Acceptable Stereotype

The later years of my stay in the US, I was an indoctrinated listener of National Public Radio. Every liberal intellectual type seemed to have the local NPR station preset on their radios, so I followed suit.

But lately, every time I visited the US, NPR increasingly annoyed me. China is becoming an ever popular topic, and every other day, some China expert would be talking about what this “China” is, or what those “Chinese” are. It always shocks me that the commentators could so comfortably and so confidently lecture on China on radio after just a few years living in Beijing or Shanghai. So I gradually weaned myself off NPR.

Yet there is just so much dance music one can listen to on commercial radio while driving on the expansive American highway system. A few days ago I found myself searching for local public radio station again in my rented car in San Francisco. Not surprisingly, I heard a long interview of a Chinese American writer who had lived in Beijing and in Dharamsala for many years and had just published a book on a topic related to China and Tibet.

The writer bantered jokes and anecdotes with the interviewer on radio. Because I am ethnically Chinese, she said, I can speak candidly about the Chinese. Chinese are “rude,” “cynical,” and “jaded.” It’s an “autocratic” state over there, and people can be thrown in jail at whim. Oh yes, she brushed with jail intimately once. She was riding a bike in the street and police stopped her and wanted to arrest her. She said she could get by with her Chinese but couldn’t understand what her arrester-wanna-be was yelling about – it made a big scene and crowd formed around them. She might have been biking in the wrong direction on a one-way street.

Tibetans on the other hand, she described enthusiastically, are warm, kind and welcoming – the antithesis of the Chinese.

The interview annoyed me as much as when I read the first couple of chapters of a Chinese best-seller written by Chinese who had never lived overseas and criticizing American culture based on Hollywood films. Not that “Chinese” are not “rude,” “cynical” or “jaded,” but the Chinese American writer’s intellectual sloppiness in making those sweeping generalization made me head spin – how many Chinese in China did she intimately know with her barely-getting-by Chinese? Beijing alone has 17 million people and it is very easy to spot rude behavior committed by a few in jammed buses and shopping malls; but then to call 1.3 billion Chinese rude? Cynicism and jadedness may mark the majority of older generations, but the young I know are much less affected. Her almost arrest incident was also likely just a cheng guan, traffic guard hired by the municipal government and not the official police, stopping her on a one-way street and wanting to fine her for going the wrong direction.

There seems to exist a persistent stereotype about China and the Chinese that strangely finds comfortable acceptance in mainstream American media in today’s otherwise politically correct world. Liberals and conservatives alike enjoy seeing things black and white – good vs evil, China vs Tibet, China vs the free world… China is materialistic, totalitarian and repressed, while Tibet is all peace loving Shangri-la (watch my friend Jocelyn’s video on a Tibetan woman’s struggle between tradition and modernity, a more complex picture of “Shangri-la”). Sometimes it is the language issue – how many expats living in Beijing, Shanghai and Tibet can truly converse with either local Chinese or Tibetans and understand the intimate details of their lives? Other times old stereotype may be too convenient for us to abandon, for realities are sometimes too complex to summarize.

Sidney Rittenberg, an American who had suffered much along with the birth of communist China, including two solitary imprisonments totaling 16 years, recently came back to China for a visit. At one of his speeches in Beijing, he spoke about what he likes and dislikes about China, the challenges China faces and his confidence that China will ride through these challenges.

Do we all have to experience jail term to learn to discard old stereotypes and see the whole picture?

In Search of Chinese-Chinese

One day last week I went to a private clinic in Beijing. As usual the clinic was quiet and only a few clients—half of them foreign expats—sat around waiting. A tall Scandinavian-looking guy came and sat in the couch next to me. We stroke up a conversation about the newspaper story I was reading. Then he asked,

“Are you Chinese Chinese?”

Reflexively I explained that I had lived and worked in the US for many years. The Scandinavian guy then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You don’t look very Chinese to me,” he said.

It was not the first time that I was asked that question, which made me wonder – what makes me looking not very Chinese Chinese? Surely there are other Chinese who gel their hair, wear Zara and work out in the gym.

My Chinese staff at work said it is not my appearance, but some je-ne-sais-quoi “-ness” that gives me away. I laugh and speak my mind at will at work. I tell them not to call me “boss” but address me by my first name. In return, they make fun of my poor memory of Chinese idioms. And every so often, they would patiently counsel me the “right” way to do business in China.

