The DMZ Propaganda Tour

I read about it in books, I saw it in numerous documentaries, I noted its countless appearances in the news – North Korea. It is painted as the miserable yet mysterious land north of the line. It remains one of only two countries in the world without Coca Cola. It provokes the world with potential nuclear power. It sustains the dark distance that keeps families of the Korean Peninsula separated. When I decided to go to South Korea, I knew I wanted to see North Korea. I realized even if I had the chance to “see” North Korea, I would only be viewing the same picture that is used for the books, movies, and news I’d already seen. North Korea has only provided a limited number of censored locations to be used as marketing material. But, in some way, seeing it with my own eyes made it tangible and confirmed its existence. So, I booked a tour to the Joint Security Area (JSA) within the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) at Panmunjom.

I’d spent the previous day reminding myself of the ins and outs of the Korean War and the general history of the Korean Peninsula at the National War Museum in Seoul. A retired high school principal from South Korea was my volunteer guide. In broken English and a strong accent he reviewed the details of the unpredicted Saturday attack that sparked the Korean War. In the conventional style of a man whose career was educating the younger generation, he would pause at regular intervals to quiz me – both on how well I was listening and how much my American education had prepared me for a visit to Korea. A few times I surprised him with my correct answers and myself with lucky guesses. But on too many details I was embarrassed to not know the correct answers.  By the time the tour concluded, I did feel like I had a much better idea of the history of Korea and the war, yet there were still a few pieces I knew I wouldn’t be able to piece together until I saw North Korea.

DMZ tours must be booked in advance and my Korean friend, Doh, had helped me do that on my first day in town. Unfortunately, Doh wasn’t allowed to join us. Foreigners and flowing foreign currency are eagerly welcomed (and as I would later learn, on both sides of the border) but apparently, actual Korean citizens must apply months in advance and pass a background check to ensure they aren’t spies for the North or any other country who is friendly with the North. Doh and I met during high school in Missouri. It seemed like a long way and a random place for a boy from Korea. Looking back, I had no idea at the time that I’d be visiting his homeland a few years later. He was smart, quick, and funny and I enjoyed our Video Production classes together. Quickly after high school graduation, Doh had to return to South Korea for his two years of mandatory military service. Eventually, Doh and I pulled a Trading Places, as he returned to America for university and I headed to Asia for work. We got back in touch then and he was at the top of my list of things/places/people to see in Korea. I took advantage of his knowledge and experience in the military and dug for his opinion on everything from a united peninsula to people from the South sending DVDs and food across the border via balloons. Predictably, Doh had little tolerance for the North Korean government and their propaganda.

On the day of the tour, I joined a few dozen other curious foreigners and boarded a bus. We headed north out of Seoul, passports and cameras in hand. The land outside of the city became more deserted the further north we drove. Isolated as it was, it remained green and productive and I learned that farmers who live near the border receive large incentives for making their homes so close to the threatening line. We were given specific instructions about when we could and could not take pictures and even write down notes. In reality, it is a legitimate war threat zone. But it seemed nothing more and nothing less than the most censored tourist attraction. Still, I didn’t want to tempt my fate by snapping an untimely picture. The highlight of the drive was passing the North Korea Propaganda Village. Unfortunately, this was at time where no pictures were allowed. I’d seen the village in documentaries and was surprised to see it in real life. From afar, the first thing we could see from the South was the record breaking gigantic flag of the North. The strategic flag seems to be flying in the face of the few borderline dwellers. However, the flag is actually so large, unless wind is substantial, it is usually too heavy to actually fly. So, we passed the flag that hung folded over itself and lifeless from the tallest flagpole in the world. The flag marked supposedly the homes of average North Koreans in an average village near the border. In reality, this village was anything but average - an authentic propaganda village, completely vacant, without windows or electricity, not a resident in sight, no a single piece of furniture to be seen inside the bare rooms. We could only see the propaganda village from afar and in passing but even a glance quickly brought to mind the concrete style so favored by the Soviets who, for so long, remained the North’s only lifeline (and ironically so, as the North was supposedly established on an ideology absent of any outside influence or interference…) Popular belief suggests the village was built by the North to show their alleged wealth and progress to the families just across the border. But the tables have drastically turned in the last two decades and the village looks like little more than a bad joke.

Once we were within the DZM, a low ranking member of the American military boarded our bus. He checked our passports again and assumed the camera censorship role. We were allowed to ask him questions. I had lots of them, none of which were controversial and all with available factual answers.  I was extremely discouraged to find he couldn’t answer the most basic of my inquiries. He didn’t even know why America signed the armistice agreement on behalf of South Korea or why they wanted to stop active war. I sincerely hope this young man was an exception in the American military and his limited international education did not represent the majority of U.S. military. I do hope that his inability to answer my simple questions embarrassed him and prompted him to go read a book or two about the border he was protecting and the war his fellow countrymen helped fight.

