I had to keep reminding myself that I had come to China to learn, and I decided that this could best be accomplished by traveling around the country. One day I revealed this plan to my Chinese teaching colleagues and the reaction was shocking. The entire office was laughing, old and young alike, a loud and humorous uproar. One young Chinese teacher named Wendy was on the verge of tears, angry and adamant that foreigners should be restricted from certain parts of China. I was totally baffled by these reactions. This episode started with a discussion about my love of photography, and a planned trip to the Changbaishan Mountains in northwest China, bordering North Korea. For some reason, this comment set off Wendy and our debate began. Wendy was emphatic.
“Ohhh no! Foreigners cannot appreciate a sacred place like Changbaishan! Actually, I really wish that there could be a ban to keep outsiders from venturing there!”
Wow! She was not joking.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Mr Dictionary wryly commented.
I took issue with her and playfully built a case against her, asking why she thought she knew more than the Chinese leaders who clearly had decided it was in China’s interests to open up to outsiders. Then she burst into tears.
Oddly enough, after this episode, we became good friends and several weeks later, she invited me to her home for a dinner prepared by her mother.
Months later, I was on a tour bus, and the person seated behind me was repeatedly knocking my headrest. His hand sharply jogged the back of my head as he repeatedly left and returned to his seat. My seat was not in the reclining position, and such rudeness was unnecessary. This disturbance became increasingly annoying. The bus moved steadily towards our next scenic stop along the Yellow River, and the person behind me could not keep still. Whatever his problem, it was now my problem. The bumping had to stop. The next time he bumped my head, I turned and glared at him. I was seething with anger. He said nothing, just glanced away. No apology, no sign of remorse. Ten or fifteen minutes passed and again the guy bumped my headrest and head as he left his seat. Now I exploded. To hell with public scrutiny.
“What the fuck is your problem!” I shouted in English. “Goddammit! Motherfucker, bump me again and see what happens to you!”
The bus fell silent. For the remainder of the trip, my headrest was not bumped again. I felt a little embarrassed for having displayed negative emotions and I knew that I, as a Black person, was always held in judgment. Within hours, I had completely forgotten about the incident, and many of the members of the bus tour group wanted a photo with me. They were all smiling, laughing and beckoning. They spoke in Chinese, until one middle-aged lady shouted while smiling at me:
“Hey, Motherfawk! Goddammit! You! You! Motherfawk! Take photo! Photo please!”
I could not help but laugh, because I had created this situation. I knew that I had inadvertently taught them another lesson. All my fault, I guess, the worst English cultural lesson possible. This was not an English lesson I would have planned, but I had lost a bit of my prized self-control. This was the first time in China that I finally let a situation get the best of me. But it would not be the last time.
Early on, soon after my arrival in China, I was advised that there are no secrets in China. If you accept that, you have nothing to worry about. If not, paranoia will be your constant companion. That Big Brother may be watching is something we all have to take in our stride. I assumed taxis drivers could be amongst the eyes that watched me. And some of the other passengers on buses and trains could just be doing their daily duty. Whether cycling or walking, I was aware of the many elderly people sitting around, watching for anything new and unusual, noticing patterns of movement by neighbors, I suppose. People were constantly asking me, “Where are you going?” Yet I also fully understand that policemen have jobs to perform that have a value to society. Most of them are well-trained, and not all of them are corrupt. So it is here, and so it is in the United States.
As a Black man, when traveling around China, I always kept an eye out for the police, because I prefer to keep them at a distance. Call it paranoia if you must, but I know that some officers of the law at times simply suffer from boredom. Others may be motivated by pressure to improve their productivity statistics.
“If you have done nothing wrong, why worry?” you may say, and it sounds rational. But my experience living in America offered a different reality which was hard to shake.
When visiting places like the Marco Polo Bridge near Beijing and the war memorial in Nanjing, I am well aware of the particular sensitivity Chinese people hold with regard to the Japanese. It would be fair to say that the animosity felt by Chinese people towards the nation of Japan is quite similar to the feelings that Jewish people have toward Germans, and American Indians and Black Americans have toward Europeans. These sensitivities based on sordid histories cannot be minimized or forgotten.
There is the historic backdrop, and then there are the many trees making up the forests of our lives. Is life so unfair that we have all been stereotyped? Yes. But is it normal for a White female to become tense and clutch her purse with increased tightness when a Black male enters an elevator, but not react this way when a White male enters? No. Such anxiety is inspired largely by the media. Nor is it normal for a Black person to assume that all non-Blacks have bad intentions. Many people claim to be color-blind, as if this is something virtuous. I believe that the greater virtue is to reach the realization that color differences exist but do not matter.
19
Watching Movies
A large proportion of the students on the Changchun campus were from well-heeled families, very different from my students in Changsha, most of them came from low-income families and small rural communities. But drawing on my years of teaching experience I tried to get everyone on the same page. At the beginning of each semester, my opening lecture for each class set the tone for the course, making clear my commitment to teaching and holding my charges to high standards.
