by Fay Jacobs
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
SQUATTERS RIGHTS
We planned a trip to China.
Insane as it sounds, on two occasions, people asked if we were going there to adopt a baby. Hah! That ship sailed a long time ago. We can hardly manage dogs.
But we went on a thoroughly enlightening and extraordinary tour. In fact, it was life-changing because it altered my thinking. Now, hearing about China on the news, I have different pictures in my mind, different feelings. I’m more hopeful about the future, actually. And I think the future is Asia.
Some quick impressions:
History. Seeing 2000 year old structures, sculptures and artifacts is humbling. Gee, Paul Revere did not invent silver. From the Forbidden City (and its stunning buildings to house Emperors, Administrators, Concubines, Eunuchs and all) to the Terra-Cotta Warriors (8,000 life-size statues of men and horses, which archeologists found guarding an emperor’s tomb) we gaped and gasped.
As for The Great Wall, from afar it’s majestic, powerful, and dramatic. I must admit, when we got to where it was accessible for climbing (ergo a tourist hotspot) I felt I could have been at an Epcot’s Great Wall replica. Amid masses of camera-carrying tourists, vendor’s hawked “I Climbed the Wall” T-shirts. But the climb turned out to be really strenuous and the Wall, a fortification stretching over 4,000 miles, is something I never thought I’d see. The first of the walls (every dynasty had their own or added to one) was built in 20 years, using human labor alone. Why should adding a lane on the highway take two years?
I always thought Chinese artists were bad at drawing mountains, making them too pointy. But no, along the Li River, the scenery really looks like that, with weirdly peaked limestone hills.
Chinese food. Okay, with the exception of one or two great meals, Chinese food is better here. We really weren’t offered anything too scary, but lunches and dinners at the tourist-approved restaurants and hotels were mostly bland and boring. I perfected my chopstick technique but have lost my taste for any food requiring their use. Perhaps this weekend I’ll get to Rehoboth’s gourmet Chinese restaurant, Confucius, which has exquisite, non-bland Chinese food.
But I did eat Peking Duck in Beijing (which used to be called Peking) and not many people can say that. One of our best meals was on a tour where we took a bicycle rickshaw (pity the poor peddler) into the Hutong, or old town Beijing, and a local family cooked us lunch. That was terrific and we got to see their home and courtyard, which combined history (tiny rooms, coal heat, concrete walls) and modernity (TV, computer and fridge). We loved their dog—a Pekinese, of course.
Daily life. As our guide said, it’s no longer Red China, but Pink China, with rampant Capitalism. A Beijing or Shanghai street has everything from Gucci and Burberry to government owned Friendship stores selling jade, T-shirts and reasonably priced clothing. There are big grocery chains, department stores and open merchandise markets where vendors, holding scarves, hats and fans, run after foreigners and yell “One dolla, One dolla!” If you are just getting back on a bus, they start yelling, “Two for one dolla!”
Stores in most cities are the width of double car garages with the entire front open by way of a garage door—and a dizzying cacophony of signs. Young people are fashion conscious, wear chic, hot eyewear and ride bikes and scooters in all weather. Tiny taxis and delivery vehicles are often trikes. But cars are becoming more prevalent (Buick is king, go figure) and the roads are impossibly jammed. One of our tour companions noted that traffic signals seem to be merely a suggestion. Fortunately, in the big cities (19 million people) there are walking tunnels under the big thoroughfares. In the small towns (only 5 million) crossing the street is like being on Survivor-China. Restaurants and cafes abound, but you can still see women on the street selling steaming sweet potatoes from a grill on the back of a bicycle.
And the construction projects! Skyscrapers, stadiums, shopping centers, and apartments are going up everywhere. As Beijing readies for the 2008 Olympics, the government is rebuilding, repaving and replanting almost the whole city—giving rise to horrendous smog.
With all the building, people joke that their national bird is the crane. They also laugh that their national flag is laundry, because on almost every hi-rise balcony, laundry hangs from bamboo poles. Many people have dryers but they hate using them.