As the bus continued to drive us closer to North Korean territory, the propaganda increased. This time, the propaganda was from the South side. The overplayed script from our guide was transparent. She wanted to make sure none of us doubted the darkness that lurked to the north of the line. Catering to a Western audience, she sung the praises of the American intervention and the evils of communism. She really could have taken it down a notch, seeing as our entire bus was filled with middle-class Westerns who were highly unlikely to trade in our comfortable and free lifestyles by defecting to the North.

Finally, we arrived. We had to file out two-by-two. We walked into the front of a building and when we stepped out the back of it, we were staring at North Korea. We took our places on the stairs and simply looked across the line. Behind the scenes, clocks were ticking and the choreographed tour was careful to stay on schedule to fit in all groups in a timely and orderly fashion. But at the time, all I could see from those stairs was us versus them. The daily scene, absent of tourists, is entertaining enough. South Korean soldiers stand facing the North, watching for any hint of invasion. North Korean soldiers (all of whom look fed and healthy, as I’d heard they want to portray the best image) have their backs to the South, watching inside their domain to ensure no one defects. We were given strict instructions regarding appearance. No shorts, no flip-flops, and if we were going to wear jeans, they must be dark and without holes. We could not gesture to any one on the other side, nor could we point to anything. Basically, mind our manners, we were told, because anything unflattering we do or say could be used as North Korean propaganda. On this particular day, we were pleasantly surprised to be joined by another group of tourists. Albeit, we weren’t actually joined, as the tourists on the North Korean side remained in their allotted area. Bearing our rules in mind, I was immediately taken back considering the appearance of the tourists opposite us: Many well-fed Asian men, well-dressed Asian woman, and a variety of Caucasian tourists, a few who sported flip-flops and were readily pointing at us and other people or things on the South side.

I had never thought there would be tourists on the North side and I certainly didn’t consider the prospect of white tourists! I assumed the men must be wealthy Chinese businessmen and the white women had to be from Russia. I presented this hypothesis to Doh, who had his own theory: The plump Asian men could have been North Korean “actors,” paid to eat, tour the North side of the DMZ, and present a welcoming and favorable imagine and simply, the white people were likely anyone with money from Europe. Doh didn’t hesitate to say the North was desperate for income and more than happy to give repetitive, propaganda-filled, tours to anyone with a checkbook. I didn’t doubt this, and minus the “desperate” for income factor, the repetitive, propaganda-filled tour sounded familiar… oh ya! I was on one. Just on the other side of the line.

When our time was up, we filed out two-by-two again, and boarded the bus out of the DMZ. On our way out, we passed the Bridge of No Return. This bridge has been used to trade prisoners over the years. I can hardly imagine walking across that bridge, either way, to or from the unknown. Too often, I hear, those who walk across that bridge were walking both to and from family, as so many families remain divided across the peninsula. We carried on and again passed the Propaganda Village and the strangely large flagpole. The lush but empty fields gave way to the busy city of Seoul again. When we arrived in Seoul, I could go anywhere I pleased. Indeed, I did, as I caught a train south to Gyeongju, South Korea. I was freely moving about this democratic country, a luxury unknown in the North. And for whatever it was worth, I was grateful to be taking the propaganda tour on this side of the line. 

The Korean Contrast

Before I committed to teaching in China, I explored the possibilities of Korea. I applied for jobs, researched through memoirs and documentaries, and contacted friends who had lived in Korea. Since committing to China, I didn’t regret it a single day and living and working in China was the best choice I could have made for myself. Yet, curiosity about the Korean Peninsula still lingered. After my teaching obligations in Tianjin concluded, I hopped a two-hour flight from Tianjin to Seoul.

Saying Asia is Asia is like saying all the Americas are the same. It’s more complicated than that. Nonetheless, as social beings, we’ve repeatedly found comfort in associating people, places, and things, both in comparing and contrasting. We make sense of the world in this simplest of ways – what’s the same, what is different. My experience in Korea was a strange feat of trying to sort what was Asian, what was Korean, and what was American/Western. These observations served as important clues in helping me discern where things fit and how I was to behave, which is something any culturally sensitive traveler should quickly figure out. Through earnest reflection, it came down to this:

I went to Korea and I could not find a trash can.

And that sums up the entire week.

Ok, simply because you set aside precious time to read this blog, and for that I am truly grateful, and might feel gypped if I end here, I suppose I will attempt to explain:

I sincerely could not find a trash can anywhere in public in South Korea. First, this demonstrates that I immediately identified that while I still could not read or speak the language, the food was funny, and all Asians look the same (a claim I will later dispute), I was not in China. Having realized that, I accepted I could not throw my trash anywhere I wanted, which now moved me on to an American fear of getting a ticket for littering. Finally, I was told by a friend who had been living in Seoul that the reason for the absence of public trashcans is because of the unending threat of North Korean trash can bombs, thus establishing I was in South Korea, not America or China even though it initially appeared I could have been in either of these vastly different countries.