Then what is this “Chinese Chinese”-ness that I am so obviously poor at grasping?

The question did not used to bug me. In fact, it fanned my ego that my high-school friends called me “half-American,” for raising my hands and asking questions in class, for directing plays and organizing dance parties, and for not shying away from any opportunity to be different. I used to be flattered by other Americans’ questions if I had grown up in the US, back in the days when I desired very much to be something other than the stale, conservative and order-following Chinese stereotype in my mind.

Then after spending 12 years in the US, I knew I would never be a full-blown American. So I moved back, partly to understand whether there is such a thing as Chinese Chinese?

The longer I have lived in Beijing, however, the less certain I am of what a true Chinese Chinese would be. For every (3?) money-chasing Chinese, I could find a Chinese content with his routine life. For every (5?) Chinese who give up their dreams for desk jobs, I could find an entrepreneur risking it all to strike it rich. And for every (10?) Chinese who go ga-ga over Gucci and Prada, I could find a young kid dead serious about art or environment causes.

Of course, statistically, most Han Chinese in prosperous regions of China are very focused on making their lives better off, their kids better educated, and their families and friends proud of their achievements. But any statistical definition of the “Chinese Chinese”-ness sounds a bit too vulgar. Isn’t there any big word(s) that could be claimed shared by all true Chinese, like Confucianism, materialism, individualism, conformism, or entrepreneurialism?

I remembered my trip along the ancient Silk Road, from Xi’an to Kashgar, a few years ago. I saw the ruins of Tang Dynasty grandeur and Han Dynasty border expansion. I met many ethnicities of languages and customs different from us Han. I found, at the many Buddhist grottoes along the Silk Road, how Buddhism had migrated to and been modified by China. I remember realizing then that what we considered to be “Chineseness” now must have been different from that in Tang Dynasty, in Han Dynasty, and in the tribal periods of our legendary forefathers.

So any romantic concept of deep-rooted “Chinese Chinese”-ness appears to be a myth – we as a people now are very different from those living in the 1960s, the Republic era, the end of Qing Dynasty, or any period prior. Of course there exists a continuation from generation to generation, but this continuation itself has always been changing, via interaction with the outside, fighting among the internal factions and competition of different schools of thoughts for domination.

Or so I hope – that the true “Chinese Chinese”-ness is our ability to absorb, to learn and to grow, which would make me feel more “Chinese Chinese” despite what others might say.

20th Reunion

I flew back to Chengdu for my high school 20^th reunion. Of the 360 students in my graduating class, more than one third showed up. Most I had not seen for 20 years and had a hard time remembering. It was embarrassing but also a source of rapturous laughter once the identities were revealed.

The reunion ran in style. We formally signed in and then were seated in a banquet hall. Three MCs guided us through the long list of agenda items--teachers spoke, student representatives spoke, MCs recited cheesy poems, we watched a video montage of old photos, and every class was asked to perform. The routine resembled so much of our high school annual variety show that it brought melancholy to my grins, for the unruly boys had lost their hairs and gained much weight, and the timid girls had wrinkles crawling next to their lustrous eyes.

Lunch ended in guys endlessly toasting around tables with baiju. A few puked in the bathrooms. Outside of the banquet room, we took endless group photos. Afterwards we broke into smaller rooms for tea. An old friend, a professional musician, played guitar while we sang songs that had long slipped into the “oldies” category at KTV.

Then we went around updating the circle of our past twenty years. Most had become entrepreneurs--selling insurance, selling gold investment, selling real estate, and selling interior decoration for the real estate. Some looked as if having made fortunes, others apparently struggling.

We all said how we missed our high school years--teachers caring, friends loving, and time innocent. David, visiting all the way from the US, said that his life had been down hill ever since high school. Everyone nodded. I felt dizzy from too much alcohol during lunch.

I joined Jason for a smoke outside. Jason and I had been close ever since high school. I had witnessed his many romantic longings and listened to his ups and downs with his ex-wife who had been his college sweet heart. Jason had remarried a year ago and was now expecting his first baby.

“How is Jenny then?” I asked about his ex-wife.

He sighed. His silence surprised me, for he had been open with me about his entangled relationship with Jenny. They were married for 10 years, a seeming perfect couple for as long. Then Jenny pushed him away--she was distant in bed and in life. She said she wanted to be alone. Jason had always wanted to remarry her, if she would ever agree to, even though she could not satisfy him in bed, even though she kept pushing him away.

