Advanced Praise
For Black in China
“Black In China is an important book treating universal issues refreshingly and with frankness. Perhaps the author’s optimism reveals hope that the light at the end of the tunnel has possibilities of becoming realized in the rapidly changing culture of the Far East. Entertaining while informative.”
—Annie Wang, author of The People’s Republic of Desire, and Lili
“Vessup’s Black In China is as good as it gets. This outstanding observer of the human condition takes us through age-old insights of wisdom, flavored with humor and unvarnished insights. But above all, he cares.”
—James McEachin, author of Farewell to the Mockingbirds
“An extraordinary writer, Aaron Vessup, brings us an intimate view inside the life of a black man in China. Living and working in China for several years Vessup has more knowledge of the history, art, and culture of the Chinese people than any contemporary author. I recommend this book as a refreshingly brilliant narrative of beauty, love, and inspiration.”
—Molefi Kete Asante, Professor and Chair, Department of Africology, Temple University, Philadelphia
“Aaron’s book reclaims the link between the birth of Chinese modern novels and Black literature. After all, the father of Chinese modern fiction, Lu Xun, named one of his works the “Slave Series” for a reason. “Black in China” is also a brilliant look at status through the eyes of a Black American and reminds us that class and caste system are still in China even after over six decades of proletarian revolution. Aaron’s writing and experience show that no matter what color you are, which passport you hold, we might all speak in Black English. In U.S. or in China, he is still an “Invisible Man.”
— Zhou Yu, In-Depth Reporter, Global Times Newspaper, Beijing
“Aaron Vessup's attractively unflinching self-knowledge gives him the perspective and balance to help us understand the complexity of Chinese attitudes toward otherness. His starting assumption of goodwill has allowed him to adapt to and flourish in an environment that can be difficult for foreigners, and more so for a Black man. His lively and engaging writing, with occasional returns to the United States for contrast, will leave you sorry to close the book on this new and delightful friend.”
—Ezra Wasserman Mitchell, Professor of Law, Shanghai University of Finance and Economics
Black in China
By Aaron A. Vessup
ISBN-13: 978-988-8422-16-6
© 2017 Aaron A. Vessup
BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY
EB080
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in material form, by any means, whether graphic, electronic, mechanical or other, including photocopying or information storage, in whole or in part. May not be used to prepare other publications without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information contact [email protected]
Published by Earnshaw Books Ltd. (Hong Kong)
Introduction
I am a Black man born and raised in the United States, and I live in China. I have lived here now for more than twelve years. My life and this book touch constantly on the issue of racism because that is an inevitable part of the life of a Black person, both in the United States and in China. But I have never allowed my life to be dominated by the issue, or to be defined by its negativity.
I have always wanted to fly, and have found that by not heeding other’s fears I can achieve my dreams in many creative ways. I have traveled the world and have a life of wonderful richness. I enjoy adventures and high places. I have spent my life in education, and have taught in schools and universities in Texas, Illinois, Indiana, Pennsylvania and a number of provinces in China. I have been married four times, had many meaningful relationships with other wonderful ladies, but no children. My journey has taken to me the point of needing to decide—where is my home? Where do I want to live out the remaining years of my life?
I was looking for something different when I chose a life in China. In the United States, as an African-American, race and skin color clearly marked me as a target. In my youth, I watched my father disrespected by policemen in Los Angeles. Walking along the streets of San Bernardino with my mother as a High School student, I witnessed the same from white people. I myself was shot at by prankster law officers near firing ranges, harassed by lawmen, security agents and businessmen simply because I fit a profile. Being a black male is a basic element triggering social alarms. Being often in the company of white females made matters worse. I hoped to find a place where it would not be so easy to be victimized by police or other unsavory elements. Virtual invisibility is what I sought, and I thought I could find it in China.
In the United States, because of the highly toxic nature of the so-called American race problem, I constantly had a feeling that time was running out. Sooner or later, a bullet bearing my name would find its mark. This fear, compounded by the deep curse of institutional racism, underlay my motivation to move to China. The quest for pure adventure was an additional element. I wanted a clean slate. Traveling abroad usually means positive acceptance of American foreigners with money to spend. Perhaps this would work for me.
Viewing the common denominator between the two great countries as economic, I hoped the transition would not be stressful. I would go to the PRC armed with educational services to offer, and my own relatively small personal bankroll to fall back on. Being at the forefront of a rapidly developing China could be a rewarding adventure. People are people, right? How could I lose if I was accepted for my character and what I could contribute? I wondered if being a Westerner with an academic background would protect me from the cliché of being a profiled target defined by skin color. A black person living in China, in a sea of Asian people. I was willing to take the risk.
