Again, I give in and resort to gestures. I make fists and hold them up while shaking like I’ve somehow found myself magically outside in the middle of winter without a jacket. “Ah! Bing shui!” she exclaims, nodding as if that’s not what I’ve been saying for two minutes straight.

Originally published by Verge Magazine.

Read the whole thing at:

http://www.vergemagazine.com/work-abroad/blogs/2005-a-language-litany.html#.WOHobc9NzLQ.twitter

SelfReliance4.JordanInChina

Dragon Raising his Head －龙抬头

On February 27, 2017February 27, 2017 By JordanIn Culture3 Comments

longtaitou6-jordaninchina-source-wallstreetjournal — And I thought I was cranky after a haircut! Source: Wall Street Journal

Today is a good day to cut your hair, if you’re Chinese.

This year February 27 is er yue er, or 2 Month 2. The traditional name is much cooler, though. Dragon Raising its Head Festival, Long Tai Tou.

One of the traditions goes that for the entire month of the lunar January no one cuts their hair. It’s only after the Dragon has raised its head and the rains come that getting your ears lowered is recommended. Dunno why, and no one in my family can explain it sufficiently. Also, if you do cut your hair before the appointed time, your uncle dies. Yeah, I don’t think they can get much more random than that with these holidays.

As I’ve mentioned before, every Chinese holiday seems to also coincide with a family member’s birthday. No one appears to find this suspicious. Today was my San Yi’s. This is Xiao Ming’s middle aunt. Her new son-in-law, Long Hong Jiang, set the meal up, but San Yi paid. In Chinese culture it’s a custom for the birthday guest of honor to treat the family. In the West the birthday girl/boy pays for nothing, but here they foot the bill.

sanyishengri-jordaninchina — …At least we didn’t have a table full of dumplings.

Every time we all get together for someone’s birthday, people give toasts. Apparently I’ve been voted the member best suited to represent XiaoMing, her dad, mom, and me. It hadn’t occurred to me until about ten minutes before I spoke that I’d have to give a toast. Due to my age and position in the family, XiaoMing and I, along with the other cousin and her husband, sat closest to the door (this is basically the lowest spot at a Chinese dinner table), and so that put me at exactly halfway through the toasts. Luckily, I’ve been through this before, and I sort of had something I could say.

“San Yi,” I began as I stood with my glass of wine. “Today is your birthday. But today is also LongTaiTou. I’m always learning about Chinese holidays. America doesn’t have so many fun holidays like this! Chinese people and their holidays are great! The most important part of the day, though, is that it’s your birthday. We are all together for it. I wish you a happy birthday!”

Not so much with the sentimentality, but it was understood by all – a big deal for me with my bad tones – and San Yi appreciated it. XiaoMing said it was good, and I tend to defer to her in all things Mandarin. Several others toasted, and we continued to eat. Eventually the individual toasts began. It wasn’t long before I spoke again, to Xiao Yi, this time. She’s the youngest aunt. Turns out that she just retired, for the second time, so that she can help the cousins raise their babies (two of them are pregnant). She posted this on WeChat, but apparently I was the only one who noticed. I mentioned it to XiaoMing earlier and she had no idea, so when Xiao Yi talked to the family, I actually knew what she was talking about.

longtaitou3-jordaninchina — I have no idea how many “Gan Bei’s” happened….

As she stood next to me, I raised my glass and toasted her, saying “So many people post on WeChat, Xiao Yi, but I usually don’t even look at their posts. But when you posted, I wanted to know what was going on. You are family, and this is what family does: we care about each other and want to know what’s going on. That’s family.”

This moved her. She then proceeded, tears brimming her eyes, to toast me.

She said such nice things about me as a person, family member, man, and husband that I can’t repeat them here. Her sincerity and love radiated off her.

It’s daunting when others see such value and worth in you. Makes you want to be worthy of their praise.

And here you thought it was just a Monday in February.

Travel With Purpose – Verge Magazine

On February 10, 2017 By JordanIn Uncategorized1 Comment

leshan-jordaninchina-com

“I’m not sure when the zombie dreams stopped.

It used to be that at least twice a month I fought off assaults from the undead as soon as I closed my eyes. Trapped in my apartment building, locked in a crowded bus, sprinting through the streets as a horde stumbled, limped and lumbered after me.