South Korea is a fantastic balance of Asian adventure, Western comforts, and authentic Korean identity. For starters, many people speak English. Perhaps I was just a very ignorant American when I first moved to China, but I was surprised by how few people spoke English. Korea was different. Almost all of my taxi drivers could spit out a few English words and more easily understood my over-pronunciated English accompanied by colorful charades. Even college-age Koreans stood apart from their Chinese counter-parts, as the Koreans’ proficiency level seemed much more advanced. Next, the bathrooms were immaculate. Never once did I see a squatter, much less a Western toilet with shoeprints on the seat as was so often the case in China since many Chinese women stand on the seat of Western toilets and continue to squat. Not only were there Western toilets in place of Chinese squatters, but the bathrooms were also very clean and smelled nice, which is a pleasantry not always guaranteed even in America. Also, everyone is pretty. That might be an exaggeration but for sure Koreans' teeth are nicer, men are more handsome, and girls do not wear as tacky of clothing as is seen in China. The most confusing part about Korea was the traffic. The cars would stop when we crossed the street. For someone who has always lived in America, that might make sense. However, you must remember, at the time I had just completed a year of living in China where safely crossing the street is not a guarantee. I must admit, the roads in China do add a sense of living life on the edge and at times it is even fun to successfully dart across the street when traffic is coming at you every which way. This mentality further led to confusion in Korea. I wasn’t ever sure if illegal crossing and jaywalking was allowed, either by police or social standards. I didn’t know if the cars were stopping when I was crossing the street because that’s what polite drivers do or if they were so surprised and afraid to hit anything, they stopped.

At one point, I actually got tired of the civility of South Korea. Since it seemed I was the only one running across the street before the crosswalk light had given permission, I eventually had to start waiting for the light signal, which can been rather inconvenient. Also, since so many people spoke English, I could no longer say whatever I wanted whenever I wanted wherever I was. I actually had to monitor my conversations again, like I would in America. And finally, Koreans actually respect the queue. I was traveling with my friend Shaina when we approached a line to the escalator in a busy train station. I took my place in the back of the line and from there I saw Shaina cut to the front. It was an honest mistake. She wasn’t trying to be rude. She was merely following the social rules of the other Asian country we’d inhabited for the last year. In China, cutting to the front of the line is second-nature, survival of the fittest, and eventually becomes common sense. At that point, Shaina and I literally sat down and reviewed the Korean contrasts, categorized the American, Asian, and Korean influences, and identified proper Korean etiquette and vowed to follow these particular cultural norms for the remainder of the trip.

Xie Xie

I indeed found love in a hopeless place, learned more than Icould ever teach, and experienced the essence of the East. Thank you toeveryone who was a part of my year in China:

To my mom – Regardless of your own feelings, you never tried to change my mind aboutmoving to China. You tolerated, even welcomed, phone calls at any hour of theday and night. We both blamed those random midnight calls on a forgotten timezone difference, but we agree the voice on the other end of the line was awelcome sound. For your support, xie xie.

To Shaina – For being my crazy neighbor lady. You let me pick where we ate, youblew your smoke the opposite direction, and you always finished the food on myplate so I never looked like the bad dinner guest. Xie xie for being my partnerin crime, sometimes literally.

To Ike –Thank you for being the best part about China. And for patiently teachingme how to count in Chinese, among so many other things. Without your patientChinese tutoring, I am sure my charades would be stellar, but because of you,they remain only mediocre and I now know over 9999 Chinese words (I can countto nine thousand nine hundred ninety nine ;)

To Lindy – Xie xie for being myChinese sister and showing me kindness on a scale I’ve never before seen. Ihave no doubt it’s not goodbye, it’s see you later, and I hope I will see youin America one day.

            
ToYang family – Xie xie for adopting me, giving me your name, inviting me intoyour home, and teaching me how to cook the best Chinese meals. Your family is a blessing to my family.

            
To the hotel manager – Even though I’m sure you will let anyone into my room ifthey pretend to know me, I still like you. Your goofy Simpson’s poofy hair putsa smile on my face. Xie xie for always welcoming me into the hotel restaurant whenthe rest of the staff wanted to shoo me away so they could go home early.

           
To the popcorn man – I know that my five yuan was well spent every time I bought fromyou and your wife out of the back of your makeshift moped popcorn kitchen. Xiexie for always shaking the kernels out before dumping the fresh popcorn into mybag and your service with a smile.

            
To the two nice ladies who work at the school canteen – Even though I overheard youcall me “Waiguoren,” I forgive you. Afterall, it was my fault since I couldn’t speakenough Chinese to introduce myself. Xie xie for memorizing my order and alwaysserving me ahead of the line.

            
To my favorite waitress at Helen’s – You speak no English but you always get myorder right. Xie xie for always finding us a table when it was busy.

