“What are you doing with all that money?” asked the English department chairman Zhang You at one point. “You really do not need much to live on in our city. Actually, my wife and I are doing quite well on the 3,000 RMB we make each month. Do you really need so much?”
We were sitting together on the campus bus, driven by our incessantly smoking bus driver. Zhang was also a smoker and was a bit short-winded, gasping for quick breaths. The smell of burnt cigarettes exuded from his clothing. He reached up to re-arrange a lonely strand of wiry hair on top of his dome of a head that had fallen to the side in his haste to be seated.
“You know, you really are making much more money than most of these teachers here. Do you know that? You must be planning to live here for a long time. Are you looking into buying property? What are you going to do in the future?”
This interaction bothered me even more than the bus driver’s chain-smoking. I really could not see why everyone was so excited about what to me was my pittance. I gamely pointed out that in Shanghai and Hong Kong, the salaries for foreign teachers were sometimes five times what I was getting, maybe even higher. To Chairman Zhang, this was irrelevant. It mattered not that I had a full workload with extra out-of-class demands on my time. The only other foreign colleague who was ever there lasted two weeks and then departed, telling me, “I’m sorry man, this is all a bit too much for me.”
Now this department leader was prying, badgering, accusative and argumentative.
“But the cost of living here is much lower than in those other places in China,” he pointed out. “We don’t need to earn that much money to live here!”
After that exchange, there was a chill between us, so I invited the chairman, his wife, and a few other colleagues to my apartment for a Tex-Mex dinner I prepared. Eventually the invitation was reciprocated, and I had opportunities to visit their homes.
On campus, I was watched and monitored closely. One day I received a letter from the United States and became suspicious. Staring at me from my desk top was an obviously tampered-with envelope. Picking up the letter, I could see it had been slit open. This was my second letter received from the States, and the second time the contents had not remained private. I was irate. Where was Tang? He was the person designated to get the post for our department from the mailroom. He had often asked me to give him any mail that I desired to have posted abroad.
“I’ll mail whatever you need, you mustn’t worry about where to buy stamps from. I will do it!” he declared.
I confronted him between classes about the letter. I reminded myself to be diplomatic and maintain self-control. This was difficult, but Tang was quite jovial about the situation.
“Oh that?” he laughed, wringing and fluttering his hands, head bobbing, eyes twinkling. “I’m sorry, I just saw a stack of letters and opened yours by mistake. I didn’t know it was yours until I started reading the English. I’m just so busy these days.”
“But this is the second time you have made this ‘mistake’ as you call it. I do not appreciate having my mail opened.”
“Oh, you Americans! What is it with you and the privacy thing anyway? You think that I care about your private life, yes? Well, it’s not true. I am very busy.”
He waved his hands with a flutter of frustration, jaws snapped and popped his chewing gum, turned and walked away. I stood there, stunned. The little twerp! I forced myself to control the impulse to smack him in the face. That would definitely defeat my goal of being a friendly representative of the West. I wondered if it would be better for me too to just leave.
5
Teaching Again
The city of Changsha is the capital of the Hunan province and is well-known for being the city where Chairman Mao Zedong was converted to communism. Mao was born in the Hunan countryside and moved to Changsha as a young man to attend school. Today, the city is seen as a creative center for television entertainment and the arts. Hunan Satellite TV is one of the top television stations in China. It was another world, even compared to the coastal cities of Beijing or Shanghai, let alone Hong Kong or the United States. Changsha city has a population of approximately six million. Summers are hot and wet, winters are damp and cold. People seem to wear thick clothing most of the year.
Despite the obvious surface attempt to be cosmopolitan, there were still strong elements of countrified life on the streets. The carts of food vendors occupied select spots most evenings, and the strong aromas of stinky tofu assailed my nostrils. Dried meat of fish and fowl adorned the window sills and metal guard railings of many residences. Dogs hanging on hooks in meat stalls made me shudder, their skinned carcasses still attached to open mouths locked in horrific grins.
I oriented myself in the midst of the geographic confusion with a giant Ferris wheel (known to locals as the “Sky Wheel”) and an island in the Yangtze River called Orange Park which contains a sculpture of Chairman Mao. Chinese tourists flock there in droves. There are flashy KTV establishments almost everywhere you look, numerous five and six-star hotels, endless eating places and glittering health Spas suggesting wealth and ease. I was repeatedly told that “In Hunan, we Chinese know how to live.”
My contract was to teach at the Hunan Mass Media Technical Vocational College, about eight miles outside the city proper. It was established, I was told, in 1949 for radio, television and movie production, and has three campus locations and approximately 10,000 students. The labels of college or even higher education were no easy fit for it. The campus where I worked had only myself and a Japanese man as foreign teachers.
Navigating my new social and office settings proved tricky. I located the closest branch of The Bank of China and a few restaurants that would cater to Western food tastes, and developed a list of things to do that were not on campus. I distinctly got the impression that I was viewed as a quasi-prisoner, someone to keep an eye and leash on. By my fourth month at the Changsha campus, I had deflected enough “Where are you going?” greetings that I actually hated seeing any of campus people I was familiar with when I was off-duty.
