Black in China

by Vessup, Aaron A. ;

  As the scheduled day for our doubles match approached, my hand-eye coordination timing improved. Holding the light wand of a racquet, hitting that strange feathered thing increasingly well, made me ever-more excited about participating. Yes, the game was not the more masculine power game that I delight in when playing tennis but it required skill, stamina, and a different kind of touch.

  I found that Jackie was an excellent player. In fact, during competition, it seemed like I was virtually dead-weight. I can easily acknowledge that it was due to her skills that we were victorious in our first match. Her calmness, pleasant smile and ease of movement made us a formidable team.

  The stage was now set for my first singles match. A small crowd of young students and teachers was gathered at center court. My opponent was a tall, young stud of a guy in his early twenties, two or three inches taller than I. He smiled graciously and glanced at my middle-age paunch. There was no need to pretend I was in shape. As the game commenced, it was clear to him and the onlookers that I was outmatched. He rained bullets down on me. Good old friendly grandpa. As the crowd of Chinese supporting my opponent cheered wildly, my heart sank. It seemed like I could barely win a point. In fact, I do not recall if I actually did win a point, much less a game. Never before had I been so soundly beaten. As the game ended, all that I could think of was that I wished we could have been on a tennis court. But I smiled and offered the good sportsman handshake at the end. The young man did not respond with arrogance, but I had lost face. I visited the dining hall only when mess hour was about to end. I wanted to be invisible which as one of only two Black males on the campus was ridiculous.

  There was also a Black female teacher from the Bahamas. She was a first-year trainee member of a Christian group that brought in foreign teachers to China. I cringed and turned up the volume on my television or radio when their “secret” worship meetings commenced one floor below my apartment. Their singing, guitars, hand-clapping, and floor stomping were truly irritating. I politely refused invitations to join their gatherings. Once they knew I was not interested, I was less welcome in the foreign teacher dorm because for all they knew I could rat on them for bringing Chinese students to their living quarters to push religion.

  My faculty brother-in-color, Boris, hailed from France, and taught French. Everyone called him Frenchie. He was a small man with light almond-brown skin color, very much the soft-spoken type. I was his senior by about three or four years. I rarely saw him due to conflicting teaching schedules. He was engaged to a Chinese girl and loved to create cartoons in his spare time. He kept his personal life private, as did I, and seldom ate in the teachers’ dining section of the cafeteria. He had come from a teaching stint in Guangzhou down south one year before me. We served together on two committees looking at campus improvements. He was mature and had his head on straight, and I appreciated the fact that he declared himself to be an atheist.

  Perhaps it was my problem that I did fit in too well in my early months on campus. I can be sociable, but I do not give off the vibe of wanting to be the life the party. If student expectations were for me to be another wild American, they were disappointed. I got the sense the students were not happy with me. The reaction of the crowd as I was being wiped all over the gymnasium floor in badminton, for one. Most of the faces seemed happy and proud to see their countryman drubbing a foreigner. An American! Get him! This occurred during the build-up to the 2008 Olympics, The Chinese crowd was ready and passionate and I felt defenseless in a hostile environment. Perhaps it had nothing to do with my being Black, and only a foreigner, I don’t know. The deafening chants of “China! China Jiayou!” (Go China!) were reminders that sport is symbolic war.

  A huge video screen near the administrative building clock tower also provided dramatic visual documentation of events. Two weeks after the badminton fiasco, I was still cringing as short video clips of my defeat were repeatedly shown for the entire campus to see. Snickering students pointed this out. I wanted to tell them, “Hey kids, I really am an old man!” But I had my pride.

  I decided to practice and prepare for the next badminton opportunity. I ditched my cheap racquet, and invested in quality weapons, badminton wands ranging from 200 to 1,200 RMB. I also resumed jogging and the exercise regimen I had adhered to in Changsha. I bought decent indoor shoes for hardwood courts and began regularly playing badminton singles and doubles. My goal was to make a decent showing in the next tournament. Jackie smiled radiantly when I told her.

  Over the next few months, I was transferred from the Foreign Languages Department into the English Majors department. In the new department, I again developed new courses and teaching plans for others to follow. But it turned out that being in a new department scuttled my dream of revenge on the badminton court. One day when I went to the gym during lunch period, I saw the badminton tournament was already in full swing. It was into the second day and I had not been told of the competition. Upon asking about this, I was informed that the department I was now in had not applied to participate. It was too late to enter the competition, useless to think about regaining face.

  I was also quite disappointed that in my time working at Huaqiao, I was never able to book a meeting with the college president. Four years working on the campus, and even being the recipient of a provincial teaching award did not apparently give me credibility to warrant even two minutes. I had on a few occasions exchanged a few words with her in public at campus events. We sat on the same podium at the ceremonies marking the start and end of each school year and during graduation ceremonies. I even delivered a farewell graduation speech on one occasion. Xu would always smile and agree that we must chat soon, but it never happened. Two of my colleagues, however, did have private meetings with her. Claude, a white-haired Canadian male French teacher in his late sixties with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes; and John, also in his mid-sixties, a tall white-haired, American male Business teacher from Texas. John was married to a Chinese woman whom he had met while working for Volkswagen in China. Both men were in my age group, and both were White. One of them laughed when I mentioned my frustration regarding seeking a private meeting with the campus CEO.

