It was summer in China and the masses were moving about, traveling with their schools or with their coworkers or their families or friends, but no one, and I mean absolutely no one travels alone, so the fact that I do, by itself, makes me a curiosity. Additionally, if you are a foreigner (laowai) in China, everyone automatically stares at you. Even the people not staring at you are staring at you. So if you like being the center of attention, move to China and it will be a dream come true. As for me, I prefer blundering about, attentively watching the world, but to be honest, I don't really like the world to be so strenuously watching me back. In summer-packed Tianshui, as I moved about, there were all the different types of those who stare, categorized as follows: those that had perhaps never seen a laowai and gaped, open-mouthed at me as if I were an iguana walking upright; those that diverted their eyes until I had passed, then stared openly so that these types only became aware of what laowai looked liked from behind; those who stared until I looked at them, then pretended otherwise; those who did not stare directly but stared sideways; those who alerted their group so that they could all stare at me together; those that perpetuated the shaming culture and stared as if I should be ashamed; those who stared as if to say I know what you are up to and you are not fooling me; those who looked as if they had just caught a bad smell; those who stared trying to get up the courage to say something, but failing looked away with something like sadness; and those who stared beaming unaffected joy, happy in this chance encounter with a laowai, smiling sunshine out at a total stranger. Of course, the latter are the ones I like best and probably comprise the majority of starers. Still, the way I look at it, there is a marvelous freedom inherent in this. You can act and do and say and wear whatever crazy clothes you want, because you might as well enjoy it as people will always be staring at you no matter what you do. I was thinking this sitting at a sidewalk table waiting for my meal to arrive. It was a very pleasant summer night and the people were active. From the next table, a young boy, maybe four years old or so, kept coming to my table, excitedly jabbering in Chinese. Then he would go back to his table, where his guardian would scold him for bothering me—or so I thought. In a friendly way I waved my hand as if to say, it’s all right, no bother, and his guardian whispered something in the boy’s ear and he came running back to my table. I smiled and the boy came close and leaned in and tried to spit in my face. I yelled at him and waved him away, then looked over at his guardian who was now beaming with pride. I could have gotten up and retaliated by punching his f***ing lights out. I could have pretended it was all a mistake. I could have pretended there was no hate there . . . What I did was simply to ignore it and remembered other incidences like this. Why? Because I’ve had people here try to wish these kinds of incidents away by saying it was a misunderstanding. That people stare because the like you. They are curious. That Chinese people really want to welcome you but sometimes they are shy and it is misinterpreted. But I know they just are saying this because they want me to have a good opinion of China. Still, the problem is that they are not allowing me to formulate my own opinion of China by pretending these kinds of things don't happen. Xenophobic fears are as old as the Cave Paintings. I know that some Chinese people hate me on sight. Hate me for what they think I am, for what they think I have, and for how they think I got it. Others hate my government and by extension, me. Others hate some of my abusive countrymen who have come before and I'm the one who has to take the heat. Then there are those who just hate everyone. Hate creates peculiar delight in some people. But I live for the others. For the Chinese children who run after me, excitedly saying hello, goodbye, hello goodbye, not embarrassed by their limited vocabulary, just taking an exquisite delight in it all. And for favored merchants in my neighborhood who are always happy to see me, and who try to instruct me, gently watching out for me. And for the people who see me struggling with the language and intervene in English. And for the ones who smile at me and say hello, waiting for me to acknowledge that they have learned to say hello in my native tongue. And for the grannies who smile and don’t try to shame me. And for the nonthreatening guards who wave at me. And for the shy young girls who try to look me in the eye and then break down into giggles. And for the gardener who plants the trees and flowers in the campus that I walk through. And for my friends who make my life here so much more pleasant. And for the teachers and staff at my school who shelter and protect me, But . . . Mostly I live for my students with whom together we create the learning. I rode back on the train, snagging a lower berth in the sleeper car, even though my trip was only about four hours. I settled in, but my aversion to being so continuously stared at strangled and jangled me, and I just wanted to scream, “Stop pretending you’re not staring at me. Leave me alone!” It was at this point I’d realized I lost it. I’d lost my cool, I’d lost my flow, I’d lost my appreciation for Chinese imperturbability. I turned away and drew back the curtains and looked out at the passing landscape. (For some reason, Chinese train passengers always draw the curtains blocking out the sights and mosaics of the scenery passing by.) Looking out the train window I started to describe colors—the color of sheep is moonlight wool, the color of summer corn is earache green, the hills are baked hobo underwear, the tunnels are agoraphobic black, the sound is swaying . . . wedding . . . tuxedo silver . . . rent-due-landlord-tapping . . . a plunger on a xylophone . . . or an accordion in the bed of a buckboard bouncing down an escalator . . . and I started to write stories, captured by the whirling frenzy of the world passing. Moon-tipping energy flowed through me and out of me. I was a colored X-ray of life, drawn up from the basement of everything. A circle of red-crowned cranes lifting up over a river, a sigh, a longing, and then, A sweet blankness . . . Welcoming me back.
2 Comments
Mary
9/9/2014 07:24:54 am
Hey EE sorry you got caught up in the starring but I guess it was so your could appreciate your welcoming home and your fabulous students!!! They do love and respect you. I also still cannot forget your angel Wendy who helped you conquer your height phobia. I like to forgot that group you mentioned with ill thoughts that take over the mind and think only of the latter group of good genuine smiling caring people who are the only ones who get a chance to enter my thoughts the others are quickly discarded!!
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Erika MarĂa
9/11/2014 03:58:24 am
I loved your narrative. You are the type of soul who are always going to have the time to contemplate the magika & beauty of this world thru the window of your soul. Namaste dear Elvisenglish
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