Any psychoanalyst worth his salt can tell you why I had the dreams; I live in China.

From a numbers approach, China can easily overwhelm. People Mountain, People Sea, the first Chinese idiom I learned—”ren shan ren hai”—basically means there are people as far as the eye can see everywhere you go. After five and a half years, though, I’ve mostly figured out how to make things work between me and the 1.3 billion people who became my neighbours.”

Originally Published by Verge Magazine – Check out the whole thing at: http://www.vergemagazine.com/work-abroad/blogs/1983-forging-my-china-life.html

This is an excerpt from a recent blog post I wrote for Verge Magazine, a site dedicated to what they call “travel for change.” The magazine helps people study, travel, and work abroad, and their message of “Travel with purpose” is extremely appealing for those who like to get out in the wide open world for more than just photo ops.

The Little New Year -小年快乐

On January 22, 2017January 22, 2017 By JordanIn CultureLeave a comment

He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.

Nope. Not talking about St. Nick. I’m talking about the other Big Brother of the Holiday Season – The Kitchen God, Zao WangYe.

zao_jun_-_the_kitchen_god_ourchinaexperiment-com — You’re telling me he sneaks back into the kitchen to steal his wife’s Kit Kats?!

This guy hangs around your home all year, keeping tabs on the family, and then reports back to his boss (the Jade Emperor) just how dysfunctional things have gotten for you and your kin. All this happens about a week before the Chinese New Year so the Jade Emperor can determine just how much fortune you deserve in the coming new year. Sounds like a snitch to me.

The Chinese feel the same, so what some will do is smear honey on his picture (usually hanging in the kitchen) in order to sweeten the message he delivers. Traditional sticky candy – Zao Tang – is also given to children so that their lips get sealed and they can’t spill the beans. Then the picture or effigy of the Kitchen God is burned so that he can carry his gossip back up to Heaven.

Because of the proximity to the Chinese New Year celebrations, this day is dubbed the Little New Year, and marks the beginning of the festivities for many Chinese. Presentations and performances are shown on TV, WeChat messages serving as heralds for the holiday season assault your phone, and, of course, families gather to eat jiaozi – dumplings.

Always dumplings.

The Little New Year was Friday, and it happened to also be XiaoYi Fu’s birthday (Xiao Ming’s youngest aunt’s husband’s familial title). On closer inspection, most of the older generation in the Liu family tend to have birthdays that conveniently fall on Lunar Calendar holidays. Xiao Ming suspects the dates are made up since the grandparents died young in some cases or couldn’t remember the specific date beyond the season and year. We went over to her parents’ place and had dinner with everyone. Pretty standard.

Then someone busted out their WeChat and started opening digital Hong Bao (Red Envelopes). Red Envelopes during the holidays in China means money. WeChat has a new(?) feature where the sender can decide on a sum of money to give away and the number of times it should be divided, but that sum will be randomly divided up into unknown amounts. Say you send 10 RMB to your family group in six envelopes. Everyone opens the envelopes. Some will get ten cents while others may get six RMB. For about thirty minutes everyone laughed and competed with one another to see who could get the most (and of course made fun of the one who got the least).

I got One RMB.

Next weekend is the Chinese New Year, the big one. The Year of the Rooster is upon us. It’s Xiao Ming’s year, and, as tradition dictates, she has to wear red undergarments – socks, underwear and bra, long-johns – for the entire first lunar month. I, on the other hand, can get away with just wearing red socks.

P.S. Random Archery Pics:

Few weeks ago we found a cool traditional archery place.

Chinese Parents -中国父母

On December 6, 2016December 6, 2016 By JordanIn Culture, Uncategorized2 Comments

Being married to a Chinese woman isn’t exactly like those melodramatic TV shows or the ridiculously formulaic Korean dramas that people can’t seem to get enough of here.

Ever watch one?

Turn on the tube and chances are you’ll catch one of five types of show:

Dynastic China with subtle, watered-down undertones of political commentary, a World War II series that usually makes the Kuomintang out to be insufferable fools and the Japanese as subhuman monsters while the Communists are righteously wielding inferior weapons and still coming out on top, a medical drama with absurdly handsome and young people staring very sternly at one another, a game show where people just straight up do stupid shit for really nothing but the audience’s applause, or the Korean family drama.