           
To my speech class students – Thank you for teaching me how to recognize counterfeitmoney. By the end of the year I could finally recognize if the ATM machinewasn’t accepting my cash because it was old or because it was fake.

           
To Kirk – Thanks for hiring me. I am grateful that you gave me the opportunity tobe the Tianjin guinea pig. I hold that city dear and I hope Drake’s presencethere will continue to grow.  

            
To all my friends and family who kept in touch – I know the time difference makesit difficult but seeing that little red notification on Facebook, or one newe-mail, and especially the hand written letters in the mail, made my day.

            
To Michael, my dearest Aussie - I’m grateful for your hand-me-down bike. I am alsoconsidering saying thank you for an entertaining night at AJO but I’m not surethat “xie xie” is the appropriate word.

           
To Eric, Melissa, and Michelle – Thank you for visiting, bringing bags of Americangoodies for me, and forcing me to explore Beijing.

            
To the Shiz girls – Thanks for visiting but mostly xie xie for reminding us howgood we have it in Tianjin. I’m sorry we didn’t visit you in the Shiz, but Ithink you understand.

            
To Tiger – Thank you for your help with winter exams when you biked the results toschool at 7 a.m. in the freezing winter. I am proud every time I see you withyour Mizzou Tigers hat.

            
To Ezra – For not disowning me in the streets of Bangkok during my weakest hour,xie xie. You were the best and worst travel companion I could ever ask for. Itwas an honor to travel with you and I hope we can do it again some day, but next time you have to promise to be on time for the bus.

            
To my Water Man – You always knew it was me when I called and only offered my room number in Chinese. Even when you had just visited the hotel ten minutesago, you still returned to deliver my fresh water. I worry for your health, I’mnot sure how many more years your tiny frame can heave water jugs to and frobut for your work ethic, xie xie.

            
To my assistant Melody – Thanks for helping me with all my errands with patience.I truly appreciate our candid conversations on our walks between chores.

            
To my students – Thank you for your kindness and respect inside and outside of theclassroom. You were always full of surprises and kept me entertained. I willmiss you.

To all the helpful citizens ofChina – I wish you understood the relief that runs through my veins when I was lost or felt helpless and from nowhere I heard, “Hello. Can I help you?” Please,stop apologizing for your poor English and accept my deepest gratitude foralways rescuing me.

            
To my readers – Xie xie for giving me a reason to write.

Dear Teacher, Round II

When I moved to China eleven months ago, my cousin gifted to me a lovely hardback journal. She wrote a note inside, asking me to write about my adventures but always remember where I came from. I abided her request and diligently wrote in the journal… for about one week. I didn’t know what to write about. My thoughts? Feelings? Daily food diary? I had no direction and felt generally clumsy. So, I stopped writing and tucked it away in a drawer. Every now and then, usually when searching for hidden money that I’d hidden too well, I’d come across the decorative book and think about how wasteful it was. I couldn’t start writing again halfway through the year. So, it sat.

Last week, I uncovered the journal again. I was determined to put it to use before I left. But what was I going to do? Write a novel in two weeks? Finally, I decided to turn it into a sort of yearbook. I brought it to all of my classes and asked my 300 students to sign it, if they wanted. I was pleased with the overwhelmingly positive response.  

When I finally got the chance to flip through what my students had written, it was obvious that their notes were much more revealing about my year as a teacher in China than anything I could have written myself. My students sincerely were gems. They kept me entertained, respected me in and out of the classroom, and taught me so much about their Chinese generation. I truly will miss them. Lucky for me, I now have a journal full of notes from them. Every single page boosts my spirits and puts a smile on my face.

Here are a few excerpts (some pictures have been cropped to omit students’ contact information):

Ramblings from Chinaland

The humid Tianjin summer finally pushed out the bitter Mongolian winds. There wasn’t really a spring. The heat got turned off one day and the next I was begging for air conditioning. But I guess that’s life in China. Harsh transitions are overwhelmingly obvious with just a simple glance at this country’s vast history. China can seem tricky to a foreign eye. After ten months here, I’m starting to see, really, how simple this country and its people are. China has settled upon this perfect balance between predictable and predictably unpredictable. Once I discovered and understood this phenomenon, I learned to use it to my advantage. Understanding that simple essence of this land eased my mind. Accepting that as Truth was the only thing that could keep me sane this year. Finally, that familiarity began to comfort me. I knew every day, every trip, every adventure, something would go wrong, sometimes many things would go wrong, but in the end, everything would always work out. Overcoming these obstacles and feeling the small victories kept me going. I’m surprised every day but I’m never surprised anymore because I expect to be surprised and since I anticipate it, the expectation of the surprise removes the element of surprise.

I try to convince myself I understand this balance and yet, a few things still grab my attention enough for me to consider them noteworthy.

