A look of horror crossed her face, she almost shrieked, “Oh, no, she’s older...!”
We continued to chat amiably and the salesgirl accompanied me as I made a few purchases in a nearby store. Before we parted, she asked me to contact her if I needed help. Clearly, my cultural gaffe was forgotten. Patience and flexibility are required by anyone to survive in a new culture, and maintaining respect is a good guiding philosophy. But one must also maintain a thick skin.
It was becoming apparent to me that the depth of racial ignorance in China was no different from that in many geographical and mental pockets of White America, among those who have had limited or no contact with Black people. To the culturally blind or insensitive, Black is simply black. There is no awareness of individuality or personal distinctions. It is not seeing the person, but more a matter of seeing a thing, a symbol with either positive or negative cultural connotations. The same can be said for Blacks with limited contact with Chinese or Europeans. Yellow is yellow, and White is white, with all the positive or negative stereotypes attached.
But perceptions of good will or bad will are immediate when contact is made. It is important to keep in mind that we all are human beings with the same basic instincts. A person really needs to keep in mind the big picture in order to not be always classifying strangers, foreigners, people who are different, as friend or enemy.
In Japan, cashiers often place one hand beneath your receiving hand, and lightly touch the top of your hand while in the act of returning your change, an act of genuine courtesy. But in China, I have had my change tossed down onto the counter, and service workers sometimes behave non-verbally as if proximity is repulsive. When such situations repeatedly occur I cannot help but become concerned. How do these people behaving in such a manner really see me? Is my blackness such a negative? Do I represent danger, and if so, from where do such fears come?
Experiences in China and America and beyond have taught me something about how to manage the myriad contradictions and social obstacles involved in cross-cultural contacts. But a clear reality for those of us living in the margins is that not everyone spreads welcome mats out for Black people. Chinese tend to feel that people with white skin are somehow superior to those who are of dark complexions. People who are White are assumed by many Chinese to have instant knowledge and credibility.
My first inkling of this perspective came on the Changchun campus when I received feedback from a student about how a young White American teacher-in-training viewed me. The Chinese student seemed quite happy to reveal to me that he had asked the young American what he thought of me as a teacher. With unbridled enthusiasm he reported: “He told me that you are alright!”
This startled me on two levels. I had been teaching before either of these two had been born; and the person being asked did not know me, had never seen me teach, and at that point was not even certified to teach, so how could he judge my abilities? And why would this Chinese student take anything he said to heart? But Chinese totally value White opinion sources and view them as unimpeachable authorities. Oops! With the exception of maybe basketball.
This mental orientation boggles the mind.
This is just a sample of the immaturity and prejudicial thinking that seemed to be rooted deeply in the mind-set of many Chinese. It can be confusing for an outsider coming into this land, but in China, judging people by skin color is the norm. One would think that given China’s outstanding performance on the world stage in many fields besides sports, such thinking would have been laid to rest long ago, but in China, the exterior seems to matter most. Walk into any cosmetic section of a store and this message is clear.
Color matters in China, just like everywhere else in the world.
PART III
THE BLACK CHINAMAN
23
Unchained in Beijing
There was no doubt in my mind that after Changsha and Changchun, Beijing would finally be the real world, and modernity was apparent the first day I stepped onto the campus of UIBE, the University of International Business Education. I was impressed seeing, unexpectedly, an International Cultural Day celebration going full-tilt when I arrived unannounced for a look-round. I sat in the auditorium watching two talented African-American males perform Cross-Talk comedy in Chinese. The packed auditorium buzzed with excitement.
A well-dressed man in a dark suit and red tie stood near the entrance to the auditorium. Since he looked official, I introduced myself and walked away with his business card. He told me I could call him if I needed assistance locating employment. It was the Vice-President of the university.
Getting the job at UIBE was easy. Within days I had identified the appropriate department and forwarded my CV and other documents, and within a week, I had my class assignments. There was no contract tying me down because I was teaching part-time, which was exactly what I wanted. I did not want to do any more full-time grunt-grinding work like in the provinces. I wanted to get back into the frame of mind of being free again. UIBE offered me a chance to ease my way into a class routine, as well as allowing me to get familiar with a new city. I did not live near the campus, which was ideal, almost like the life I had known back in the States.
Payday was not an issue at all. I was given a bank card and automatic deposits were made at the end of each month. Restrooms had both Chinese and English signs. I saw no signs of neglect or gross uncleanliness.
My classes at UIBE were nothing like the ones I had experienced previously in China. Several companies had contracts with the school to prepare their managers and staff to go abroad, and my students were post-graduates and corporate types with a clear purpose. Everyone was in business mode, interest levels were high, and there was always full, gratifying participation.
