Beggars

– A young person on their knees writing their sad story on the sidewalk with chalk.
– A little baby in a mother’s arms- both dressed in thin clothing on a winter day.
– An old man playing a musical instrument in front of a busy market.
– A teen-ager missing limbs lying on the freezing sidewalk wearing only a cotton shirt. He taps his cup extra
hard when he sees my foreign face.

I’ve heard foreigners are seen as suckers for such sights. I asked my teachers class what they did as they passed by. The answers were thought-provoking.

“I never give. They’re all fakes. They work for someone who makes them do that. You’re just supporting that bad person when you give.”

“They’re kids who are doing it for a bad person. If they don’t get money he beats them. I feel torn – I want to give to help them but I doubt the money will really help them – but it just may keep them from being hurt. Maybe…”

“I don’t know the result. I try to give snacks. What would the god want us to do?”

“I can give a little. Maybe they have other support. Maybe they are tricking me. But the little I give doesn’t hurt me and it may help them a lot.”

“It’s not begging if they’re playing an instrument. They’re giving to all who walk by.”

“They must be desperate or they wouldn’t be doing that”

“Would you give to them if they were in your country?”

And you?

Gift giving and more

A little side note to the previous blog.
There was comic relief in the midst of sadness. When a neighbor came over with her words of comfort she noticed that my teammate had stopped by with some food. “That’s good! Don’t you stop eating,” she said sternly. “You are already too thin. Not fat like her,” she said, pointing to my young friend. Now, let me just say that this particular semester the English majors had two foreign teachers. Me and my teammate. Students were often heard asking each other – “Which one do you have? The pretty one or the funny one?” Needless to say “the pretty one” was not happy this day.

Gift Giving

Gift giving is tricky in any culture – even our own. How many times have I given a gift and wondered if I made the right choice? Did I read the receiver’s response correctly? When I first came to China and gave a gift – usually to the host who had invited me to dinner – I was somewhat prepared for what would happen. There was a brief smile or nod of thanks and it was whisked off – never to be seen again. I knew this was the custom and so wasn’t hurt. Students pointed out that it was a private matter between giver and receiver and so not to be opened in front of others. Times change and more recent visits often included not only the opening of the gift but sharing it or discussing it. “Where did you buy these strawberries?” “How did you make these?”
Even the bringing of a gift is not as expected as it once was. Or is it? I’ve heard both. “Oh teacher, you didn’t need to bring a gift. We don’t do that anymore.” And “Oh, Barbara, you’re so Chinese.”
When my mother died I was teaching in northeast China. It was my second year at the school and I was overwhelmed with visits and words of concern. “Please eat. Sad people sometimes don’t eat and you shouldn’t lose weight.”
One evening as I came back from class our building manager called me into his first floor office. It was an awkward moment as he seemed quite unsure of what to say. Surprising as we were the same age, often chatted and had enjoyed a dragon year birthday celebration. He handed me two bags – one with a jar of pineapple and the other a bag of powdered milk. “Here,” he said, “it’s very small but I thought something to eat was the best thing to give you now.” I thanked him and he went on. “I really don’t know if it’s the right thing to give. I really don’t know what to do when foreigners die.” He smiled and shook his head. “I really don’t know what to do when we Chinese people die. But I want you to know we’re friends.”

First Impressions

Over lunch one day a group of former teacher-students was reminiscing about their first experience with a foreign teacher.  Me.  Unlike many of today’s language students, none of them had such an experience before our class.  Similar conversations with undergrads had brought out a list of differences in teaching styles.  Not this day.

“I really don’t remember anything you said or did for a week.  I just kept looking at your blue eyes.  I was nervous about sitting at the front – you might ask me something.  But I wanted to see your eyes.”

“I noticed your nose the first day.   It’s bigger than a Chinese nose, so the bar on your glasses has a use for you.  It really has no use for us.”

“I remember I felt like I was in my daughter’s kindergarten class.  We were the little students.”

“I wondered how you got to class.”

 I have no witty segue for this but walking home from class that day I remembered my first teachers’ class – in another province many years before.  On a class bike trip to the countryside a couple teachers and I were pulling up the rear.  We alternately chatted and rode faster to try and not fall too far behind.  Suddenly one middle-aged lady burst out, “you’re not ugly!”  I honestly cannot remember my response.  She went on, “Well, a teacher once told me that all foreigners were ugly.”