I have a Speech and Debate class. I asked my students to vote for their classmates for various awards, including Best Eye Contact, Best Pronunciation, Best Confidence, Best Overall Speaker, and Most Improved. My students were utterly confused by the process. I explained several times, reading the wondering looks on their faces. When I finally thought they understood, a student raised her hand to ask 101 follow up questions. They didn’t understand who they could vote for or how many times they got to vote. Without a thought, I said, “Haven’t you ever voted for anything before.” They all answered with a simple, “No.” I had temporarily forgotten what country this classroom was in. So far removed from the democratic process that rules American TV and annoys us in election years.

And yet, that same week I heard the most unexpected voice in my classroom. My freshmen were giving presentations on certain states. One pair had picked Missouri. They began talking about Meramec Caverns, a tourist attraction not too far from my parents’ home. They compared these caves to another famous cave in China. Then, they played a commercial for Meramec Caverns. Lo and behold, the commercial was created and voiced by two men I used to work with at my local radio station. Never in my life would I have guessed I’d hear Sam Scott’s voice in a Chinese classroom. And then I remembered how small and interconnected the world is.

Here in China, everything changes and nothing changes. It’s like fast forwarding through a slow-motion picture. The progress and the setbacks cancel each other out and you're nowhere. I feel that way about my understanding of China, too. The more I learn, the more I recognize how little I know.

I see now the seasons may change but the smog remains. And so do the umbrellas. This fall, umbrellas lined the halls as students ditched them outside the room before class. They were tucked away for most of the dry winter and replaced with a different accessory - masks. I was even gifted a mask and used it daily. The smog seemed particularly dense this winter, plus the relentless bone-chilling wind demanded the wear of a mask. And then one day, as if the government had instructed the women of China to do so, the masks were gone and umbrellas resurfaced. But it’s not even rainy season (which will come later in July and August). I quickly realized the umbrellas were for the sun, not precipitation. I explained to my students that in America, we actually like dark skin. I started to go into an entire lecture about marketing and cosmetics, noting their skin whitening cream and our tanning lotion, but gave up after they were completely disgusted when I showed them a picture of a tanning bed. One afternoon, I crossed paths with a few female students. We stopped to chat for a moment. One girl stepped close to me to protect me from the sun with her umbrella. Another girl immediately pushed her away and said, “Remember! She wants the sun!”

My university seems to be at least 80% female, although I haven’t seen the official numbers. Most of my classes have one boy to every 29 girls. At most, I have three boys in one class and this is an anomaly. Therefore, I have plenty of time and opportunity to observe and analyze the young female population of China by concentrating on my sample of Tianjin students.

If we are going to start on the surface, attire is the most obvious place to begin. Every day I arrive on campus, I want to scream out, “Why are you all wearing heels!?!?” I consider myself no fashionista but I do believe there is a time and a place for particular footwear. Throughout my years as a female consumer, I have concluded that women who cannot walk in heels, do not have an occasion to wear heels, and are not wearing an outfit to match their heels should, therefore, not wear heels. Obviously, none of these students share this opinion. For the first several months I was in China, I could only think of one word to describe the style – tacky. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the outfits. Nothing matched, few items were practical, and there was rarely a reason to be dressed in the chosen manner. Over time, my opinion changed. I began to see that if I looked closely at each item in the ensemble, I could usually find something that I might even wear. Albeit, I would always pair this one item with an entirely different outfit. It was like each piece was ok. But the combination of it all was what seemed so tacky. Were these girls suffering the same identity crisis that many students feel when forced to wear a uniform for decades of parochial schooling? With the same eyes, dark hair, and nearly the same height, is this them longing for a unique identity? If so, can that really be achieved when everyone is now wearing glassless glasses, awkward shoes, and mismatched clothes?

Below the surface, the students continue their complex simplicity. Being a university teacher is at times frustrating. In China, the education system is reverse from ours. All the hard work is done in high school. Once they make it to college, they just have to get by. But, this is actually more of a challenge than you would think. Especially now for this generation, as they have been pampered and babied as the only child in their family. They still care about their scores but considering the complete absence of support for staff members and the seeming inefficiency of teaching strategies, I am convinced there is no real conviction for actually learning. My students continuously turn in plagiarized papers or Google Translated essays. I’ve stopped having them write papers. There is really no point. They don’t learn anything and grading 300 essays is only extra work for me. Plus, it’s nearly impossible to change the ideology of an entire generation throughout an entire nation like China and have them begin to understand, not to mention actually respect, intellectual property rights. As I turned the class more presentation based, they continue to disappoint me. PPTs become copy and paste pictures of Wikipedia pages. They use the first source of information and don’t double-check anything. I am sure of this because this week I saw a picture of Tina Fey during a presentation about Sarah Palin, and Saturday Night Live was not mentioned anywhere in this speech. I also saw a picture of a Dallas Cowboys football player (wearing a helmet and full gear) during a presentation about the New York Yankees baseball team. When giving grades to students like this, I get annoyed. By not failing them or disciplining them, am I perpetuating the cycle? Can the cycle be broken? Is it my place to break it?