Korean dramas usually follow the boy meets girl story, and then they throw a wammy of boy meets girl’s family and must win over the overbearing parents. Follow that up with boy marries girl. Then girl must win over the overbearing mother of the boy. Once they all like each other there is usually an issue with the pregnancy or stress put on the girl for a boy (the more desired). And in the midst of it all someone gets themselves tossed into the hospital because of a sickness or some stupid behavior that in the end brings to light that they all just love each other and want good things for the family. Yay – happily ever after.

I may have sidetracked myself.

My point is that being married to a Chinese woman isn’t always like that, but dealing with parents in this culture does require some flexibility. Xiao Ming’s mom and dad have always welcomed me, but man can they push my buttons, too.

I come home one day a few weeks back and ol’ mom and pop are there hanging out with Xiao Ming. Her dad motions for me to follow him into my office, so I do. We stand in front of the dresser and he points to it, saying that he fixed it. I open the drawers and sure enough they slide open and shut seamlessly. The flimsy bottoms had begun to bow and made those motions difficult. Great! Fixed. Thanks, Dad.

Except the second thing I noticed was that everything in the drawers were now somehow reorganized. I don’t just have a dresser of clothes. I use three drawers for other things like nik-naks, notebooks, etc. Nothing too crazy personal, but still, personal. To fix the dresser he had to take everything out and then to put it back the way he did, he had to carefully think about how to put items where. So he just went through all my stuff.

If you’re thinking to yourself, Jordan, he fixed the dresser. You’re right. Absolutely. If I were a better person, I’d see that and stop there. I’m not, and I didn’t.

I pulled Xiao Ming to the side, told her I appreciated the help. I didn’t ask for it, but, sure, thanks.
Side note – I grew up working on most weekends helping my stepdad maintain our rentals. I know how to do home maintenance. And, yes, it does bother me to have someone in my home doing things I can do myself. That make me a small man? Fine. I own that.

So I tell Xiao Ming that I’m uncomfortable with the way it all went down. They pop over all the time unannounced, and even come in and fiddle around when we’re not home from time to time. Whatever. No issues. But going through my dresser, even to fix it, was something I’m not okay with.

Xiao Ming gets it. She even admits that she told her father not to do it because I wouldn’t like it. Love her. She knows me. But I’m still seeing red. I have to say something, I tell her. To him. Right now. No, no, she says, but I don’t give in.

I greet him in the living room – damn he’s a small guy – and I very politely thank him for helping with the dresser. But, I add, next time – oh no, he senses my tone and is bowing his head with that uncomfortable smile – I’d like to fix something like that myself. He nods and I walk back to my office like a horrible troll that’s collected a tax for walking over his bridge. Immediately I feel crappy. He does, too, and I can hear him talking to Xiao Ming about it.

What should I have done? That was my line.

In the end, it blows over. After all, we’re family!

And today I come home to a house with a few lights on that I know I turned off. Strange. I go into the bathroom to wash my face and get a shower since I’m sweaty from the gym. Can’t do that. The handle for the bathroom sink is missing.

And the drawers under the sink are sitting oddly. I pull on one and it falls out. The tracks it’s supposed to be on are sticking out of the trash, all rusted and old looking. Obviously Xiao Ming’s father has been here.

So apparently he plans to fix the bathroom sink and the drawers. True, both are due for an upgrade, but they were manageable. A call to Xiao Ming to see if she knows anything. Nope. Her dad has just pulled one of his ninja moves. So now instead of having a sink that works and one that I can fix on the weekend, I have no sink and I have to wait until he feels like finishing what he’s started in case I upset him like I did last time when I asked him to stop fixing things.

As I typed this he sent a message to Xiao Ming –

告诉Jordan，卫生间里的水龙头坏了。我明天买新的换上。

Tell Jordan, the bathroom’s sink head is broken.

I’ll buy a new one and put it on tomorrow.

Yup, I’m a rotten person.

Welcome to the family. Just so you know, dinner is at five every night, and, um, well, I’m retired so I’ll be sneaking over to your house as often as possible.

