In some ways, instinctively, I am tempted to applaud the Chinese government for taking steps to control the spread of the Christian religion on the mainland. But then I remember that here, people have in some cases imprisoned for their religious beliefs, and I realize that while superficially there are similarities, the significance of neon crosses at night on buildings in China is different from what I knew in my youth. I wake up and ask: who are they, and who am I, to try to dictate belief?
My escape plan and dream was to somehow get a scholarship and thereby finally be free of the tyranny of the church and of my father. Our branch of Christians (the Pentecostals) did not believe in playing any role in the wider affairs of society and government because we were intent on waiting for Jesus to return and rescue his faithful. Home was “Gloryland” after death and the goal was to be included in the Great Rapture. Since we did not know which event would occur first, our role as fundamentalists was to simply live in a perpetual state of readiness for emergency departure, with no real earthly attachments or community involvement. This meant social activism was off-limits. King and his followers were marching through Selma, Birmingham, and Chicago, but to us that was worldly business, not God’s.
Of course there were many who argued against these beliefs, which is perhaps why we usually stayed inside the church confines. Our approach was very confrontational. If another Christian disagreed with us, we had to be ready. Pentecostals were considered outcasts, the lowest level of the Christian status hierarchy. Some of our members took pride in going into other Christian assemblies and disrupting their worship services with loud declarations.
Education was controversial, too: not enough learning and you wouldn’t be able to earn a decent living and hold your head up high. But having too much education meant that you would probably lose your faith and leave the fold. We were constantly warned about the perils of becoming too educated by reading things other than the holy word of God. Literature was dangerous. Mainstream White society, meanwhile, looked down upon those who were not educated, but also viewed educated blacks as dangerous. For me, the road to success and survival in contemporary America was filled with contradictions and impediments.
On hearing that Martin Luther King had been killed, I responded by saying, “Who is that?” When I was told, I felt utterly ashamed for being so ignorant. It hit me that my life had been lived in a bubble, isolated. I was profoundly embarrassed. I had already graduated from High School and Junior College, and was attending a state university, but I still lived in the world of my father. In our home, we had no television, which was referred to as the devils’ toolbox.
Talk about student marches and demonstrations was meaningless to me. I did not know the meaning of Black Power beyond having seen black American men and women wearing large, bush-shaped hairstyles and refusing to embrace the accepted official identity of Negro or Colored any longer. I felt utterly ashamed of my social ignorance, and while I wanted to blame my church and my father’s dictator-like control, in the end I had to blame myself.
Martin Luther King’s name was not mentioned in our church during those times of public outcry. Even after the rioting ended, our people said this was God’s victory over the Devil and just another sign of the coming Judgment Day. King was a trouble-maker who went against God’s word by challenging the seats of power. The Holy Bible said there would be such voices focused on worldly things, so what could they expect but doom? His political actions were proof enough that he had not been a true believer, and thus he had received God’s punishment. Ultimately, as the policies that King and others pushed for brought positive changes, the fundamentalist Christians fell back on the refrain that God worked in mysterious ways, and King had been his living instrument.
But who were we to talk about False Prophets? Our own church Pastor had just been sent to prison for molesting and impregnating a teenage church girl. He preached every Sunday until being sentenced and jailed. There were signs of creeping social awareness: a few of our church members began to wear Afro-styled hair and colorful African dashikis. I went further, trying to grow a beard. It looked a bit ragged, but I was happy having a more ancient prophet look. My father never made a comment, but I waited for him to show me the words in the Bible which forbade beards.
I was relieved that at the supermarket where I worked as a full union member, there was no ban on beards or long hair for men. The store hired all kinds of Whites including two Hippie types, but I was the only Black worker at this store. There was also a Mexican who worked as a cashier.
“Are you going to go out and join the demonstrators?”