In a few months, I will be back in America. People will ask me, “How was your trip?” I will appreciate their interest but stumble over an answer. How do you explain China? Consistently inconsistent. Reliably unreliable. Predictably unpredictable. One minute I’m walking through the train station and I hear someone yell a disgusted “Laowai” and the next minute I’m being chased down to have my picture taken with young giddy girls. One day I’m at the bank and they refuse to exchange my currency and the next time I visit the same bank I’m allowed to jump the line and escorted to a VIP room just because I have foreign currency.

I was having this discussion with a fellow expat one day. He has a great gig in Shanghai working for a contracting company. He is engaged to a Chinese woman. He is content in China but doesn’t plan on living here forever. He said he struggles every time he goes back to America. How do you explain Chinaland? It’s so much more than a sovereign country, an ancient history, a confused culture. It’s like a world to itself. It’s so foreign and yet becomes so familiar. His explanation of “How do you explain China” was the best I’ve heard.

Think of it like a painting of something common...A civilization for example (A government, economy, family structure). At a glance, it looks common, recognizable. But then you take each individual piece, each brushstroke, and tweak it, just a little. And you get a completely different picture. And that’s China (Democratic Communism, Capitalism with Chinese Characteristics, an Only-Child policy). Everything is just a little off, a little different, a little… Chinese. 

What's in a Name

When I was in the first grade, our school priest made weekly rounds to our classrooms to offer us insight about something Catholic he was sure we needed to know. On one particular day, his lecture was about names and their meanings. He was referring to our middle names and how they must all have meanings and since we were a bunch of Catholic kids, we were likely named after saints. You can imagine how confused I was when I couldn’t find a St. Nicole and worried my parents had sentenced me to a cursed life for not having a Christian name, but rather giving me just some random common middle name. My fears were set aside when they assured me that my middle name did carry some meaning; I was named after my mother’s sister, Nicolette. After that episode, I became obsessed with the meaning of names. I asked dozens of times why my parents named me Paige. Their answers never satisfied me and I continued to ask until one day my dad told me what I am convinced is a true story: With only experience naming boys, my parents turned to a baby book of names to find an idea of what to call their baby girl. My dad said he opened up the book and it said Page One. So, they threw in an “i” and named me Paige.

When I moved to China, I hadn’t really considered picking up a Chinese name, but my friends immediately did.

Shaina named herself Niao Qiezei, which literally means Bird Thief. This is a completely nonsensical name but wickedly appropriate for Shaina. I anxiously anticipate the day I get to hear her introduce herself in Chinese to an elderly Chinese couple. Surely, their reaction will be as suiting as the name is.

Ike’s Chinese name is Wang Xiao. In Chinese, the family name comes first and the given name follows. His high school teacher gave him the surname, Wang, which means, “King.” Wang is a very common family name, perhaps the Chinese equivalent of “Jones” or “Smith.” Ike picked his given name, Xiao. “Xiao” means “laughter” which is the same meaning of “Isaac” (Ike’s full name). If you know Ike’s personality, this is a very appropriate name. It also carries significant meaning. The Old Testament tells the tale of Abraham and Sarah, who believed they were too old to have children and Sarah was barren. When God’s messengers told Sarah she would finally bear a son, she laughed, and named her son Isaac. Ike’s parents also believed they could not conceive. So, when Ike surprisingly came along, there was no other more fitting name.

With both of my best-American-friends-in-China having meaningful Chinese names, I recently realized maybe now is my chance to pick up a meaningful first name. I trusted Lindy to help me pick a name. I knew Lindy would understand the various meanings of Chinese names. Plus, I thought it was fair since I changed her English name to Lindy after she complained about not liking “Linda,” which her grade school teacher named her. I crossed my fingers and asked Lindy to give me a name, telling myself I had to accept whatever she picked.

When I asked Lindy what she had came up with, she prefaced her answer. She said she asked her parents for help picking out a name. They were taking this very seriously. They felt like it was a privilege to give someone a name. She also said she was worried I would not like the pronunciation of the name, but her father was sure it was appropriate as he kept in mind my limited Chinese abilities and my relentless struggle to properly pronounce Chinese names. She also said her family hoped I would accept their family name. With that, she handed me this paper:

And I would become Yang Ping (杨平). I was undoubtedly honored that Lindy’s family offered to give me their surname. I thought Ping was funny but I liked that it started with a “P,” sharing something with my English name. When Lindy explained its meaning, I was sold. She said Ping means I will go many places but no matter where I am, I will be safe and sound. She said Ping also carries a second meaning, which is that I will be blessed with a “plain life,” and Lindy went on to say, “We think that kind of life is the real and happiest life.”

Finally, I can properly introduce myself in Chinese: "Ni Hao! Wo jiao Yang Ping."