The people. Friendly, warm, polite, short and thin. I felt like a blimp. Our guides provided a fascinating travelogue and stories galore. Henry (his American name) had a great sense of humor and delighted in telling us tales of other tour groups. At one point he was laughing about an incident where two teens misbehaved and, quoting Henry, “they stuck asses out window!” Our crew taught Henry the American word ‘mooning.” I’m sure that will be helpful for him to know when, following this stint in tourism, he goes for his MBA.
The tour bus usually picked us up by 9 a.m. so Bonnie and I sometimes took early morning walks to see what surrounded each hotel. Often, we were the only Caucasians on the crowded streets and we attracted attention. Once, a bike whipped around a corner and splashed muddy water all over Bonnie’s shorts. People gasped, but when they saw Bonnie laugh, they laughed and came running with hankies.
On our morning jaunts and early tours, we saw large groups of people gathered in parks doing Tai Chi or other group exercises. In fact, all day long, everywhere we looked, seniors played mah jong or other board games, or practiced musical instruments and with small choirs. Workers retire fairly early to make room for younger employees. And many grandparents watch THE grandchild—per the population reduction policy mandating only one child per family. There is the potential for one very spoiled child, as four grandparents and two parents constantly hover.
The politics. The only time I felt we were in a police state was our first day, at Tiananmen Square. We saw the big square, surrounded by government buildings, but we could not go onto the square as they had visiting dignitaries. Armed soldiers stood guard and it was a little creepy. Henry, and our Beijing guide Mai, told us we could ask them anything we wanted, but ON the bus.
Pulling away from the area, we asked Mai how many people died in the 1989 uprising. She said we probably knew more than she did—but let us know she was a student at the time and sided with the protestors. Henry told us that people from small cities who want to work in Beijing or Shanghai, need a special I.D. card. He had to join the Communist Party to get one—but we could sense he was not happy about that.
But the people seem proud and patriotic, and believe they are moving toward a more open society.
Following this serious discussion, Henry lightened the mood by asking how many people we thought could fit in Tiananmen Square. “Do not be offended,” he said, “but answer is 1 Million Chinese, half million Americans…just kidding,” he assured us.”
“When’s lunch?” chimed somebody. We were a happy group.
We also talked about all the building. If the government wants to put up a new building, like Nike, they just do. Face it, they don’t waste time with environmental impact statements or public hearings. And displacing people? They move people to a new place far out of town, or pay them to move. Hmmm. With the new eminent domain laws pushed by our current administration, this is sounding very familiar.
At one point, Henry mentioned that by the end of Mao’s revolution, the word comrade was not used anymore. “Now, you call somebody comrade it means gay,” he said. “That is okay now.” He inferred that things were more open for gays in the cities now, but we saw no evidence of comrades. Except, of course, in the Beijing Minority Song and Dance Troupe we saw one night.
Our vacation itself was a good example of the political climate. All tour companies visiting China cover pretty much the same ground—and must include stops at government owned or sponsored factories. We toured rug, pearl, silk, cloisonné and jade factories, at which, adopting a pack mentality, our group frenetically and gleefully bought souvenirs and gifts. But, it did seem like compulsory shopping, although far be it
for me to complain about such a thing.
Bathroom facilities. Peeing was as strenuous as climbing the Great Wall. It’s that most of the bathroom stalls contain squatters—not holes in the ground like Girl Scout camp, but porcelain troughs with a button you step on to flush. These require you to plant your feet firmly on either side, pull your pant cuffs up and trousers down and balance like a Chinese acrobat to relieve yourself—all the while doing a tap dance to keep your clothing dry. I limited liquids to near dehydration. As a dyke who’s last day in a dress was my sister’s wedding in 1987, if I go to Asia again it will be (God help me) in miniskirts.
But it did change my thinking. I never thought I’d give a Boeing 757 bathroom a five-star rating. Relief!