Joan, the flashy brown-haired, middle-aged White cashier, wearing long dangly, colorful earrings, flashed a wicked grin with red lips, as she turned and shot me a glance before continuing to shove customer grocery purchases down the chute. I waited impatiently to bag the items. Joan usually only talked to me when she was ordering me to run an errand, or wanted to joke about a particular shopper’s appearance. Now she was interested in my take on civil rights.
“What do you mean? Is there a union strike or something?”
“No silly, I mean that stuff that’s happening down in Los Angeles. Are you going to Watts and have some fun? Get your family a free television? Y’all still don’t have a TV do ya’?”
“Naw… Gotta go to church anyway… plus too much homework.”
She smiled. “That’s a good boy, it’s why we like you around here. It’s a shame Jim hasn’t made you clerk by now. We’re going to have to work on him. You know, some people think a Black clerk will steal money from the cash register. Not you, though. You’re a nice kid. Too bad your mother doesn’t do her shopping here.”
Months earlier, I had received my certification from the retail clerks’ training school, but other White youths were coming in, getting advanced while I remained stacking and bagging groceries, approaching the four-year mark. The store manager nagged me about my parents not shopping where I work. But I could not tell my mother where to shop for groceries.
In China, white foreigners were once referred to as “foreign devils”, a phrase that survives in Hong Kong at least with the Cantonese “gwailo.” Today in China, the most common term used for white foreigners is laowai, which basically means “outsider” or “not one of us.” But Black foreigners are different. I am a black devil (heigui) to people all over China. This does not bother me. It is simply a turn of phrase, and there are certainly no religious connotations to it.
One day on a city bus, I observed a white-haired, Chinese lady talking to an elderly man across the aisle from her. He was playing with his long cane, smiling and listening to the woman, nodding his head every few seconds. She was gesturing with a religious pamphlet in her hand while she pointed to her heart, then head and finally lifted both her hands toward the roof of the bus as she raised her eyes toward heaven. I could see the all-too-familiar portrait of the brown-haired bearded Jesus on the propaganda tract as she handed it to the man in the midst of her sales pitch. He nodded and smiled, accepted it and, as the bus stopped, quickly gathered himself and alighted. His exit looked like an escape.
In China, proselytizing is illegal but who is going to stop individual mavericks? Like, who in China is going to turn in sidewalk spitters and litterbugs? Everyone seems to see and not see, live and let live. Among the pedestrians who pass me on the street, I occasionally see Chinese wearing necklaces from which dangle crosses. Christianity, I have read, is a fast-growing religion in this country, traditionally noted more for Buddhism and Taoism.
Personally, I believe people should be free to choose a religion that appeals to them, but I must confess to being turned-off from taking one Chinese language training course simply due a teacher’s insistence on sharing her excitement about having discovered “Chris-tian-mity.”
It may be that children in some parts of China are forced to be religious just as those in my family were in America. We had
no choice in the matter, since most Black Americans then viewed church attendance as a sign of being a good citizen. Going to church, believing in some form of Christianity was a sign of being civilized. In the US, most minority people traditionally have viewed this religion as a means to be accepted by the mainstream. Strangers, especially White folk, would ask you within a few minutes of a first meeting, “What church do you usually go to?” This is a way of establishing common ground, but it also implies control.
As a youth growing up, in our home we were constantly admonished to worship the lord, sing and pray, or else be whipped for being evil.
In China, on the other hand, tendencies toward Western religious interest are monitored and selectively resisted by the state. Christian church symbols do exist, but I understand fewer than just a few years ago. Attendance at church services is monitored. Small religious gatherings in apartments and private homes can be viewed as illegal and the perpetrators are subject arrest and fines.
In the United States, churches are viewed by many as being safer than other places. But then my godmother, Lela Glen, was fatally struck by a wild bullet from a pool-hall shooting across the road from her church as she sat in the front row. The minister preached that God had said, “Sister Glen’s time has come.” Everyone in the church then joyfully sang, “No Hiding Place Down Here!”
