Black in China

by Vessup, Aaron A. ;

  Perhaps this is all a way of trying to understand the effect of racial pressures in the context of the stressful Chinese social arena. I saw an element of this in Hunan in terms of basketball awareness among the Chinese.

  The NBA sports campaign was in its infancy, not yet an integral part of popular culture in China, but images of Yao Ming, Allen Iverson, and Michael Jordan were everywhere. Chinese sports fans embraced these figures as heroes, and even many non-fans were aware of them and their impact. On the Media College campus, male students enthusiastically talked more easily in English about basketball than any other subject. There are at least ten outdoor basketball courts and these facilities seem occupied by both male and female students between classes and most afternoons. The course syllabus I designed had units that dealt with sports. To me, this was a no-brainer.

  13

  Civil Obedience

  Dressing neatly, wearing clean, polished shoes are a requisite for me. Chinese tend to pay close attention to footwear, and in the US it is said that you can tell how much a man cares about himself, as well as his attitude toward life, by the shoes on his feet. As a youth at home and in school, I was constantly reminded of the notion of proper shoe maintenance. “Polish your shoes!!” Every black-owned barbershop had a shoe-shine stand. For me, a stylish, gentlemanly look is extremely important, from haircut down to an assortment of neat leather-soled shoes. Looking neat in the classroom when under constant scrutiny is something teachers must be aware of.

  During my first months in Changsha city, I was intent on making a good impression on my employers and colleagues. As the first foreigner they had hired, and a Black American at that, I knew that much responsibility rested on my shoulders. On the streets of the city, I found shoe shines accessible and cheap, and I have always hated getting shoe polish under my fingernails.

  “Police! Police!” A few muffled shouts and then sounds of scuffling feet. I was witnessing a scene in downtown Changsha. For the shoeshine vendors, perched on small wooden stools, the men in blue were their nemesis. They knew which policemen would allow them to ply their trade, and which were bureaucratic assholes. When the blue-and-white vans showed up on a sweep, the vendors with keen eyes and ears escaped, but today my shoeshine person was not so lucky. With her head bent as she applied brown wax to my Western boots, her thick, coarse-looking fingers were vigorously rubbing in the polish. She had no idea the men in blue shirts were coming until they were already there.

  One man yanked her up by the arm, while another picked up her basket of equipment and rifled through it, presumably searching for cash. The man holding her by the arm looked over and waved me away. I stood up from the eight-inch high wooden stool with some difficulty and walked off. As I looked back, the men were now searching her pockets. One officer hastily folded some bills found, and stuffed them into his side pants pocket. After saying a few words to the woman, they shoved her off in the opposite direction from which I was walking then headed back to their vehicle. I waited until they drove away and then searched out the shoeshine woman to pay her for the work done on my shoes. I did not intend for her to have a story to tell about a Black foreigner who stiffed her out of money due.

  But another thought occurred, too—corruption is universal.

  One day back in 1973 while working in Bloomington, Illinois as a case investigator and notary, I was taking sworn statements from three policemen, then stamping the official state seal on their signed testimony.

  “On some nights when we worked the graveyard shift we would get calls on the radio to meet at a certain café,” said one of them. “The place was closed. All locked up and deserted. He would say, ‘Cut your lights and engines, follow me.’ He would jimmie open the rear door and go inside. He knew where the cash was kept and he would simply rob the place. We would then trash the area to make it look like a break-in.”

  I sat listening in stunned silence. The three policemen each told versions of their encounters. These men were angry because their head administrator for years had been getting away with breaking laws, compelling them to be accomplices if they valued their jobs, yet they were stuck in positions as patrolmen with little hope for advancement. Life had not been fair.

  “Yes, I worked with him and did more than that, but he would say, ‘If you feel squeamish about any of this just tell me. Let me know now, and I will sign your exit papers without any protest. I’ll just remind you that WE ARE THE LAW. If you can’t handle the burden and responsibility, then you should not be in this job. Go sack groceries or shine shoes!’”

  Our Human Relations Office processed these allegations against the police department leadership, along with other complaints, but once the papers left our office that was usually the end of it. I heard that the pipelines to State and Federal offices were jammed with such charges from around the country. There was always a shortage of manpower and funds to handle such complaints.

  Going to graduate school and then working for the local government was an eye-opening experience. Was this America? I would ask myself time and time again. If you were not on campus, it was like a police state. People living in the housing projects called “Sunnyside” were abused by landlords and local police. Minority students were abused by teachers. Employers did what they wanted to employees. Rights were a thing that citizens who were Black or Spanish or poor, could simply forget about. You had no rights. Except you were told that you “had the right to remain silent...” If you did not like the way things were, you simply moved to another city. That’s the way it was.

  I was working in a new social action office in Bloomington set up because Affirmative Action laws required local governments that received federal funding to have a channel that protected local citizens. My office aimed to find a way to change people’s awareness of their basic constitutional rights. Most local officials detested such offices. They did not like the federal government meddling in their affairs. But in order to receive federal grant monies, they had to comply.