“A month after I re-married,” Jason finally started, “Jenny committed suicide. She put a…” Jason gestured the shape of a rope around his neck. “She was rushed to the hospital. But she had been up there for too long. It took her several months to wake up. Now she still can't take care of herself. Her hands shake all the time…”

I was shocked mute. Oh Jenny, the pretty Jenny with her smooth long hair.

“She told me that she had been depressed for so long,” Jason continued. “I should have noticed in the latter years of our marriage. Now whenever I visit her she would hit me. She would cry and say it's my fault. What can I do? I'm married now expecting a baby. It is my fault.”

We finished a second cigarette and went back in. Our friends were still reminiscing about the good old days. I sat deep in the couch, nursing my headache from the hangover. The noisy chatters gradually grew tasteless--are we spending so much time dwelling on the good old days so we can get away from the cruel reality that shall be unnamed among old friends? I looked at those faces around me that had grown chubby and sagged. How I longed to talk to them about our present confusions and longings, like we used to. Life had been a lot tougher than we had ever imagined, yet we all conspired to hide our scars in baiju and laughter.

So I left, hoping for another reunion in which we could be younger.

In Pursuit of Tai Chi

I was in Boston for a short trip and my old friend Mary, whom I hadn’t seen for a year, visited me from Philadelphia. Over the weekend, she could not stop talking about Tai Chi.

I took my first English writing class from Mary 12 years ago. We have been close friends since. She witnessed my various attempts to fit in America, and I kept her company through her various heartbreaks. Still, her fascination with Tai Chi took me my surprise.

Mary grew up in the Midwest a pious and liberal Christian. After receiving her Ph.D. in a humanities field, she taught writing at universities and was heavily involved in community building and social justice. Despite our great friendship, she would only smile politely each time I sent her books on Chinese history or invited her to visit China. What had suddenly drawn her to the Chi?

You know that I went to Taiwan in 2008 for research on Eastern Healing, said Mary. I arrived in Taipei with my knee and back badly hurting. Dr. Lin, my host, did acupuncture on me and the pain went away! He also suggested that I took up Tai Chi, as a way to change my lifestyle and my health.
After that trip, Mary started taking classes at a dance studio set up by a gay Taiwanese dancer in Philadelphia. The Tai Chi teacher, an Italian American from South Philly, also taught at the community center where most of the students were African American and Muslim women with their faces behind veils.

The South Philly teacher sent Mary, a slow but tenacious student, to classes by his master. Master Ching came from China. He was in the same generation of Jet Li and appeared in many of Jet Li’s early martial arts films. Now he owns a martial arts school in Philadelphia in order to have his two kids educated in America.

I mused at the people of various colors and background threading the story of Tai Chi in America. We were having brunch on the porch of the hotel restaurant overlooking the Charles River and the Boston skyline. Mary was asking how to pronounce the Chinese names of the different moves, for Master Ching could not speak English.

We took a break. Mary read me an I Ching passage she liked. Besides health reason, what else drew you to the Tai Chi oneness? I asked.

Mary was silent for a beat. It’s almost like fate, she said slowly, that the invitation for that research trip came out of the blue from a former student of mine. I had never had any interest in Eastern medicine but I needed a chance to get away. Remember Marcos, the capoeira teacher from Brazil? I thought I had helped him much, trying to get the his non-profit going and helping him with his immigration. In the end he and his wife kicked me out of the organization, telling me that I was too pushy in my desire to help. That experience shook me up. I had always considered it necessary to actively go out and help others. But with Marcos…?

She borrowed $8000 from her high-interest credit card to hire an immigration lawyer for Marcos. She’s still paying it back, having never asked Marcos to pay back.

The church was of little help, Mary continued. I had tried two churches in Philly. Each time I spent my time and energy in building the community, and each time the leadership politics disappointed me. I stayed away, meditating and praying on my own. Then there came Tai Chi. How to maintain a balance between the community and the self? The action and the reflection?

Young and old jogged by the river. The sun shone warmly. It was a beautiful day in Boston. I marveled at the journeys we undertake, across East and West, in pursuit of happiness and peace of mind. Mary used to be my English teacher and my guide; now it is my turn to help her with the little I can.

I taught Mary how to say Open, Close, Push, and Breathe in Chinese, and in her booklet, she earnestly wrote every pinyin down.