But the classroom was my territory. If there was one thing I was familiar with it was young students who wanted to get something from a teacher. I routinely told them:
“You have already paid your money, so you may as well get something for it. It is foolish to go into a store, give the clerk your money, and then walk out without taking anything with you. Be smart. Get what you came to this campus to get. You are a customer, and this is a business!”
In Changsha, I was certainly a strange-looking bird. I had brought along an ample supply of black hair dye to hide my uncooperative spots of gray, but after a while I abandoned the hair-coloring routine because I could see it did not matter how I looked. I was a foreigner to those who hated outsiders, but welcomed by those who liked Americans. I decided to just cut off my rather bushy hair and keep it short.
The Changsha campus had administrative problems that were unsettling. There was no exact payday, which bothered me. I asked my coordinator Tang, who simply said, “Oh, it varies, but don’t worry, I’ll see that you get your money.” Days later he trotted into the office waving a bulging envelope containing my pay, holding it up in the air. He then orchestrated a little distribution show, slowly counting out each individual banknote for the entire office of envious onlookers.
“I must count this for you,” he said, “then you must sign to verify the amount received.”
Another problem was toilets. Which were for males versus females? Not knowing was embarrassing. In large Chinese cities, public bathrooms generally are well-marked with English and Chinese characters, but on the campus only Chinese characters labeled the appropriate room.
Outside my living quarters was a small, three-quarter mile running track. Each evening teachers, workers and students from elsewhere would walk or jog around it. Four basketball backboards with net-less rims were usually occupied with small half-c
ourt games or individual shoot-arounds. I purchased an ABA (American Basketball Association) red, white and blue paneled ball to do my shot practicing. This also provided me with a bit of socializing time with guys who could say a few words and ask a few questions in English. Never once on the running track or courts did I meet any of the teachers from our campus.
From time to time, I took a walk away from this area and explored the surrounding town. One day I found a billiard hall being demolished. Four pool tables were still operating under a partial roof, and one table standing alone in the sun. There were only two partial walls remaining and these were half torn-down or blasted apart. Jagged concrete with sharp edges profiled the sky and iron rods poked out in the air, waiting for the demolition crew to finish them off. The owner still had a string of electric lights up, naked bulbs that glared late into the night. The place was a community center of sorts for the locals, and here I was able to practice my sloppy game of billiards, making relaxed social contact, and having a cold beer, juice or soda. The local people were friendly, and I found it was the academic types that caused me problems. I passed my leisure time walking, eating, trying to make basketball shots, and rack pool balls using crooked, warped cue sticks. The decrepit pool center lasted almost one year before it finally vanished.
6
Hired Gun from the West
“Come on! Gambei! Gambei! You’ve gotta have another shot! This is our custom in China!”
A tall, narrowly-built, owl-faced man, probably in his mid-thirties, peered at me as he grinned, exposing his bucked teeth as trembling lips only slightly held back the saliva drooling from the corners of his mouth. I’ll refer to him as the Owl. His round face, with large bushy eyebrows sprouting above rimless spectacles, had reddened, and small beads of perspiration had formed on the top of his forehead below the hairline. He sloppily poured another shot of the rot-gut clear liquid into a small glass and held it close to my face. The other men and women, my fellow teachers, sat around the table, puppet-like, stiffly hooting and crowing their approval. All of the males wore casual open-collar shirts and sweaters. The women distinguished themselves by their uniformly-cut dark hair which if not short, was pulled severely away from their faces. Most looked stern and tight-lipped even in this moment of supposed fun. The Owl urged me to down another shot of awful-tasting clear booze. The Chinese call this stuff wine.
“Come on! Drink! Drink! Drink!”
“I’m sorry, one is enough for me,” I demurred. “I am not a drinker.”
“But you must. It is our custom! You are our guest!”
“Well, if you really want to drink more then go ahead, but I am not having any more of this. I will take some juice or milk if you want me to continue drinking with you.”
“Oh come on, you Americans love to drink!” said the Owl. “I have seen it in movies.”
“Are you a religious man or something?” asked another. “Or maybe you just cannot hold your liquor. Perhaps even these women here can drink you under the table! Are you going let these girls show up us men? Come on! Drink! D-r-i-n-k!”
At this point, the Owl attempted to force the issue physically, and I removed the hand that held the glass close to my face and tried to keep from shouting. My voice came out as evenly as I could make it.
“I said ‘No!’ You got it? So you go ahead and enjoy yourself. I can leave now if my not drinking upsets you.”
He stared at me in disbelief. Stunned. Around the table, there were mumbled comments and hushed talking. Had anyone ever refused this guy? Was I some simple child to him? The Owl was persistent.
“Come on! Just one more drink. Just for friendship? You should do whatever your host requests, you know. That is being polite. Yes?”