  “Man, you can forget it! She will always be too busy. Don’t let it get to you! By the way, it could be that her English might also cause her to be a little reluctant, you never know.”

  Perhaps I should have accepted that view, but what did they know? Maybe it was what they were not saying. I was at a loss as to what to make of our non-relationship. It had been customary during my many years in academia in the USA and now in China, for me to meet and chat with the university leadership under whom I worked. But four years of no direct access was troubling. I simply did not see myself as some minor cog working on an assembly line, or a migrant worker who had fallen off a cabbage truck. I had assumed Madame Xu had at least seen my CV. Perhaps my assumption was wrong.

  But I was busy in other ways. My services were frequently sought to coach students vying for places on the teams representing the college in speech competitions held around the province. On several occasions our department Dean invited me to his office to chat with campus visitors, often parents seeking advice about sending their kids to America. Beside teaching duties, I was responsible for one of two English Corner groups, and was also advisor to the student’s music club.

  My special projects in the community were also keeping me well occupied. I was lucky enough to obtain unexpected assistance from a senior student nearing graduation with a growing list of achievements. Anya hailed from Wuhan in central China and was a genius at getting answers and solving problems. Together we were able to locate a recording studio, book publishing contracts, launch program promotions, and community speaking engagements. If there was an issue requiring negotiation and persuasion, Anya could do it. I watched her graduation with mixed emotions: happy to see her achieve her dream to start her own life with confidence, yet sad to lose a great supporter and facilitator. Of t
he many achievements from our working together, perhaps most memorable was the solo photography/lecture program featuring my works hosted by the Changchun City Public Library, and televised throughout Jilin Province. I was a guest in her family home many times and always found them warm and welcoming. We remain friends to this day.

  I was given a provincial teaching award, but was surprised when I was required to share it with a teacher from Japan. I was told that in the past, the award had never been shared. This so-called honor felt half-hearted at best and seemed to actually be part of a political show. Historically, there had been bad blood between China and Japan, and I sensed that Itsuka and I were both merely tokens. Given the unconcealed negativity toward Japanese people by most Chinese on the campus, it was highly unlikely that the Japanese teacher would have solely been given the award. On countless occasions, teachers and students had expressed their anti-Japanese feelings in my presence. I have visited the city of Nanjing, raped by Japanese soldiers, and I have also visited Pearl Harbor and seen the remains of the USS Arizona, now a tomb. So I can empathize.

  But thinking that I should trade on my brief moment of glory, I approached Madame Xu during the award ceremony.

  “Hello, Dr Xu, it’s good to see you.”

  “Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed. “I have heard many good things about you.”

  We chatted for several seconds about some educational challenges our students were facing. Xu was enthusiastic in her comments and our rapport seemed quite positive. Taking this as a good sign I seized the opportunity for a follow-up meeting.

  “Perhaps I could schedule a visit in your office when convenient,” I said. “In the past I have come by, and have even left some notes, but I seem to keep missing you.”

  She smiled with a full-faced grin, nodding her head. “Oh, let’s do that. You are such a good boy! Keep up the good work!”

  Madame Xu, then turned abruptly and initiated a conversation with another bystander, still smiling and effusive.

  I was offended by how she had addressed me. She had offended me by not using my name, but also by calling me “boy.” My mouth dropped open, I was speechless. That an educated person, the head of an academic institution could be so cultural insensitive caught me completely off-guard. Our age difference alone should have made a difference. If not, then at least my status as an educator, a professional, a veteran.

  At the beginning of each semester, I lectured the senior classes about slang, idioms and words offensive to Westerners. Aretha Franklin and other black artists sing about respect because it is sorely lacking in the USA. That it was also a Chinese problem was undeniable. The personal respect that I sought from the head of the school was not forthcoming. It was apparent that I was no more than a menial servant to her. At that moment, all I could think of was how soon my contract would end. After four years, it was time to go. I received a written, glowing recommendation, but signed by the Administrative Assistant, not by Madame Xu. To her, I was merely a cog in the wheel. I felt sad about leaving such a wealth of positive experiences behind, but not sensing genuine respect from the leader made me feel I had made the right decision.

  22

  Twistings and Unravelings

  The year 1976 was an important one for the United States. The country reached a celebratory plateau for high-achieving Black Americans after the tumultuous 1960s, with Bicentennial parades and speeches, and mementos on sale everywhere. A Black Congresswoman from Texas, Barbara Jordan, made an electrifying speech at the Democratic National Convention; Pearl Bailey published the book, Hurry Up America, and Spit!, and was also appointed by President Gerald Ford as Special Ambassador to the United Nations; writer James Baldwin published two more groundbreaking novels; Alex Haley’s book, Roots: The Saga of An American Family, led to controversy at high schools nationwide; Arthur Ashe became the first Black man to be ranked number one in the world of tennis; Aretha Franklin, Barry White and Curtis Mayfield were riding high on the charts and were heard all day long on mainstream radio stations; Hank Aaron, in Major League baseball finally eclipsed Babe Ruth’s record by hitting 755 home runs; and I coached two students from the University of Pittsburgh’s Speech Department to the regional Bicentennial regional oratory qualifier, with one of these students to become a finalist for Pennsylvania, placing second against Princeton University.