Lindy's Life

Eight months ago, I met a shy Chinese girl named Lin Lin. It was her 23^rd birthday, but I had no idea. At the beginning of that day, I hardly noticed her. She was merely another stranger in charge of getting me to and from a local festival. To her, I was likely just another foreigner lost in her hometown. Little did I know, by the end of that day, Lin Lin and I would begin to form a boundless friendship. Now, when I think of that girl from so long ago, I hardly recognize her. Lin Lin has grown into Lindy, a strong woman who became my best friend. Her shyness has given way to an urgent excitement. Her struggling English has improved so much that I can speak to her with nearly the same speed and slang as I do with any of my native English-speaking friends. Our tiptoeing dialog has blossomed into candid conversation. Today, we spent the entire day together. All day long, I couldn’t help but think of how far we’ve both come this year. I was reminded of how much we have in common, but also how starkly different our lives are. I am honored that Lindy has pulled back the curtain and let me peak into her life.

She met me at 6:50 am so we could ride our bikes to the new campus. Like almost all other unwed Chinese daughters, Lindy still lives with her parents. She usually takes a bus to the new campus, but today she wanted to ride bikes together. Her parents’ apartment is in the city center, near my hotel. We point out the hotel area using the TV tower. We locate the apartment district by keeping an eye on the tower with what looks like a massive disco ball on top. We live too far apart to walk, but biking is ok. As soon as she arrived at the hotel, she asked if I’d eaten. This is the traditional Chinese greeting. It is a lot like Americans asking, “How are you?” Everyone responds with fine or good and we rarely burden each other by explaining what a lousy day we are actually having. A similar response is warranted by “Have you eaten?” Regardless, I should answer yes. But it’s always a trick with Lindy. If I say no, then Lindy has an unspoken responsibility to take me to get food. If I say yes, like I should and would with any other Chinese person, I spoil her mood, as she is usually bearing a little treat for me. Indeed, this morning she brought me a sandwich. I didn’t mention the bland Cheerios I had a few minutes earlier and I thanked her sincerely as she beamed with pride when telling me she made the breakfast herself.  She put her red purse in my basket. Lindy was born in the year of the dragon. 2012 is also the year of the dragon. According to Chinese legend, when the current year’s animal is the same as the year you are born, you might meet terrible luck. The only way to ward off this evil is by wearing red. Lindy takes this seriously and often points out her other red accessories. We hopped on our bikes and were off. Lindy was sure to ride on the inside of the road, paying extra caution to my safety. We chatted and laughed as others rode by with a mocking “Halloooo.” I pointed out a few things I think are strange, like the abundance of bikes but the absence of helmets. We smiled and waved at children who were sitting on the back of their parents’ bikes or scooters. Lindy told me one time when she was young, maybe 2 or 3 years old, she fell off her mom’s bike while riding down a busy road. I was appalled but she just giggled. We parted ways once we get to school. After our morning classes, we met again for lunch. In the cafeteria, she urged me to try something new. It’s a mission her and my mother have been on since they became pen pals in October. To her disappointment, I ordered my usual: chicken, carrots, and peppers over white rice. We ran campus errands together after lunch and then headed out again on our bikes.

We made a pit stop after she suggested ice cream, a treat I will never turn down. We fought over who would pay. I insisted I could but she always puts up a relentless fight. She holds my hands back and snaps my bag shut. I eventually give up. I would try harder but I know even if I win, I will eventually lose. Any time I’ve been able to pay before, later I always find money she sneaks into my bag. I often wonder if I should find a way to sneak it back into her bag. I’m not familiar with her family’s income but I know her parent’s are busy working to save money for her future wedding and to buy (yes, buy!) her a job after she finishes school. We sit down and I notice how American she looks; eating DQ ice cream and wearing the Missouri Route 66 t-shirt I got her for Christmas.

Lindy was anxious to show me a new library that just opened in Tianjin. After dessert, we rode to the new cultural center of the city. I was, to say the least, impressed. I am constantly in awe over the size and speed in which the Chinese build things. If this library was anywhere in Missouri, it would surely be a monument. But to the locals here, it’s just another towering building. It earned my deepest respects once we walked inside. For the first time since I moved to China, I smelled “newness.” Fresh cut grass, a new coat of paint, the inside of a new car, chopped wood - all smells I miss. Here, in this brand new library, I got a hint of that scent again. The top floor, where the signs say the foreign books are, is not yet open. We settled for the travel section. Lindy flipped the pages of a book with China’s most beautiful scenes. I tried to identify where the mountain, field, monument, temple, or natives were from. Lindy read the captions, which were in Chinese characters. It’s fair to say I am more well-traveled in the PRC than is Lindy, who has never even been to the Great Wall. For most of the pictures, I could guess the location by the time she finished deciphering the characters. We were both proud of this. A young man approached us and asked if we needed help. With no assistance needed, he carried on. Lindy is always going on blind dates that are normally set up by her mother. I told her she should have talked to the nice boy; maybe he could have ended the blind date series! But she was sure he only wanted to practice his English with me. We began talking about marriage, which is a popular topic between us. Lindy wants to be married by the time she is 26 and have a child soon after. She worries that it will be hard for her to find a job because she is single. She says the companies are reluctant to hire single women because the company knows that eventually the women will get married and later need time off to have a baby. Once, I asked how many children she wants. She didn’t exactly answer my question but said she will have one, of course, with respect to China’s Only-Child policy. I’ve also asked if she likes being an only child. I remember she scrunched her face and looked to the sky, as if pondering the truth. She simply said, “No.” I followed up with a, “Why?” Momentarily forgetting her age, she stomped the ground and whined, “It’s lonely!” So today I asked why she wouldn’t have two children. She said she would only have one unless she has children abroad. She said it’s too expensive here, keeping in mind the fine for illegally having a second child.