Many people in the USA attend church out of fear of death, worried about the after-life. Others will readily admit that they actually go to hear the church choirs and to meet long-time friends. To these folks, music provides an emotional release, which can be cathartic and healthy. In China, KTV attendance is popular. I particularly enjoy such occasions because there is simple music and free participation. No sermons, dogmatic brow-beating, or praying on your knees for hours. For me, this is special kind of freedom and relief. Music unites humanity, doctrinal edicts often divide.
25
Mental Wars and Music
In my youth growing up in the States, singing was an integral part of my family life. But it was only in China that I attended KTV singing sessions and parties. In the West, many people consider this form of social entertainment a joke and very few Americans really understand the role it plays in Chinese culture. Singing is only part of the real point of it. KTV in China is also about time for people to bond.
It was the spring of 2005, and I was with a group of Chinese and foreigners in the thick-padded walls of a KTV club in Changsha. We had been bonding for a few hours, singing extremely loudly, me belting out one of my favorite tunes sung by Tina Turner, although written by a White boy, Proud Mary: “I left a good job in the city, working for the man every night and day ... “ Next, our Chinese colleagues started in on one of their favorites, “Wo ai ni, ai zhe ni, jiu xiang lao shu ai da mi...!”
Which translates as “I love you, love you so much, as much as rats love rice.” The one-hour booking stretched to five.
Karaoke comes from Japan, started perhaps in the 1960s and originally means something like “empty orchestra,” but it’s known to China as “Ka-la-o-ke”, or simply KTV. A large, single television monitor displays song lyrics along with video action, so participants can sing along with vocal amplification and full musical background accompaniment. Familiar words in a songs from an old musical were now on video screens: “The hills are alive to the sound of music...!”
Hey! That’s Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music! The Chinese members of our party initially broke the ice by selecting a few of their favorite old Chinese tunes, then moved into some English songs which made it easier for us foreigners in the group to join in. Initially, most of the male foreign members of our party were reluctant to grab a microphone and stand in front of the television as the lyrics scrolled across the screen. But encouraged by the unabashed confidence of our Chinese hosts, two of the foreigners shyly took microphones and croaked out some of the lyrics to the Elvis Presley tunes “All Shook Up!” and “Hound Dog” as they remained slouched on the plush sofas that partially surrounded the semi-dark room with mirrored walls. This behavior contrasted sharply with that of our Chinese friends who jumped and danced to the music, loudly singing the lyrics in Chinese or English, despite the fact that they might be completely incapable of carrying on a conversation in English. The Chinese will sing in English and in their mother tongue, musical talent or not. They will also have fun dancing or attempting to dance, with rhythm, keeping time with the beat. Or not, it doesn’t matter. For these party-goers, fun is simply fun. Mei guanxi! It really doesn’t matter, just have a good time.
Soon we foreigners loosened up, and all of us enjoyed the bonding experience that is offered through the universality and magic of music. It’s the same—collective group singing in churches or KTV establishments.
These singing places range from huge, attractive edifices with lots of neon lights and glittering chandeliers, to small, humble, backyard garages. Most hotels in Chinese cities are either located next to KTV joints or have a small version located on or above the second floor.
The technology in most KTV establishments in China is state-of-the-art, and the group I was with took full advantage of the reverb effect as we became bolder through the night. I felt at home because in my youth, our family life centered on music, which included many years of church gospel singing. So showing off vocally was right up my alley. Two tambourines and a small drum appeared, courtesy of the KTV house, and our room was soon rocking. Singers are encouraged to virtually swallow the mike as a new sterilized cover is provided for each new party.