Xiao Ming has her own battles with her mother, though. She gets on Xiao Ming for everything from our habit of getting delivery most nights to driving habits. She’s always giving Xiao Ming grief about not cooking a lot, about how the apartment could be cleaner (It’s pretty damn clean!), and making Xiao Ming call her everyday just so her mother knows she made it home from work. We eat with them usually once every two weeks, sometimes less. I don’t know, but for me that seems like a good amount for most adult children. Of course her mother makes her feel bad that we don’t eat over there most nights like her cousins eat with their parents. The fact that the cousins still live with their parents and don’t work the same hours as we do doesn’t seem to affect this sentiment at all.

I couldn’t imagine life here without the whole Liu Clan. Everyone from the quiet, meddling father and nagging but caring mother to the fussy aunts and noisy uncles makes life here richer and more meaningful.

Meeting the Family – 会亲家

On October 15, 2016October 16, 2016 By JordanIn Culture1 Comment

Let’s be honest. Bai Jiu was involved.

Along the coast in Kai Fa Qu there are a series of ramshackle properties that look like they’ve just come through a rough storm. Maybe at some point in the past the paint was fresh and the awnings didn’t flap in the wind…

The Liu clan pulled up in front of the one open and well-maintained restaurant there while Xiao Ming and I stood along the shoreline looking out at the dark water. We tried to imagine the potential of such a naturally pretty area. Couldn’t tell if it was a lack of money or ambition that had let that whole stretch of coast go belly up.

We greeted each other and commented on our surroundings, wondering out loud if we’d all come to the right place. This was the meal where the whole family would meet my other cousin-in-law’s new husband (not the same couple from the previous entry).

It’d been a quick relationship so far; one could even use words like shotgun or wedlock to describe it. Everything with this cousin, though, tends to be extreme or unorthodox. Her past is more than a bit spotty, full of secrets only Xiao Ming (and now I) knows. I could do an entire entry on her particular version of Buddhism – the one that can convince you your body is indwelt with spirits that wish you ill intent. She has a shrine with their names written on parchment.

Another time.

Guess it’s official – Government stamp of approval is right there.

Anyway – it is the right place. We go in and are ushered to room 307. A small room with a big round table. The guests have arrived before the hosts, everyone exclaims when we enter and no one is there. A bit rude, but not too unacceptable.

As we stand around, Ni Ji, starts asking me how tall I am. I forget, I tell him, so he asks me to stand back-to-back with him. He’s slightly taller. People are obsessed with your Shen Gao, height. There are set standards for desirable men and women – 175cm and taller for guys, 165-170cm for ladies. At 5’9, I’m at the threshold of passable, a mere 175.2 cm.

And then they arrive.

The cousin, Zhao Jing, her husband, Hong Jiang, and his mother walk in. Zhao Jing hides her face behind a pink scarf for a few minutes and then removes it to reveal puffy, splotchy cheeks, some sort of allergic reaction they haven’t identified. Hong Jiang, a tall, barrel-chested guy with a large head and skinny arms shakes everyone’s hands and tells me in English that he’s happy to meet me. His mother, a woman who looks almost too young to have a son his age, is tentative but polite as she talks to all present in turn.

With the arrival of Lao Jiu – the loud uncle who runs the local industrial zone – his wife – a local government official with some clout of her own – and his son our dinner party is topped off with 17 adults and two children.

We all stared at the table.

As with everything in this country, there is an etiquette to observe. One’s place at the table is a matter of importance, not just vague guesstimation. Basically, the rules are that the eldest or guest of honor (GoH) sits farthest from the doorway, and the youngest or guest with the lowest status takes the place closest to it. Spreading out from the GoH, on either side of him or her, the status of the individual goes down incrementally until the two sides meet. I’ve been on either sides of the table before, but for that meal, Xiao Ming and I, Ni Ji and Lulu, and Dong Dong (Ge, the male cousin) were on the end nearest the door. The token Lao Wai doesn’t always get preferential treatment.

But the “adults” had a hell of a time figuring it all out. Xiao Ming’s dad sat on the “low” side, the aunts didn’t know how close to the GoH to sit, and the two kids just kept leaping from one chair to the next. Hong Jiang’s mother kept telling everyone to sit, but of course they didn’t – couldn’t for fear of a committing a faux paux. Then we realized there weren’t enough chairs anyway and three more had to be brought in. What do I do in this situation? Nothing. I wait until Xiao Ming tells me where to sit. It’s the safest play.