The prospect of living in a Chinese community raised questions about culture and race and stereotypes, along with the added complexities of being foreign. Would I be able to adjust to the inevitable culture clashes of values, traditions and beliefs? And what would happen if I encountered Chinese police? Would their standards be higher or lower than those of US law enforcement? And there were inevitably my natural concerns about love and physical fulfillment. Would my skin color impede any quest for satisfaction? As a teacher, I was also concerned about whether or not I would find my race a troubling factor in classroom management. Other questions included whether I would I be able to adjust to what I understood were the rigorous demands placed upon Chinese teachers. Would my being a foreigner guarantee me different treatment? Finally, how would this experience affect me mentally?
During a first short visit to China in 2002, I was mortified. The intense cultural clash went far beyond the absence of Chinese language skills. My original plan was to travel the country on boats and sampans. I had fictionalized a life of being Tom Sawyer in the Orient. But I left after only four weeks, defeated, unable to embrace the differences of not being in America. Then in the fall of 2004, I came back and tried again, and this time it worked out.
But I found that the perspectives of the locals regarding things foreign, especially black-skinned persons, could create unpredictable situations anywhere in China. I began to wonder if I was being too sensitive. Had I been wearing my skin color on my sleeve, as it were, despite having been conditioned from my youth sixty years ago to disregard my skin color when in situations where I was clearly “the only one”? I had long ago learned the advantages of forgetting color and just letting my inner-self be on display. Did this not work in China?
With over thirty years of practical classroom experience in the United Sta
tes, I was confident of being equal to the task, as a single Black American educator, of meeting the teaching needs of Chinese students. My goal was not to uncover any revelations regarding race, class or culture. I was not looking to evaluate Chinese policing practices, nor did I for a moment entertain thoughts that the police would come looking for me. The pay-off would be in building bridges between cultures, with the bonus of engaging in unique adventures while making new friends. That, in and of itself, would be fulfilling. I departed from America for China with the hope that my skin color would present no problem.
But along the way, time after time, it would become clear that my being an outsider, and a black one at that, presented problems, even in teacher/student relationships. As one Chinese student bluntly declared, “My father says that I do not have to listen to what any foreign teacher says.”
The China that I have come to know is a sea of contradictions. It pulses with the energies of change and opportunity, yet is held back by the inertia of fears, antiquated bureaucratic practices and recalcitrant arrogance. This book may have broader implications regarding race, color and economic class struggles, but the telling of the story has been more about me seeing myself in a new light as I wrestle with China’s realities.
PART I
CHINA LANDING
1
Déjà Vu?
I saw her first. She stared at me from a short distance with stern, half-closed double-lidded eye slits. Every movement I made seemed to register a calculation in her mind. The next thing I knew, this short, middle-aged woman was standing directly in front of me and blocking my access to the clothes on the display racks. Her walnut-colored, deeply-lined, face was expressionless. She wore a plain, brown, woolen overcoat, not at all appropriate for a hot summer’s day in a dusty town near the grasslands.
“Passport! You have passport?”
I looked at this dumpy Chinese woman, and then at my travel companion a few feet away, occupied with the clothing on display, scoffing at styles, quality and price tags.
“Did you hear this?” I said over my shoulder to my friend. “This lady wants my passport.”
The woman stepped closer to me, shoving her bulging black purse at my chest. The purse opened and out came a wickedly-gleaming police badge. Up close, her front upper and lower teeth had “V” shaped grooves, a sign that her habits included splitting sunflower seeds.
“Passport!” she repeated loudly. “You have passport?”
Her face was impassive, deadpanned, her eyes harsh and unfriendly. Without saying a word, I pulled out my American passport and showed her the cover. Quickly, with expert deftness, she took the blue booklet from me, flipped it open for a half-second, and then dropped it into the jaws of her purse. The next sound I heard was the purse snapping shut.
I was stunned.
“What are you doing?” I stammered.
Was this woman crazy? I made a move towards her, reaching for her purse, and she turned her shoulder to block my access, pulled a mobile phone from her overcoat and looked away. She punched a number on the keypad and spoke rapidly into the phone. Then, looking back at me, Miss Dumpy commanded: “Come! Come you!”
She bustled past me in the narrow aisle of the clothing store, moving quickly towards the entrance. My friend and I stared in her wake, our mouths hanging open.
We were in a small town in Inner Mongolia, a region of northern China, heading towards the grasslands, our goal the Genghis Khan Memorial Park. While getting off the train to make another connection, the decision was made to look around to kill a few hours. Now we were heading for the police station. Outside, the context of the pure Mongolian country air, perfect blue sky and small taffy cotton clouds had changed. This no longer seemed like a happy fantasy land.
It was a country town. No throngs of bicycles or traffic jams. A few motorbikes buzzed by. The people were dressed in normal Western-style clothes, no steeple-shaped straw hat-wearing farmer pedestrians except for the blue-uniformed members of the street-sweeping crews.
Within seconds of Miss Dumpy’s phone call, a small police car with three men inside raced up to the store entrance, its tires screeching to a halt. A thick-necked muscular man addressed us as we stood outside the store, bewildered.
“Get in. Come with us.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We don’t know. But we will find out at the station.”