The subways, buses, taxis, motor scooters, bicycles and throngs of pedestrians declared that Beijing was continually on the move. The skyline changed almost weekly, businesses seemed to come ago in the time it takes to breath in and out. On most days, the smoggy haze made seeing any distance a kaleidoscopic experience, and choked me like a fish out of water. But in this city, I immediately feel quite at home, because there were foreigners everywhere from all over the world. Gone was the feeling of being an astronaut tethered only tenuously to “reality.” People were really more civil and down-to-earth here. Perhaps it was because most Chinese living and working in this capital city of over fifteen million people also hail from other far-away cities and provinces. Our commonality was that most of us were “foreigners.”
Beijing is a money place, a fashion haven and an international hub. There are perhaps as many or more private English schools for kindergarteners and youngsters than there are KTVs. Parents lavish money on their kids. I noticed this and the many flashy late-model automobiles. Porches, Bentleys, BMWs, and Lamborghinis many with weird pink or blue paisley aluminum metallic colors zoomed along the streets. There were several Harley Davidson cycles parked as deep dust collectors where I now lived. I also stumbled upon three Harley dealerships during routine bicycle runs. Late at night the roar and rumble of cycle club members told me this culture was alive and well. This city seemed to thrive with the energy of life, much of it involving struggles for basic survival. No one hides. Rich and poor are no strangers.
I settled in easily with my community setting which, thankfully, was not academic but a healthy mix of professions, ages, including babysitting seniors with young rug rats in costly strollers. Transportation of every sort was conveniently at my beck and call. Exotic cuisine choices were endless. I had no shortage of options for getting my much craved-for donkey meat sandwiches. Fresh farm edibles, Western and Chinese venues surrounded me. All of the major Western fast food players and coffee brands were competing with each other as well as against numerous unknowns. Professional sports like soccer, basketball, league club tennis, and even the startup youth baseball programs were all here. Happy to have the option of going to NBA exhibition ma
tches, I also watched the CBA “Beijing Ducks”, and cheered loudly supporting Venus and Serena at the Olympic Green Tennis complex. It does not get any better than that. There were even Tiger Woods golf promotion events. It truly felt like being at the Center of the world. I had finally come inside from being out in the cold as a “foreigner.”
In December 2012, news reports from the south reported that police in the city of Guangzhou had detained more than three-hundred Africans for drug trafficking. Many Africans had lodged complaints about undue harassment and searches by Chinese Customs officials as well as by traffic police. Kevin, a 26-year-old Nigerian I met in a shopping mall in Beijing, described his experiences to me. Kevin moved to Beijing after one year working in Guangzhou in an export firm. He was quite bitter as he shared how his employer’s premises had been constantly harassed by officials collecting protection fees. His job eventually fizzled out. Kevin claimed the police specifically indicated that his presence was not welcomed in the apartment complex where he had been staying. His voice quavered on the verge of tears as he said, “They told me the Chinese residents were not comfortable with so many Africans in the building and said, ‘You’d better be gone the next time we come around, or there is going to be trouble for you.’”
I suggested that if finding employment was now so difficult in China, why not go back home to Nigeria, but that made him even more upset.
Early one spring morning, I went to The Den, a popular hangout in Beijing for foreigners with an addiction for eating Western food while watching televised sports. I had been there the previous year, taking a 5.30am bus to watch the Super Bowl. This time, however, it was approaching noon and I went to witness the last deciding game of the American Baseball World Series. The Den was about three-quarters full. I chose a seat in the middle of the room, half-way between the large television screen and a back wall lined with sports trophies and memorabilia. To my left by the wall was a middle-aged, dark-skinned Black man with eyeglasses, a small laptop and an empty plate of food in front of him. He and I were the only black-skinned people in The Den. Small groups around us were already quite boisterous. Seeing he had finished eating, I attempted to get his attention during a commercial break. I knew better than to disturb someone who was hungry. But now, there was only the game and a pause in the action. People all around us were talking and cheering in friendly camaraderie. I was curious, wanting to break the ice. I leaned forward across the path separating our tables.
“Excuse me!”
Silence. He did not look up. Perhaps he had not heard me.
“Hey Brother…excuse me!”
No response.
“Hey Friend, which team do you like?”
He slightly turned his head and glanced away. No answer. Wow! Was he being deliberately rude?
“What city are you from? Do you have a favorite?”
He now turned and looked at me with an impassive stare.
“I just like to watch baseball.”
“Do you have a favorite team? What city are you from?”
“Who me? I’m African,” he said, and turned away in a dismissive manner. There was no smile and clearly there would be no further conversation. It was as if his saying “I am African” meant he had nothing to say to me. I would never know which country in Africa, what city in Africa, let alone his baseball team preferences. He was African. I am not. Does this mean we should not talk? Perhaps he felt insulted thinking that I may have assumed him to be an American Black. Oops! My bad.
But then again, why should I think myself so universally connected with persons of dark skin? During my sojourn in China it often seemed that dark-skinned people would go out of their way to avoid conversations with kin in color, although this did not include Indians or Arabic folk. But I thought that I had made a breakthrough in the African curtain of moodiness when visiting the Sino-Japanese hospital in Beijing during a severe case of asthma attacks. There in the waiting room, I sat down beside a dark-skinned fellow and attempted light conversation.