“Remember, you represent your parents,” I told them. “They have high hopes and are counting on you to make them proud!”
“So, what?” replied one student. “My father works for the government. He has a high office. And he says that I do not have to listen to any foreign teacher if I don’t want to.”
The young man was nineteen or twenty years of age, wearing designer jeans, sparkling leather loafers, and an Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirt. A baseball cap rested at a jaunty angle on his multi-colored coiffed hair. He peered at me above dark sunglasses as he juggled an Apple laptop from left to right hand. A smirk rested on his face as he looked directly at me and repeated his last sentence. This was college?
A few students showed their grills of white teeth, grinning their approval, siding with the speaker. Others looked mildly stunned. Sitting beside Loud Mouth, another male student had opened a packet of Oreo cookies, the paper wrapper crackling noisily as he stuffed two dark chocolate discs into his mouth, munching greedily. He was wearing short pants, a Tommy Hilfiger cap sat on his head backwards and rubber flip-flops.
This situation resembled an out-of-control junior high class in the US. Some students already had their heads down on their desks preparing to nap. Others were punching text messages into mobile phones. I observed this type of behavior when looking in on other classrooms too. The front half of most classes were attentive students, while the back half was the gaming section. Chinese teachers seemed oblivious to those who had withdrawn. But I had not signed on to teach junior high students. It was time for Drill Sergeant Aaron to show his Boot-Camp face.
“There are some rules we will have to establish in order for you to know that this is not Junior High. First, all mobile phones will be turned off. I will confiscate them if they ring or if used in this class. You will respect one another as well as me. You will not wear hats in class. If you cannot handle these rules you will leave this class. I will not teach a bunch of kindergarten
kids. You are adults. You will act accordingly.”
The silence in the room was heavy.
“Now, sit up in your seats! This is not a sleep-in or playroom. You two young men, take off those caps and sunglasses or you can leave now.”
“But I cannot go into the hall or walk around campus without a pass,” one of them complained. “And the dorm rooms are locked during class time.”
“Well, that’s your problem. If you are willing to waste your parent’s money by not taking notes, I am sure your parents will understand. Now, all of you, sit up!”
I hated having to assume the drill sergeant’s role but found it necessary to inject an air of seriousness about our learning mission. I also made it a rule to patrol the entire classroom. I never remained locked behind the lectern. During the first week, the students had to sign a commitment pledge and provide short statements about their goals. We had regular one-on-one meetings while competing groups were focused on problem-solving. My goal was to have the students respect themselves and their commitment to learning. At the start of each class, my students had to recite a call-and-response chant I had written before singing the Chinese national anthem.
“Who are you?”
“We are the future!”
“Why are you here?”
“We are here to prepare ourselves to be better citizens.”
“What will you do?”
“I will put forth my best effort to become the best that I can be.”
“Why will you do this?”
“Because we are the future!!!”
It was not long before they were either all on board or became fantastic at faking it. Roll calls indicated that only two stopped attending. Strangely, it was not the two initial trouble-makers. Those two eventually became my class stars. My students were all vying for opportunities to be in a lottery that would involve special monthly field trips along with the winners from my other classes. I enjoy rewarding excellence.
That is not to say things always rolled along smoothly. In one particular class of seniors while teaching Film and Culture, I apparently touched a raw nerve. We were watching segments from a recently-released film, “Lost Boys of the Sudan.” I was proud of having not only been to a screening of the film in Chicago, but also to have chatted with the producer/director. The film, which explores issues of cross-cultural adjustment, isolation, problems with the police, and home-sickness, dispels notions that many Chinese may have about North America being a paradise. As the film played, mumbles of discord rose louder and louder. I stopped the film.
“Okay, what’s going on? Is someone having a problem?”
The student making the disturbance had been disruptive on other occasions. She was short with olive-brown skin and a dark-red-dyed mop of hair, styled to cover most of her face. She was shabbily dressed, which caused her to stand out even more, since most of the girls on this campus dressed fashionably or wore coordinated warm-up suits. This girl had an agitated air about her and often stuttered. Thankfully her attendance was spotty. In the roll-book, her name was listed as Itchi Yan, and I often thought of her as “Miss Itchy.”
“You.. you… you’re making us watch those B.. B.. Black guys from Africa t…t.. talking, and ta-.. ta-.. talking... and talking!”
“Well, aren’t you interested in experiences that other people share about living in the USA?”
“Yeah, b.. b... but, who wants to watch and l… l…listen to Africans? I don’t w.. w.. want to spend my time wa.. wa.. watching and listening to b…b... Black people!”
“Does anyone else in this class feel the same way about this?”
Two hands and then three more hands timidly half-raised.
“Does what you are objecting to have anything to do with the fact that this is not an action movie, comedy or romance? Come on, you can be honest with me. We already have an excellent start from this brave young lady sitting over here. Who prefers to not watch documentary films?”