Hope is…

As obvious as it may sound – learning is a two way street in the classroom and goes on from both sides of the desk.  As an English teacher in China I found my students (usually teachers or physicians) to be a never-ending source of cultural insight.  I felt as though I had 20 living textbooks.  What’s even more enlightening is that they don’t always agree with one another.   Even as someone begins to say “we Chinese” there is another itching to “clear up” their meaning, i.e. disagree.  One week in class, the discussion centered on the lottery.  Some felt it was a waste of money; others adamantly claimed to have no knowledge of the activity; one lady shook her head vigorously saying “gambling” over and over; and several knew a friend of a friend who had bought a ticket and won.  One of the younger teachers pulled a hand full of tickets from his pocket.  We all laughed.  “No,” he said before anyone asked, “I’ve never won anything.”   Then a quiet father of a little girl whose picture we had all seen on his cell phone spoke up.  “Yes, but it gave you hope, didn’t it?  It gives people hope.  That’s what everyone needs.”

Correctedvision returns

It has been two years since my last post.  What happened?  I’ve certainly continued to tell stories from my life in Asia.  And listeners have often continued to graciously encourage me to write them down for others to read.  I have done the writing but not the sharing.  Now I am on yet another adventure in a new-to-me country.  I am meeting new situations and people that further correct my vision.  As I wrote in my first post – the leaves were always there – I just didn’t see them.  I want to write and share.  The random describing of such encounters brings me joy.  If the reading of these posts prompts your own encounter – your own moment of corrected vision – share it with someone!

Warning Lights

In the 80’s bicycles ruled the road.  Or at least held their own. Sure, there were cars, usually belonging to businesses and universities and lot of taxis.  But the private car that is today flooding onto the roads in China was a rare sight.  My first four years in China I do not remember ever riding in a car that was driven by its owner.  The drivers were all employees of my university, a taxi company or the office of where a friend worked.  At night side streets were dimly lit if at all and I remember as I rode home I hoped that I wouldn’t meet an unseen pothole or pile of glass.  Of course I was rarely the only one on the road and I was always happy if the cyclist in front of me was a smoker.  (I know, totally selfish and with no concern for their health) Why?  The light of a cigarette was sometimes just enough to warn you of what’s up ahead.  Sometimes a group was riding, chatting, and smoking together – like a string of tiny Christmas lights weaving ahead of me.  Why am I remembering this?  Last night I got on a dark city bus.  My glasses steamed up immediately – a winter problem – and I was momentarily blind.  I grabbed for the overhead rail to steady myself – wondering if just perhaps there might be a seat.  Nope, all full. Even as my glasses slowly defogged I could see the tiny square lights of a row of cell phones.  As they cleared completely I saw the many heads bent over them.   Warning lights have changed In 20 years.

“It’s like”

There is so much that cannot be translated from one language to another. As a teacher of a foreign language (teaching English in China) I run into this reality often. “How do you say this in English?” my students ask especially when we are in a restaurant. As they are teachers and physicians many have had opportunities to host a foreigner. Ordering worries them. So I give them the useful phrase “it’s like.” They find this comforting and soon I hear, “This is like soup.” “These are like bread.” “This is like the egg of the chicken.” What? Well, further questioning on that one pointed to quail eggs, often found in a special soup. There is the school of thought that ignorance is bliss and we should throw out the ‘it’s like’ comparisons. I once got my own teaching used on me when a student told me what I was eating was “like a hamburger.” I’m not sure what experience led him to this explanation but a hamburger didn’t come to my mind. Eating cross culturally is an adventure that will more than likely include a bit of gambling, some delicious discoveries, and, once in awhile…indigestion.

 

Finally

When I was 11 years old I got glasses for the first time.  I remember the discovery of my need was gradual. As a tall student who was put at the back of the classroom I simply found it harder and harder to read the black board.  A classroom check – up resulted in a visit to the school nurse – a bit traumatic but shadowy memory.  But the actual day of the glasses – the walking out of the doctor’s office wearing them – I will always remember.  “There are leaves on the trees!” I said to my father.    Now, the leaves were always there and at 11 I must have known that fact.  But on this day I saw things differently – with new glasses – with corrected vision.  Living in a foreign country, not just traveling or visiting, has given me new glasses.   The sights were always there, but now I see them.   Finally?   I am finally writing about what I see!

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