One of my Chinese acquaintances decided to sing a comic number from a Taiwan girl group named S.H.E.: “Bosi mao shouzhe ta de ailian!” (Persian cats are guarded with their love!). The person front-and-center was soon upstaged by someone else anxious to do a few exaggerated martial arts poses, imitating Jackie Chan as he sang, “Jie kai wo zui shen mi de deng dai!” (Show me the reason for this mysterious wait!). As to the foreigners in the group, our choices included Frank Sinatra, Madonna, R. Kelly, Marvin Gaye, the Beatles and the Bee Gees. KTV music in China had no rules, you could be completely free from religious or political dogmas.
Finally, the door opened as the uniformed attendant brought our bill. We could hear outside our room loud throbbing music coming through the walls from other rooms nearby. I knew that I would be back for more, and that this had only been the beginning.
KTV songsters engage in competitions, private auditions, exercise their lungs for up to six hours or more, as long as they pay up at the end. Rental prices range from 38 RMB per afternoon for a small three-person room, to … the sky’s the limit. There are small rooms in exclusive KTVs costing were over 10,000 RMB a night. Time slots were from noon to six in the evening; six to eleven, and eleven to six in the morning, whatever you wanted. Early afternoon or after midnight usually were the cheapest.
Food and beverage options helped to make KTV a popular and frequent social event. In Changsha, the Golden Years KTV was a favorite because of its well-stocked, free buffet meals. Party World KTV offered stiff competition with a wide choice of rooms in various sizes. But new places with names like Party KTV and Joy Melody KTV seemed to crop up every night. Karaoke, once thought to be a fad, is a rock-solid part of life in China and is here to stay.
Music is a universal way of bringing people together. Everybody wants to be safe, to belong, and to feel good, no matter what race or color. Having survived the daily grind yet again is cause enough for rejoicing. Who are the strong? Those who can sing while going through trials of fire. The music makes us strong as we sing, rejoice, and feel renewed. A KTV excursion makes me think back to my own roots.
In my youth, God was music. It sounded so good and gave me a delicious feeling inside. This must be what the grownups were talking about when they said God was moving them. I was only a child of barely seven or eight years of age. The music made me want to dance, move, and jump about, or tap my feet at least. This was about the
only thing my young mind found positive when attending church each Sunday, enduring extremely long services, and hunger pains. The music and the smells of food cooking, heavy scents of fried chicken and roast beef wafting down from the kitchen upstairs swirled around the cavernous ceiling of the former cinema. This was a place the worshippers called the “Home Assembly.” The Pentecostals are Christian fundamentalists with a belief in good snappy music and good smelling food, but our family rarely ate at the church because, we were told, we had our own home to eat in, so the food smells were torturous. The aromas made me want to get home as soon as possible but our parents tended to linger long after the services to socialize. This was torture.
I had no real concept of God at that time other than of an omnipotent fearful invisible being who threatened you with a long list of do’s and don’ts. But the music that accompanied the earnest-looking adult faces was proof that this Being was real, and whatever the preachers said must be true. When the music that I heard moved even adults and I felt the beat and the natural, seemingly-uncontrollable internal urges to move with the sounds, I knew that something spiritually important must be in the air.
As a young person, I tried to make sense of the world around me that was restricted to home, church and school. While in church, these people who normally presented themselves as staid, conservative and stalwart, would suddenly scream and holler, shout and dance, moving their bodies in a totally uninhibited manner. The change was dramatic.
I began to pay attention to where the main music was coming from, which was the majestic organ next to the piano. Knowing who the masters were who controlled the sounds, the beats and the melodies was crucial to me. A musician’s skill, or lack thereof, could make or break attendance numbers at a church And it became clear to me that in our church, the Hammond organ was the key. Its sound made everyone feel good. Every church that we associated with or visited at least had a piano and an organ, but the organ, being electrical with speakers, overshadowed the tiny sound produced by the piano. When the organist desired, its music could drown out all the sounds in a building filled with singing voices. The church adults acted as if the organ was actually God himself, and shoo-ed away the young and the curious. Merely touching the instrument could generate sharp reprimands.
Black in China Page 14