We do, finally, sit. I’m to the right of Xiao Ming and to the left of my Xiao Yi, the youngest aunt – Lulu’s mother. The first courses are brought out, all unfortunately selections of seafood that scare me. I picked at some of the vegetables and listen to as much of the conversations as possible until some of the main dishes arrive. These are your meats and big vegies. Shrimp, huge fish, and pork. I dig in.

And then the toasts began.

Hong Jiang welcomed everyone, gave compliments to the oldest present, and then commented on being a part of the family. Bai jiu! In hindsight, Xiao Ming told me, it was quite a vague speech. Then directly to his left Lao Jiu stood and spoke. Holiday, family, happiness – and a lot of vocal inflections pretty much sums his up. Bai jiu! When Lao Jiu sat down we all continued eating. Then, after a few more minutes Zhao Jing’s father, my San Yi Fu, stood. I began to get nervous. A pattern had emerged. He toasted to the family, the holiday, and his new son and happy daughter. Gan bei!

At this point, I leaned over and asked Xiao Ming if everyone – of particular interest: me – would have to make a toast. No, she said. I almost believed her. Six people sat between San Yi Fu and me. The next one to give a toast, San Yi, lifted her glass of Bai Jiu and issued a short speech that at times dropped to almost a whisper. He eyes, as usual, looked heavy and she seemed half ready to sleep, but then she smiled and bid us all gan bei. At this point those drinking the rice liquor had to top off their second or third glass of the stuff. If you haven’t had, just know it’s potent enough to get a rocket into space. My Xiao Yi leaned over then and asked me if her face was red. It wasn’t, yet. She was sweating, she said. I wondered if she was nervous.

San Yi Fu’s mother, the oldest present, didn’t toast. Hong Jiang’s mother, though, did. She played it safe with the warm wishes and the happiness. Eating, eating, eati—another toast! My mother-in-law stood and lifted her glass. She wore a bright blue blazer with a silver pin that Ge’s wife, my Sao Zi, had to reposition from the right side to the more appropriate left side before we walked into the restaurant. Xiao Ming and I can’t recall what she said at all. Characteristically, my father-in-law didn’t speak. Standoffish to the point of rudeness sometimes, he is a frugal, timid, quiet man who is known for showing up for food and then disappearing before the real drinking starts or the bull-shitting (ba xia – to peel shrimp) gets underway. No one even remarked on his silence.

We ate some more. At this point I began running over possible lines in my head. So far only the oldest and the most eccentric got a pass. I’d given up on the hope that I could secure a bye myself. And then Xiao Yi stood, her face now a rosy tint, and held up her glass. Totally consumed by the prospect of yet another toast, I didn’t catch much of this one, either. Except the end – gan bei!

A few more bites taken. My heart beat kicked it up just a bit.

Hong Jiang and Lao Jiu both said something that sounded too much like a request for my toast. I ignored them, focusing instead on helping Xiao Yi refill her glass. My mother-in-law, bless her heart, said that I’d already given a good speech at Lulu and Ni Ji’s party that summer. Xiao Ming concurred. No give. Then Xiao Yi nudged me on. Betrayal!

I smiled, grabbed my glass, and stood.

“Let me think,” I begged with a tight grin, glancing off to the side as if the words had been stashed there for me to find. Think, think! Despite my instincts being right about the toast, my preparation had yielded only a theme—dining etiquette. Around and around in my mind a phrase revolved, and then finally it was out. “In China finding a place to sit when you eat is hard.”

They nodded, agreeing hesitantly with this observation. So far so good. One or two repeated the line back under their breath, no doubt adding the appropriate tones.

“This is also a part of Chinese culture, right?” Agreement. “Today we came in and had a hard time finding a seat, but I’ve noticed that once we finally do sit and begin eating and talking, the seat isn’t that important anymore. What’s more important is the family that’s together.” A turn toward Zhao Jing and Hong Jiang. Glass raised. “And now I’m very happy because my family keeps getting bigger and bigger. Gan bei!”