I immediately felt very uncomfortable. Was this happening because I was a foreigner accompanied by a Chinese female? Was this because I was Black? Did they think I was African? I wanted answers, but in the hot, cramped car there was only silence and the strong odors of stale cigarettes and human sweat. Paper trash and sunflower shells littered the floor.
My past experiences with foreign police have left a bad taste in my mouth. I remember episodes in Mexico, Cuba, Guatemala, France, Greece and also Germany. I was a Black man over fifty-five years old but most people assumed me to be twenty or even thirty years younger. Both of my parents were unbelievably young-looking, handsome and attractive. People say I inherited these qualities. This is not necessarily a good thing.
Most of the time I never even think about my skin color. I just forget it. But sometimes, like a slap in the face, I receive a not-so-gentle reminder: I am a Black man surrounded by non-Blacks. In general, I try to be diplomatic when dealing with other people. This is true even when interacting with civil servants who are not always honest, helpful or civil. In the USA, depending on locality, such behavior is routine. But in China, I did not yet know what to expect.
In the police station, we were told it would take a while before an officer who spoke English would be available and were offered seats. The chairs in the waiting area were tiny, hand-made, wooden things more suited for children in a kindergarten class. I preferred to stand, leaning against the wall. I tried making light of the situation, even though my insides felt hollow.
“I’m sorry, these chairs are a bit too low. I feel like a frog on the verge of hopping. I may not be able to even get up if I squat down that far.”
The touch of humor seemed to relax the tensions because everyone laughed. My companion reminded me while I was standing, “When in Rome, you must do as the Romans, you know?”
We laughed again. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the strong, stale aromas of betel-nut, musty dust, dried metallic blood, stale tobacco, and ammonia. Most of these police administrators either chewed on a lump of tobacco, pungent spicy betel-nuts, or smoked. Dark, heavily-stained teeth were dead giveaways. Their jaws held strange protrusions, bulging just like old fashioned baseball players. Others filled the air with ghostly gray, pungent cigarette smoke. The hum of voices in conversations and the staccato clacking of keyboards punctuated short lulls of silence. Our sweating was not only because of the summer heat. An undercurrent of tension still pervaded the police station.
A while later, a short, bald-headed, bespectacled English-speaking officer settled in front of us behind a scarred wooden desk. After shuffling papers around, he explained that preceding the Olympics (this was in 2007), Chinese law enforcement policy dictated scrutinizing all foreign elements heavily. This would mainly be true for those coming from Africa, but when it became clear to them that I was a teacher from America, they said I was okay. We were free to leave.
“Here’s your passport,” he added. “Our policewoman was just doing her job. We really should not blame her because she does not read English well. You know?”
We all knowingly chuckled, and said goodbye. I knew I was lucky, because if this had been back in the USA, I would have been at least man-handled by the police. Sarcastic, goading remarks would have surfaced at some point, baiting me to retaliate in anger. None of those negatives emerged here. But one thing seemed clear to me. I had fit a particular stereotype for this policewoman. I was Black. So in China, I was a suspect.
Finally, we boarded another
crowded train to continue our trip. A young man tapped my arm. He spoke in English.
“Please excuse me, but that lady over there...”
He motioned toward a female nearby who was staring at me with intense curiosity. “She wants to know, is your blood red?”
“What? Can you say that again? What do you mean?”
“Well, your skin is dark, so that means your blood is also dark, isn’t it?”
All eyes in this part of the train were looking at me. Silence suddenly enveloped our small cluster of sweaty bodies. Curious ears waited to hear my answer with open, inquisitive looks on their faces. I started to laugh.
“Please tell the lady that I bleed red blood just like she does. It is bad luck to prove it because then I would have to see her blood also!”
After this was translated, they all ooh-ed and aah-ed and chatted happily. The journey became festive after a spontaneous round of beer-sharing. The food-vending cart came through several times. But the truths underlying the exchanges remained. I was reminded yet again that while the skies outside may be miraculously blue, there are still dark shadows of ignorance playing around the edges.
2
Background Troubles
We all are the stuff of our life experiences. If we are lucky and most of our memories are good, we can easily look forward to positive futures. If life has been tough early on, we tend to dream and fantasize more. This is the nature of being human. I always loved traveling as a youngster, and as I grew older, I simply wanted to travel more. Yes, I knew from my early school days that kids often bullied newcomers, especially those who did not have language ability to defend themselves. Where I came from in southern California, bullying was often Blacks against Blacks, and Blacks against Mexicans fresh from crossing the border.
With White kids, we often viewed each other as somewhat foreign. But the difference was that to the White kids, we Blacks were the outsiders and they seemed to think they had the right to bully us. Even the older adult White folk would say that we had to learn to stay in our place, which usually meant don’t look them directly in the eyes when speaking to them, always call them “mister” or “ma’am,” never get in front of them in line, and in some instances don’t even walk on the same side of the street.
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