  The biggest problem I found was that many lawyers were unwilling to take on certain cases. Money was not an issue, upsetting friendships and relationships was. White lawyers had the small towns sewn up and the local judges were not necessarily always honest. Black lawyers living in Chicago far to the north could make a better living in more liberal climes. In the small community where I worked, the largest employers were Caterpillar Tractor Co., General Electric, Modine Motors, Hoover Vacuums and the national giant State Farm Insurance Co.

  I eventually left this part of Illinois because it was truly backwards. The local government officials were resistant to any meaningful social changes. “These things take time,” is what the mayor told me again and again. And this seemed to mean there would not be any changes during either his or my life time. It was a wicked game. I needed an escape route.

  14

  Smoked Out in Changsha

  Suddenly I was wide awake. Was it fireworks again? But all was silent, nothing was moving. It was either very late or very early, and I had been sleeping heavily. Now I was choking.

  I rose from my bed and opened my bedroom door to find thick layers of bluish smoke completely filling the front room of my fifth-floor apartment. I was coughing and rubbing my burning eyes. Where was this smoke coming from? I checked all the rooms. Nothing was burning in any of them. But the dense smoke was overwhelming.

  My determination to stay calm and think the situation through rationally was quickly dissipating into a state of panic. What should I do? The clock on my bedroom stand reflecting the pale face of 2am. Who would I even call at this hour? I had no idea. I opened every window in my apartment. I considered simply leaving, but it was so late and being winter, very cold. So cold that even going outside to escape the mysterious toxic fumes was an undesirable choice. I eventually selected a location close to an open window where cold, fresh air was blowing a breeze into the bedroom and wrapped myself in a blanket with a woolen
cap on my head. My head became heavy as I nodded in and out of sleep until the first light of dawn.

  I immediately contacted the director in charge of the international program and housing, but for several days I heard nothing. Fearing the situation might repeat itself, I picked up the phone and called the head of the College leader directly. His secretary answered in Chinese on the fourth ring.

  “Hello,” I said. “Is this Director Yang’s office?”

  In the background I could hear a muffled whisper of a tense voice say, “It’s the foreigner!”

  The secretary cleared her throat and then spoke loudly in English.

  “Yes? How can we help you?”

  “This is Teacher Aaron, in building H. I reported a strange burning and smoke filling my apartment two days ago. Any word about the causes?”

  “Well, we did check on that and searched the building. Sorry, the workers could not find anything. No one has been burning anything in your building. Are you sure that you were not dreaming?”

  “No. You can come over even now and still smell smoke. This place stinks.”

  “Well, like I said, they checked and found nothing. You let us know if this happens again. Okay?”

  I hung up the phone in disgust, trying hard not to slam it down. From then on, I made sure my bedroom door was closed with a towel blocking air from entering from below, and kept the window slightly open. This created a draft, so I had to bundle up with extra clothing and blankets.

  Then one night it happened again. Awakening to go the W.C., I opened my bedroom door and whoosh! Clouds of dark, smoke bellowed around me, the toxic smells overpowering once more. I could barely see the door across the room, the smoke was filling my entire apartment just like the last time. I dropped to my knees and crawled towards the door. My eyeballs burned like hell. I called the assistant to the College president on my cell phone.

  “Hey! Sorry to bother you so late, but about the smoke in my apartment?”

  “Yes? What’s up?”

  “It’s happening again, and thick smoke is everywhere. It’s deadly to breathe in here. I’m leaving to check into a hotel. This is too dangerous!”

  “Okay, do what you need to do. I’ll call the fire department. Check back with me tomorrow after class. I’m glad that you are safe. Good night.”

  I stuffed some clothes in a bag, grabbed my teaching briefcase, a few books, and was out the door. My challenge was to find a hotel, and the only thing for transport I could harness was a lone motorcyclist waiting to ferry desperate foot traffic. As for sleep, maybe a one-night spa stint would suffice. To hell with this nonsense. At that moment, I really just wanted to pack all my bags and head back to the West. But that would be quitting. I refused to be run out of China.

  But I did quit the Media College as a result of this and a number of other issues. It was not the top leadership that wanted me gone, but people below. But enough was enough. I moved to live in another compound that placed me closer to city life and able to freely interact with taxis, tailors, department stores, bath houses and flop-houses. I found places that welcomed foreigners and those that refused any kind of interaction. But for half a year, I stayed in Changsha, unemployed, applying for positions, trying to find another reaching position in the city.

  15

  The Botched Escape

  I was now living off-campus and on my own. I had severed connections completely with the Media School, and this proved to be a crucial part in my transition into the real life of Chinese culture. I really began to enjoy the experience of living in China. I still had a little time on my residence visa, and after a while I began to forget about this critical factor. There were many sights to photograph, and as luck would have it, I acquired two students for English tutoring.