After we sufficiently explored the library, we noticed the time and had to rush out, only to find the skies dark. A thunderstorm was rolling in. We grabbed our bikes, hoping to beat the rain. I worried that the roads might be too dangerous now as it was Friday rush hour, everyone seemed to be in a hurry, and the roads were wet and slick. We contemplated ditching the bikes and taking a taxi but we both knew if we did the bikes would be stolen before we could fetch them again. Riding carefully but quickly, we safely made it to her home. There were construction workers at the gate of her building. They stared hard, not out of spite or rudeness, merely pure curiosity. Indeed, a foreigner at the home of a Chinese is an oddity. But today I was invited to Lindy’s home to learn how to make my favorite Chinese soup. After we greeted them with a smile, their faces softened too and they helped us lock up our bikes as we hurried out of the rain.

To be invited into a Chinese home is truly an honor. I first received this honor when my mother came to China. Lindy’s family invited my mom, Shaina, and I to their home for Tianjin’s specialty – homemade dumplings. When we arrived at the apartment complex, neighbor ladies were standing outside watching for us. Apparently everyone had heard we were coming. I later found out her father even took off work that day to prepare the meal. I was embarrassed and felt bad that he missed work just because we were coming over for dinner. I apologized but through Lindy’s translation, he beamed with pride saying it might be the only time he had the honor of cooking for a foreigner. But really, it was our honor.

Again today, it was my honor to be invited into their home. This time it was only Lindy, her father, and I. She said that her mother was very disappointed to find out she had to miss me. I was relieved she didn’t ask off work for my short visit. Lindy’s parents met at a factory, where they still work today. Lindy’s father works in the office. Her mother cleans, working 24 hours on, 72 hours off. When we arrived, Lindy’s father greeted us with a big smile. He looked like he had just come in from work not too long ago but he had quickly relaxed into the popular attire of most elderly Chinese men – a wife beater tank top and loose cotton bottoms. Lindy was planning on showing me how to make my favorite soup, tomato and egg drop soup. However, her father demanded I learn from the real chef, himself. He quietly demonstrated each step as I took notes and Lindy snapped pictures. After the soup lesson was complete, I was told to sit and not allowed to help with any other preparation. Tonight’s menu was hot pot. Hot pot is an infamously spicy Sichuanese dinner variety. A much more mild form of it spread to northern China during the Tang dynasty. Our dipping sauce had more of a peanut flavor, rather than hot pepper. I wanted to take a picture of Lindy and her father. With a bit of humor, he suggested he put on a real shirt for the picture. I found this particularly amusing, seeing as he had been comfy in his tank top and boxers up until this point. Really, I was just impressed he even had on a shirt. It is not uncommon to see men with their shirts rolled up and bellies hanging out at public restaurants, and even no tops on at all. Once all the ingredients were on the table, we began cooking and eating. We had lamb, shrimp, tofu, lettuce, and tomatoes, plus the soup! It wasn’t long before I was stuffed. But for the Chinese, group dinners are more of an event where eating becomes much more than a life-sustaining necessity. Therefore, I couldn’t stop. Lindy’s father was sure I needed to try the tofu, even after I practically finished off the plate of lamb by myself. He proudly pointed out that the boiling water was still very clear, even after we had cooked so much lamb in it. Through Lindy’s translation, he wanted to make sure I knew they had the best lamb meat, not the oily kind so often served in restaurants. Once I got to the point where I really felt like I was going to pop, I had to make a fuss to convince Lindy’s father that I had my fill and it was delicious. Of course, he continued to encourage me to eat. Finally, I explained if I ate any more, I would be so fat my bike would break under my weight. This was a joke he seemed to understand and he finally conceded to my need to stop eating.

I left their home with a full belly and a happy heart. As we parted, I graciously tried to thank Lindy for a wonderful day. But, in typical Lindy fashion, I just got yelled at. This seems to be a pattern we frequent. I say thank you and she yells at me. “You say thank you too much! We are friends. Friends don’t need to say thank you,” she tells me every time. I only wish she knew how truly thankful I am for her friendship and that I can be a part of her life and she is a part of mine.