Shanghai. The best for last. This beautiful, ultra modern city is the jewel of China. Lucky, lucky us, our Rehoboth friend Lyena was in Shanghai (her hometown) on a business trip when our tour was there. She took us out for an evening we will never forget. From an exquisite dinner to the lights of Nanjing Road (more neon than Vegas!) to the Bund (a section of European style buildings from the 1930s) where you could see across the river to the lights of Shanghai’s tallest buildings, our private tour rocked!
Gorgeous sights, gorgeous architecture. Yes, said Lyena, lots of Chinese people have the money for these fabulous new apartments and the prices rival Manhattan or Rehoboth’s beach block. I had to laugh. For all the tea in China (and there’s a lot!) I couldn’t understand how people could pay 3 million dollars for an apartment, but wave their drying underpants from the balconies.
Well, It’s a different culture; a different world, although we have much in common. Asia is on the ascent. Trust me, our youngsters should learn Mandarin.
October 2006
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
UNDERAGE MALE PAGES
I am a gay American and I’m disgusted.
Naturally I’m talking about the Mark Foley scandal. What was he thinking???
I know what the conservative commentators are thinking, because they’re shouting it. No matter what words they use to discuss the scandal, they are really just shouting “See, we told you gay people are perverts!!!!!”
WE ARE NOT. There is exactly the same percentage of perverts in the straight community as on our side—too many to take any comfort in that, by the way.
If you’ve been floating in a hyperbaric chamber for two weeks, Mr. Foley, a Florida Republican, resigned his House of Representatives seat last Friday after journalists discovered he’d been sending sexually explicit e-mails to teenage boys in the Congressional Page program. Yeccchhh,.
Thank you, former Congressman Foley, for giving the religious right another gay boogeyman. Thanks, too, for staying in the closet during your whole freakin’ legislative career. All your buddies in the Party knew you were gay, all my friends in Florida knew you were gay, but when you got caught doing something really, really disgusting you hold your coming out party. Go ahead, pile “gay” on top of “alcoholic” and “I was abused” as part of your “I’m a victim” defense. How dare you. Same goes for Jim “I’m a Gay American” McGreevy, the ex-governor of New Jersey. While I’m happy that he now has a steady boyfriend and peace of mind, I’m furious at him for waiting until he was caught in a sleazy nepotism scandal to announce his membership in our club. The usual suspects had a field day with that one despite the fact that McGreevy didn’t resign because he was gay, but because he was corrupt. Although I have to hand it to him—flinging himself from the closet on the national news probably took some of the spotlight away from his specious hiring practices.
But being gay had nothing to do with it.
Unless, of course, you factor in repression. The closet. The stress of leading a double life. When people, especially very public people, spend their whole lives hiding in the closet it takes a toll on their mental health. Voila! Some of these people finally crack up and do “inappropriate things.” Let’s not forget the very repressed members of the clergy, shall we, both homo and hetero.
As for “inappropriate things,” Mr. Foley, farting in public is inappropriate. Pedophilia, even with someone close to the age of consent, is reprehensible.
And then there is the Nixonian question of WHAT DID THEY KNOW AND WHEN DID THEY KNOW IT.
Let me pose a question here. Picture somebody telling the Speaker of the House “I think one of your Congressmen is typing inappropriate e-mail messages to boys in the Page program.” Picture the reaction.
Would the Speaker say:
1. “Gee. Go tell him to knock it off. How ‘bout those Redskins” and promptly forget the conversation, or
2. “I knew that little fag would embarrass us some day. I want his head on a platter. Get him to resign immediately for personal reasons and then pray the truth doesn’t come out. You have 24 hours to take care of this or you are toast.”
Now there’s a forgettable conversation.
One of the Speaker’s spin masters even had the nerve to suggest the delay in addressing this issue (we call that a cover up, by the way) was because they didn’t want to seem homophobic.