“I am so glad that at this hospital there are doctors and administrators who speak English,” I said. “I was really worried when I first came here.”
The officious-looking man I had sat beside had rimless eyeglasses, a trim mustache and a white dress shirt with suit and necktie, knotted but loosened around his neck. He responded.
“Oh, my doctor is very good. Who are you seeing?”
I produced my appointment slip and he scanned for the name.
“We have the same doctor,” he said. “No problem. He is very good. In fact he is the one who did my surgery.”
With his, he proceeded to lift his shirt showing a long suture scar with stitches on his midsection.
Our conversation flowed easily. His accent was vaguely British so I knew he was from an African country. I was curious to know which one.
“Which country are you from?” I asked.
“Mali. I am a diplomat.”
We chatted amicably on before he was called into the doctor’s cubicle. Before parting, we exchanged business cards. I was thinking, ‘This is so cool, now I can make some meaningful contacts with an African who is willing to communicate.’ How wrong I was. Days, weeks and months followed and despite my reaching out via phone and email, no response. So, I guess, our little chat was really only meant to be perfunctory at best. I am a Black American. He knew this, but I did not think this would be a problem.
Maybe I have become a bit over-sensitive.
24
Christ, East and West
In the evening, as dusk fell, I had the option of taking a route through an alley of cooking vendors and small cafes. It was a short cut, though not usually a first choice because of charcoal fumes and cooking oils which were sure to soak my clothes. Passing through this food gauntlet, if the skies were dark enough, a red neon cross blinked on and off from a second-floor window in the apartment complex directly at the end to the alley. Apparently there was a small church or worship room there. I had read that the Chinese government usually close such a place down if the membership gets too large.
I became aware early on of the confusion among Chinese people regarding Christianity, especially of the fundamentalist and messianic variety. Several Chinese teacher colleagues asked me about it over the years and I always tried to keep my responses brief. It is all so complicated and in my view a lot of hair-splitting nonsense. Superstitions and contradictions abound. The fundamentalists have long been in dispute with the more orthodox brands of Christianity over what they call the misuse and misinterpretation of the Bible. The scholars argue and the ardent followers love the debates, but at the heart of it all are the commercial interests of the church leaders.
Today, in the United States most schools do not allow discussion of religion to avoid knock-down-drag-out faith discussions in classes. It is only when students reach college that they are supposed to be civil enough to discuss the issue objectively. As a college teacher, I have refereed a few heated discussions, and unfortunately civility is not always evident.
The Civil War was won and Americans have a constitution granting individuals freedoms, but that does not mean that all of the conflicting attitudes and beliefs related to Christianity and Race have been resolved. There are still many churches that do not welcome particular ethnic groups into their congregations.
The entire discussion of religion and racism in the USA is deeply disturbing. Fundamentalists believe they must be aggressive to win more people for Christ and each person is held accountable for his or her productivity in the persuasion department. They will be asked frequently: “Have you won a soul for Christ today?” These Messianic Evangelicals are relentless, and the issues of race, gender and the hierarchy within the church all come into play.
“I’m a soldier in the army of the Lord, I’m a soldier in the Army!”
We sang this hymn frequently and with great fervor when I
was young. Our minds had been indoctrinated to hold the belief that all non-believers were the enemy, including the Catholics who worshipped Idols and sculptured statues of the Virgin Mary. They were Enemies of the true believers in the Christian faith. To a lesser extent, so also were the Baptists, Methodists, and Church of God in Christ believers. This war separated people in a very real sense. In many instances, even polite conversation and daily greetings were withheld.
On both sides of the racial lines, there were church pastors decreeing that race-mixing between black and white was undesirable. Also, taking a bride back to your home state was not acceptable. I was told directly on two occasions by different church pastors, “Our women stay here. If you marry one of ours you will have to stay to help build our flock. My job is to protect our women.”
No White people attended our churches as members. Once in a great while, one or two would come as visitors expressly to hear the choir sing. When I asked church leaders why we did not have White church members, I was told that asking such questions was letting the devil use my mind.
The bigotry, the hypocrisy, the bullying and aggressive evangelizing were things I came to abhor in the manner of a heretic. I no longer felt pride in identifying with neurotics and masochists. I wanted to break free and clear from the religious nonsense. Physical distance would help.
I do not believe foreigners should enter another country or culture, and damn and condemn people who hold different beliefs and customs. We have no right to judge, but many Christians believe they do. Many Chinese people are gullible and think Christianity is cool because it is different and Western and have no clue about the background of it.
Of course, there are two or more sides to everything, and while things may seem twisted, people still should have the freedom to exercise choice. It is my belief that true spirituality is to be aware that we are all interdependent. Everything is interrelated.
Black in China Page 13