I resisted the impulse to stand up and leave. I was trying to remain polite, but this was exceedingly difficult. Being forced into doing anything was a complete no-no in my book.
“Listen. I told you no. You are not my mother and I am no child. My drinking is done in moderation and with drinks I enjoy. How about some apple juice, or is there orange juice here? This taste does not suit me, and I will not be forced to drink it just because you insist. I am sorry if you feel offended. If you cannot respect my wish, then I will excuse myself at this point from the room and go home.”
“Okay, okay. If you will drink only juice then so be it. But this alcohol has been paid for and it is a shame to let it all go to waste.”
The Owl waved his arms, gesturing at the three unopened bottles that remained on the stand by the door. The bright red ornamental gift boxes looked pristine and inviting.
“Well, you guys go ahead and enjoy yourselves. Take it home if you must. I have no use for this drink you call ‘wine’. Where I come from it is called hard liquor and it is stuff I would rather die than swallow. Let’s just say I have a very sensitive stomach and leave it at that, shall we?”
Perhaps this was the night where I got the reputation for being stubborn. Or, as I was to hear later, too independent-minded.
Basically, it was not going too well. I had been in Changsha for six months and I had had a few trust issues with the crew. I was faced with two choices: either get out of China, or stay and find ways to cope with the realities of being a foreigner in a very unpredictable environment. I was finding it difficult to remain grounded and felt a strong need to shop to offset my restlessness. Buying shirts and sweaters and ordering tailored clothes was addictive. I became a regular fixture at Wings, a local restaurant serving a version of Western food, which allowed me a reprieve from the campus cafeteria food that was incredibly spicy and unattractively served on flat cold aluminum prison-style trays. In the evenings, I looked forward to purchasing barbecued vegetables and meats from the vendors stationed outside the teacher’s residence compound. When I eventually left this city, I found myself missing the stinky smells of the chou doufu, a roasted bean curd delicacy sold by many of the street vendors. This rotting aroma offends many, but they were undeniably delicious.
Due to the dietary changes and the stress of a new environment, I was eating significantly less and losing weight.
But I was happy there weren’t churches on every street corner. Having been raised in church with forced attendance six days a week, if I never see the inside of another church again, that will be fine. But I found that I was constantly asked the question, “Are you a Christian?” Many people assumed that all Americans are Christians and seemed surprised when I answered to the contrary.
As luck would have it, during my first month in Changsha, I was asked to sing a popular American song. This was an impromptu request and the simplest, easiest tune that came to mind was a Christmas carol. Even choosing this song was for me difficult since I am reluctant to sing any religious song which includes the name Jesus.
I was on stage as a guest at a special civic performance, introduced as THE FIRST foreign guest on the campus. I was suddenly handed a battered guitar and a tiny wooden shoeshine stool and asked to play while singing. This, to me, was ridiculous. It would make me look like a stereotyped buffoon. I was thinking, is this for real? Is this an occasion for my Chinese hosts to validate their stereotypes?
I refused to use the instrument and all-but tossed it onto the stage floor and decided to sing A Cappella. I commenced to sing Silent Night. It is a slow tempo song, but as I started singing, the audience, mostly young, start clapping in a fast-paced rhythm. I knew they may not be familiar with the tune or the tempo, so I stopped and ask for quiet. Then I began again. The applause at the end was thunderous and appreciative. The college president frequently requested that it be performed again on other occasions, and eventually I sang on a provincial television network program for which I picked up a nice piece of pocket money. But despite the recognition, I did not want to establish an identity as a singer, to feed the stereotype. I wanted to be recognized as a scholar and a teacher.
I gave gifts to the teac
hing colleagues of my department—books and recordings from my past projects in the States—but they mostly seemed uninterested in anything beyond cramming for class preps, playing poker or gossiping while playing mahjong. Maybe the age and culture gaps between us were too wide. These were English teachers, but I seriously wondered if my English conversational attempts were lost on them. They may have been able to judge student textbook English assignments, but beyond that, it was a crap-shoot. Their eyes would often glaze over during my attempts at even superficial dialogue, and just about every third word that I uttered needed a follow-up definition. Students would tell me frequently that they never really got much conversational English practice from their teachers in Middle School. “Everything was only textbook stuff. We can spell, write, and pass the formal required examinations, but speaking English is really a new experience.” I was not shocked. The teachers I was with seemed like robots, teaching imposters. At least the students knew that I was the real deal.
My classes became exciting, noisy places to be. I looked forward to simply being in the safety of my classroom. Early in my China teaching I used the popularity of professional NBA player, Yao Ming, to my advantage. I had read his biography Yao: A Life in Two Worlds before coming to China, and carried a copy to each class, passing it around and sharing with the students his stated dreams about seeing more of the world, helping people to know more about China, and improving his English skills. This ploy usually got their attention. I could see that they wanted what this famous person wanted.
Black in China Page 3