I can’t stop laughing. The party that’s trying to write discrimination against gay people into the Constitution says they were afraid they’d be called homophobic if they ratted on Foley? Puleeeeeze. That ship has sailed. They dream of being called homophobic so their voter “base” will stay with them. Being seen as homophobic is their reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
So what’s to be done, besides cringing at every mention of the scandal on TV?
Attention Family Values crowd: I have a plan. You can start by opening your hearts and minds to the idea that all people ARE created equal. What a concept. I know it won’t be overnight, but sooner or later, society might become a more welcoming place for closeted gay people. Ergo, by eliminating bigotry and hatred, more people might have the freedom to live honest and open lives.
And some in that small but insidious contingent of homosexual perverts might not be tortured into the kind of mental tizzy causing at best, poor choices and at worst predatory behavior.
Flash! Helping to root out homophobia and making the world safe for gay people is one way to actually PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN! It’s a lot better than your current protection plan, which relies on demonizing homos and abortion providers while teaching youngsters Hate101.
So there you have it. A plan for rooting out homosexual predators. But what should we do about heterosexual predators? I cannot say. That problem will have to be tackled by the straight team. And all those repressed and predatory priests? The Church better look those statistics in the eye and make some adjustments.
One slight comfort in all of this has been certain media reactions. I notice that the usual game of “blame the homosexuals,” is being played only by spokespeople and talk show hosts from the right side of the aisle. Many journalists and left aisle commentators have gone out of their way to focus on the facts and the possible cover-up rather than buying into any gay bashing. In fact, one commentator, upon hearing Foley’s statement announcing that not only is he an alcoholic, but that he had been abused as a child, and is, in fact, gay, said, “That statement is so insulting to gay people.”
That’s progress, I think.
In the meantime, I’m sick and tired of seeing unhappy, repressed lives, gay or straight, unravel on TV.
I am a gay American. And I am pissed.
November 2006
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
NOSE FOR NEWS
Let me say a word about health insurance. Auuggghhh!
One recent Friday I called several insurance agencies to get quotes. I’m in the rotten position of requiring a policy for a group of one. Any schmuck at a big company can get coverage for his whole family and Shitzu for less than I pay.
I spent most of the day filling out questionnaires asking “Have you ever been to a doctor?” Then I had to check a box if I’ve have ever had flatulence, hiccups, or a sty. The paperwork warned of loss
of insurance or death, whichever comes first, if you forget so much as a 1978 nose bleed. For the record I do not have diabetes, kidney disease, high blood pressure (although I don’t know why) cancer or heart disease. However, I did have a stress test last year for what turned out to be world class gas.
In this age of HIPPA—a government edict requiring medical personnel to swear on a stack of invoices they will never ever tell anybody anything about your health, I found it ironic that I was out sourcing my entire medical history by faxing it to a call center in Bangladesh.
The following Sunday morning I attended a Dead Pool Society Brunch. Remember the drill? We select names of elderly luminaries, ante up ten bucks and if “your” celebrity kicks the bucket you get the money and have to throw a party to usher out the dearly departed.
On this particular Sunday we were sending off that mother who knew least, Jane Wyatt. And she tried to take me with her.
First let me say, I did not even have a cocktail at the party. Honest. There are witnesses.
But as several of us left the house (I will not identify where, as I hold our charming hosts harmless), I had a teeny accident and fell flat on my face.
Based on Bonnie’s forensic analysis (learned by watching C.S.I.) the trace evidence of mud on one of my shoes and not on the other, told the tale.
As I walked toward the driveway I put my left foot on the front of a flagstone slab. The square stone flipped up in the back, catching my right foot (hence mud on that shoe from under the slab) and sent me flying, face first onto the blacktop driveway where I landed with a gigantic thud. And I landed, with my full and considerable weight, entirely on my nose. A lot of things crossed my mind. While I didn’t seem to be dead, I wished I were, because a platoon of my friends had just witnessed this nose dive.
Finally, as blood started trickling down the driveway, Bonnie crouched down at my head repeating “Are you okay,” in varying states of panic. I mumbled, directly into the pavement, “broken nose.”