There was a show of hands, perhaps over half the class.
I was angered by the naiveté and immaturity being displayed by these students. As the discussion moved on, class time ran out and we did not resume watching the film. It was clear that at least half the students would have preferred to watch Tom Cruise, Matt Damon or Brad Pitt, all White male actors, rather than real people, especially ones who happened to be dark-skinned.
This may be blatant prejudice, but then again a manifestation that entertainment is commonly preferred over education. It was not something worth getting worked up over. But I still felt torn between worlds, one reality and the other complicated and fictional.
20
Times Gone By
Every child loves his mother, at least I did. It must be universal because when growing up most of us kids could easily be goaded into a fight if anyone dared say anything besmirching their mother’s character.
“Ohhhh! He’s talking about your mother! Are you gonna let him say that?”
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
When these chants began, somebody would throw down and fists would fly. Anyone with an ounce of common sense knew just how far to push, and when to push back. Talking about your parents even to adults, to reveal any family secrets or what parents did behind closed doors was definitely taboo. Just was not done.
My mother was a hair beautician. She was attractive and people loved to hear her sing. But I loved her because she was my mother, and was therefore the most beautiful woman in the world. I knew she was attractive to others because grown men whistled at her when she took me along to go shopping. She gripped my hand tightly, unless she was trying on clothes.
She would spend long hours in the ladies’ dressing rooms or standing in front of store mirrors trying on outlandish hats. Such things were important for church-goers. Hats and dresses were sure conversation starters after the long sermons, and points of status among Black folk, which seemed important in those times.
Our lifestyle was middle class by most standards because we had many things most Black families in Los Angeles did not. We had a brand-new house in a new residential neighborhood of mostly ex-military personnel and professionals. The neighborhood was mixed with some Latinos or Spanish, but you rarely saw White people and there were no White kids on Crocker Street where we lived. On Towne Avenue, and Mettler, parallel streets to ours, there were a few older White couples. Everyone had good jobs. Home owners in this housing tract clearly took pride in property maintenance. Most could afford to hire Mexican or Asian weekly lawn care crews.
We had two automobiles, a new Chevrolet station wagon, and a Chevrolet ¾-ton pickup truck. Occasionally policemen would stop my father, and demanded: “Alright, pullover! Where’d you get this?” “So where do you work?” We had a large, deep Kelvinator freezer in the garage brimming with frozen food and steaks, and a General Electric automatic dishwasher. The only thing we did not have was a television.
If our family was looked down upon or joked about, it was because of size. It had grown to five children, then considered a large family, but was doomed to grow steadily ever larger because, I was told by our parents, that this was God’s plan. We had no right to question God.
Our neighbors to the right were Miss Irene, a single lady who chain-smoked, and her brother. We never saw him, but heard the loud parties he hosted on some weekends. A stash of empty beer cans and wine bottles were usually stacked outside their backyard gate.
On the left of our house facing our bedrooms, lived my best friend, George Anthony Bell. He was called “Little Tony”, and since I was named Aaron Anthony Vessup, I was “Big Tony”. I suppose my mother and his mother, Melrose, had been close friends as young mothers. He was two years younger than I, and we loved playing Cowboys and Indians. He was light-skinned, a dusty dull yellow, and insisted on always being the Cowboy because he said that on television Cowboys were White. He also had a leather
holster for his silver six-shooter, with white plastic handles. Up to this point, I had never seen television and didn’t care not being the Cowboy because I could always outsmart him or beat him up he ambushed me. I also loved being an Indian because my own grandmother really was an Indian, a Native American. Since I knew at the end of the games I was going to win, playing with Little Tony was fun. The mystery always was what “new” trick he would come up with.
Both of his parents had fair skin color. His mother was an attractive Life Guard at one of the public swimming pools during summers. His father was a policeman and if it were not for his crinkly hair, it would have been difficult to determine that he was a Black American. He was quiet and smoked a lot, clenching a pipe firmly in his mouth while standing on his porch in the back of their house. A few times, he would teach my friend Tony and I how to tap out Morse Code using a special gizmo. But those get-togethers abruptly ceased when Melrose had another baby boy, Gary. Even when Tony would ring the bell, knock on our front door and politely ask my mother to allow me to come over to play in his backyard, filled with toys and other distractions, my mother would turn him away. She told him that he now had his own brother to play with. I would beg to be allowed to go to his yard, and she would tell me: “Honey, you have a large backyard over here, and your father had this fence built to keep you safe. You have brothers and sisters of your own to play with. If Little Tony wants to play with you, he will have to come over here.”
“But, Mommy, they are too young. They cannot play the games we play. I don’t want to play with babies. That’s not fair!”
“Now, don’t you get fresh with me! Do you want me to tell your father? The world is not fair, so you’d better get used to that! Don’t give me any more lip about this, you hear?”
Black in China Page 10