  After leaving the campus, I lost contact with the few wonderful co-workers and members of the library staff that I had been close with. But I still maintained contact with my favorite teahouse, where “Sonny” the hostess and I had become good friends. There was also my favorite Chinese family, the Hans. Of the Han’s two twin daughters, Tily and Lily, the latter took a special liking to me. I was lucky to have Lily in my corner because she was unafraid to use her English skills. With her help, I was able to cement a relationship with a camera shop owner near the campus of Changsha University of Science and Technology, He Kaicheng. Eventually, he helped me published my first photography portfolio in China. Also through his friendship, several of my pictures appeared with articles in Chinese magazines.

  Having been summarily smoked out of the Media College, my time was freed-up for traveling. I made several visits to Guangzhou and Shanghai, and had other adventures in fascinating cities including Dali in the southwest of China. In addition to extensive walking for exercise, I added tennis and golf to my weekly schedule and found a driving range to hit golf balls. I joined a tennis club, hit with a Pro and some local businessmen, and I even had a swimming card for the local pool.

  Then I had to move again because the money I kept hidden away in my apartment was repeatedly disappearing. Apparently, I was not the only person with a door key. I kept cash-on-hand because I had had difficulties with the Bank of China ATM’s which had no English menus, and I lost several bankcards that the machines declined to disgorge.

  Local English teaching opportunities seemed limited to teaching middle school-age students. At these schools, on-campus residency was required, but the appalling campus accommodation bordered on the prison-like. Small, confining and dirty. I could not imagine myself being able to last very long under such conditions.

  I tried not to be paranoid about who was watching me. In China I just took it for granted. Once during the last months of my stay in Changsha, after moving into my own apartment, my fears were substantiated. In the northern part of the city, a middle-age man wearing a short-sleeved shirt, creased slacks and Nike running shoes on a bicycle blocked my path.

  “Who are you?” he asked without any preamble.

  “Who are you?” I replied. He was a completely a stranger and I did not appreciate his approach.

  “I just want to know who you are, we’ve been watching you,” he said. I turned away and went around his bicycle. He followed for a while.

  “Where do you live?”

  I ignored him and ducked into a store.

  Who was this man in Nike tennis shoes pedaling a bike?

  I remained leery of strangers.

  I needed to move to a new apartment from the one in which I had been living for almost six months. That created a number of unforeseen problems. As we completed the loading process of all my furniture and other possessions onto a truck, a small crowd had gathered including the landlord, who was behaving strangely, staggering about.

  “I want that lamp, it’s a nice one,” he said. “He doesn’t need that! And these flat mirrors, I can really use in my own place.”

  The wiry man, the husband of the lady to whom I paid monthly rent, smelled heavily of sorghum alcohol. He was usually only seen yelling boisterously at the open neighborhood canteen nearby as he nursed hard liquor.

  I thought I had taken care of the final issues, having given the landlady the house keys and paying her for the damage to the kitchen door that Tiffany, the Chinese girl staying with me, had shattered in one of her anger fits, usually aimed at getting me to change my mind concerning a marriage that was never in the cards. I had even given the landlady two plants that she had begged to keep with the apartment. An old gray car was blocking our moving truck and its engine had been shut off. The driver was nowhere to be seen.

  “Yeah, he’s a foreigner going back to America,” someone said. “He don’t need all that stuff!”

  The landlord’s husband could became bolder and attempted to scramble up the side of the truck, peering at the household goods. Grabbing his arm, I pulled him down and wagged my forefinger in his face as a warning.
r />   “This is not yours. Go away!”

  He glared at me with liquor clouding his rheumy eyes. For a moment, we were at a standoff. If there was going to be a fight, I must not be seen delivering the initial blow. In my mind’s eye, I could project ahead, hearing them chorusing “He started it! He started it!”

  Tiffany pulled out her mobile and furiously punched at the keypad. She had a look on her face that told me she was also about to explode. I did not want this to become a scene, because then we really would have no chance for a diplomatic resolution.

  “We’ve had enough of this bullshit!” she said. “I’m calling the police!”

  The people around us wore smirks on their brown, wrinkled faces. The half-drunk landlord husband looked as if he was going to attempt to scale the side of the truck again and I got ready to block him. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. The last thing I wanted was to be dealing with the Chinese police. This could not end well, but I was determined to protect what was my property. We were standing on a powder keg. Foreigner against locals. Yellows against Black.

  Where were the truck keys? The men who loaded the truck, the owner and his helper, had disappeared. If there had been no car blocking our getaway, I would have considered driving the old, lurching, stick-shift vehicle away myself, except we did not have the keys. Now the growing crowd of residents was getting edgy. A low mumble of voices was becoming louder with impatience and they seemed to be moving in like vultures waiting for the kill. I was afraid they would take whatever they could and split the spoils. It was obvious that no one in this group was on our side. In their eyes, I was a foreigner and it was about to be open season.

  Suddenly, a hush blanketed the crowd as if some silent alarm had been sounded. Eyes turned on cue toward the far corner of the apartment building complex. At a distance of three units away, three familiar blue-uniformed men walked slowly toward us. The police. I felt relief as if the cavalry had arrived without the sounding of bugles.