Even with the Bai Jiu sprinting up to my head, my hands still shook. My heartrate pushed the alcohol through my system quicker and quicker so that added to the mix was a not-unpleasant dizziness. Xiao Ming loved it, she said. Everyone “Hao, Hao-ed” me – Good, good. Jiu Ma, Lao Jiu’s wife (also a woman worthy of her own entry) stared at me with a suddenly very serious look and complimented my Mandarin. Said something about me going on this game show where foreigners speak Mandarin. I thanked her, but demurred at the notion I could hang with those on that show.

Ni Ji got up next, but he also played it safe with a vague rendition and a bit too much distance between him and those around the table, Xiao Ming later told me. Ge represented his father, he told the family. Happiness, family, holidays! And then Jiu Ma’s turn came round.

Everything she said was good. If it’d come from anyone else, there wouldn’t be any issue. But Jiu Ma is a 38 year-old PhD government official who, fifteen years ago while still a college student, developed an affair with Lao Jiu that ended his first marriage. Lao Jiu even likes to joke that her PhD is a fake! Condescending and ultra-task-oriented, she tends to only smile after she’s gotten something she wants from someone. Her four-year-old, Lele, is constantly in the care of the aunts (mostly Xiao Ming’s mom), and yet she loves to wax poetically about a mother’s responsibility to her child. And so her toast took on the form of a lecture. Familial piety was her message. Taking care of mom and dad above all else, even the marriage! She even observed that two years ago none of the cousins even had boyfriends. Wrong! Xiao Ming and I have been together more than three years, thank you! Who knows if this was deliberate. Well, she got tears in her eyes, leaned over and clinked glasses with Zhao Jing and Hong Jiang (She sat close enough to them to do so), and ended her toast.

Nothing about this woman surprises me anymore, and so I just continued on eating and drinking. Xiao Ming balled her fists and punched my thigh. She and I both dislike Jiu Ma’s practical, manipulative personality, but because neither of us have ever needed any help from Lao Jiu or Jiu Ma or their guan xi, she doesn’t make requests of us. It’s a consolation we content ourselves with.

The round of toasts complete, we ate uninterrupted for a while. My father-in-law leaves around this time, slipping out of the room like a ninja.

The second round of gan bei(s) have little responsibility attached. You simply call out to a family member, raise your glass, and tell them how much to drink. It’s usually the whole damn shot glass of Bai Jiu. You can tell when people begin to get winded because they start saying “just a sip” or “half.” At that point in the drinking festivities, every time I pick up my glass it gets set down empty. When the Bai Jiu is gone, we switch to Snow Beer.

I ate and ate, drank and drank. To quote Forest Gump, “When I had to, you know, I went.” I got in on some of the conversations – Chicago verse New York, teaching, fishing. Hong Jiang made a toast to Xiao Ming (pretty sure he kept staring at her throughout the meal). The two kids ran around the table jabbering away at the tops of their lungs. Smokes were smoked. More glasses of beer!

And then it is time to leave.

It’s just about 1 pm and I spend the rest of the day hungover.

Planes, Trains, and…Buses

On August 4, 2015August 4, 2015 By JordanIn Culture, TravelsLeave a comment

Crossing China is no easy task. It’s simple, most of the time, but not always easy. Planes will do the job quickly, but they’re costly and get hung up by silly things like typhoons (We got delayed in Detroit and Shanghai recently because of three that decided to hangout along China’s coasts). On the international flights they feed you a bunch of times, you’ve got a bit more legroom, and more and more they’re getting better movies to watch. The shorter and the long flights can present the noisy child scenario, the angry old people scene, the hot-shot-above-the-law-of-avionics skit, and the militant flight attendant just looking for an excuse to use her self-defense skills to put you back in your seat with the tray in its upright and locked position.

Trains are cheaper, and can still make good time. You’ve got your seat tickets, hard sleepers, and soft sleepers to choose from. On the short trips, on the High Speed Train, seats are fine, but when we took trips to Lhasa, Xi’an, and Chengdu we opted for the sleepers. We even did the soft sleeper once.

If you happen to luck out and get the bottom bunk, good for you. You’ve got the most coveted spot on the train. The middle bed is Okay, but you’re unable to sit up like a normal human. The top bunk, forget about it. Most people with those spots just visit them to sleep. Otherwise they’re the ones hogging the few spring-loaded seats by the windows, leaning over the limited outlets like Shmeegle and his Precious. There’s basically nothing to do on a train but eat, sleep, read, look out the windows, and play on any tech toy you’ve charged up. The Chinese tend to put all their chips in the eating basket. Chances are high that if they’re awake they’re eating. They gorge themselves on Instant Noodles, dry tofu, rancid smelling meat sticks, boiled tea eggs, and a dozen other aromatic treats that will singe your nose hairs.