  That year also saw my first publication, a chapter on “Police, Community, and Communications” in the book, Urban Communications: Survival In the City by my graduate advisor, William E. Arnold. Little did I know that there would be a need to continue to address this topic some forty-plus years later.

  My mind was not at ease as I sat in the dimly lamp-lit police office. I had passed double security clearances to enter what seemed like a bears’ den. If I was lucky, the bear would only play with me.

  Chief Harold Boussard, nick-named “Old Buzzard”, was leaning back comfortably in the stuffed chair behind his desk, his hands locked behind his head, chomping on an unlit cigar. Tiny beady eyes squinted from sharp slits as he surveyed me, measuring me. His voice was high, thin and whiney. Pale pink jowls sagged like sloppy noodles above his thick neck. He had once been a chubby, not-so-innocent choir boy at St. Anthony’s Catholic Church. Older now, but not much had changed. Fatter, comfortable and in control, beneath his jovial exterior he was mean. As a community human rights worker, I had heard things from people who knew him well, including police officers. But this city was his, make no mistake about it.

  I had come to see him about a serious matter involving ruptures in police-community relations. He knew why I was there but was laughing and making light talk.

  “Chief, I have a memo that contains some serious accusations…”

  “Oh that piece of garbage! I’ve already seen it. It’s all shit.”

  “But Chief, even if only a fraction of this paper has merit, it really doesn’t make the department look good at all. There is a public out there who are more than uncomfortable. People are still living under this mental stress after the riots and…”

  “Son, what people are you talking about? Taxpayers who support the present mayor, and have re-elected him for over twenty years? Not the people who greet me every Sunday at my church and pat me on my back. Oh, you must be referencing those bleeding hearts who belong to the N-A-A-C-P… what’s it called, that National Collard Greens People or something like that?”

  “Chief, the people…”

  “Don’t cut me off, I’m not finished. This paper, this memo of complaints that attempts to cast our department in a bad light, has not been signed or notarized. As far as we’re concerned a group of schoolboys could have made this out as a prank. It don’t amount to a hill of beans! None of it!”

  “But you’ve got to admit that some of the details in this clearly suggests that someone must have a pipeline to the inside, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t got to ‘admit’ a damn thing! Let me tell you what I think. It’s ALL a comedy if you ask me, schoolyard foolishness. But I know this… ANYONE making a charge against the men in my department can forget about it. Going after my men on capricious bullshit? This is a para-military department, and these are my men. They may be Black, they may be White. But I will back them up, that’s what my job is about. You don’t throw out the whole barrel just because there might, and I repeat, MIGHT be a few rotten apples. That’s complete nonsense.”

  “But Chief, wrong is wrong and…”

  “Listen, you wanna take a ride with me? You should go on a ride-a-long just one night, I’ll show you the other side of the law. You have no idea what is ‘wrong’. You don’t even know what ‘wrong’ even means. Those Nig-g… I mean those Wollies…those woolly-headed jungle bunnies laugh at us. They think that obeying the law is a joke. You want me to be honest with you? I’ll be honest with you, if I was still on the streets in a patrol car and not behind this desk, I’d be drawing my gun too. There’s
no respect out there, and these officers serve the people. They all deserve respect!”

  “Well, Chief, that’s the point, all people deserve respect, and today people are nervous and scared. That’s why these complaints are…”

  “Complaints because somebody got their feelings hurt?! Somebody is not getting any “love” full of that ’I have a dream’ freedom nonsense? They can keep dreaming. This is my city and I have a dream too! We all have dreams and this is our city and our dream. Reminds me of a joke about the guy who went to a whorehouse and …”

  “Chief, you really are funny, you know that?”

  “Hey, you listen to me. If you stay in this people business as long as I have, you‘ve got to keep a sense of humor. These things take time, you know? You’ve got to give the people what they want.”

  I’ve heard that same song many times since. I guess it depends on which ‘people’ you’re referring to.

  The salesgirl in the small, little known city of Anda, China stood out by her spontaneous enthusiasm and effusive smile, clearly harboring no ill-will toward me. On some days in China, it takes a fair amount of effort to spot a gracious smile and curiosity overruling rudeness. I was clutching a magazine featuring Usian Bolt, the Jamaican Olympic sprint champion, on its cover. The girl took a closer look, and exclaimed, “He looks just like you!” The cover photograph was of the Olympian with half his face painted with red, yellow and green tattoo designs. I was mildly offended.

  “Do I have rainbow paint on my face?” I responded as gracefully as I could

  She was perplexed by the question. “Excuse me...I don’t understand.”

  “You said he looks just like me, I have no colorful paint on my face, do I?”

  “I mean he has the same skin color as you. You both look alike.”

  I pointed to a middle-aged Chinese woman sitting near the doorway, “Well, I could say the same about you. I see the same skin color, you both look alike, also. Would you agree with me?”