Often on the longer route trains there are few western foreigners, so I’ve gotten plenty of attention riding them. On the way to Chengdu we had 40+ hours on the train, and for the first 15 I was a curiosity to the others in our car, but the last 25-30 hours I was the honorary uncle of three kids. The youngest, a 6 year-old boy, thought of me as his hairy, foreigner jungle gym. He climbed into my lap, onto my shoulders, and pulled on my arm hair constantly. They taught me a new card game, and I showed them one I learned as a kid. And then they wanted me to play with them for hours. I always like talking with Chinese kids when they’re not shy. My sense of humor in Chinese is comparable to a child’s, so we usually get along well. Also, they almost always understand my bad tones whereas adults sometimes get hung up on a phrase I utter incorrectly.

Traveling out into China’s rural areas by train is also a unique way to see a land that is truly stuck between the old and new world. Miles and miles (or kilometers if you’re, you know, the rest of the world) of land seems to have barely been touched by civilization, other stretches just by villages, and even the cities you pass that have aspirations of full-on urbanization are still only just developing. Out west, many roads are still being constructed; the concrete bases that will bare the weight of the highways portend coming changes to the villages and towns, mountains and rivers they traverse.

Nighttime on a train can be gorgeous. When we went to Lhasa we stargazed like we never had before anywhere in China. Pristine, virgin land gives way to breathtaking mountains and lakes that make you pray humanity just sort of goes away.

Buses, now. These are always packed with colorful people that make you wonder how we justify calling ourselves the top of the food chain. Right now as I write this, we’re on our way to Kang Ding, a Chinese city close to the Tibetan border. However, this trip, which, taking a direct westerly route, should take only about 4-5 hours, is going to take about 10 because the ONE ROAD that goes to Kang Ding is impassable right now. So we’re taking a mountain-hugging road that looks like it’s just been finished way south toward Yunnan, then taking (we’re guessing at this point) the only other road this far out of the way toward Kang Ding.

Behind me are three people who I swear to God I wouldn’t mind dangling out the window. One, the grandpa, intermittently juggles screaming into his phone with an incomprehensible dialect of Mandarin so hard on the ears that Xiao Ming and I cringe when we hear it and singing songs that were probably only around during the Cultural Revolution, loudly. The adult son is second. Mostly a complaint-free individual, but pair him with the grandson and you have a duo I’d like to kick into the DaDu River we just passed. The boy hollers like an insane child that he is Spider-Man while his dad goads him on by fake fighting him. They kick, slam, and crash into our seats like they’re staring in a Jet Li flick while the grandpa, seemingly oblivious to them both, sings or assaults his phone’s receiver and our ears with his brand of gibberish. The incessant honking, jostling, and sudden changes of speed that make up the physical bus are second on how awesome buses can be. I’m not a mechanic, but some of the noises I’ve heard while riding buses make me wonder if they’ve got caged animals beneath our feet. The cloth seat covers are sometimes a nice thought, except when you notice the booger, gum, or dried blood that very likely could have been on them longer than I’ve been alive.

Oh, look at that. We are turning back toward Kang Ding now. Xiao Ming called it. I thought we’d have to abandon ship and just hang out in Kunming for a few days before heading back to Dalian. Now that’s one way I haven’t traveled here—a ship. With the unfortunate capsizing stories lately, I’m not sure I even want to.

Right now I just want to listen to some Kang Ding Qing Ge—Kang Ding Love Song—and tune out Spider-Man and the Chinese Barry Manalow. Coincidentally, the Kang Ding Love Song was recently featured in Netflix’s Daredevil, so it’s getting a lot of attention now. It’s cool actually seeing the place in person.

Kang Ding Qing Ge by Huang Can (more modern version)– https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vsqa-fLy9to

More traditional, instrumental– https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-i5w5GpXPM (The images here are the ones we saw on our trip. I’m just not a good photographer).

Shots from our Kang Ding leg of the trip.