A lot of times here in China, I feel as though we are only as old as our language skills.
Chinese is a notoriously difficult language to learn. If you think the classroom sessions of guessing at tones, remembering obscure 12-stroke characters, and learning odd grammar structures which "don't really exist" in the language is challenging, then brace yourself for your first day in China.
It happens again and again: you know how much you know, with all your vocabulary swimming in your head, ready to whip out and impress Chinese people with.
And then she speaks.
You have no idea what monster just flung itself from inside her mouth.
You stare blankly.
She stares blankly, back at you.
The awkward turtle strikes again.
But one thing that really helps is to simply ask them to slow down a little. Also, never forget that you most likely can explain what you are trying say in other words, even if you don't know the direct word for it. For example: "That thing that's like a small car, that one person rides, which has two wheels and goes fast." If someone said that to you, you'd most likely understand that it's a bicycle. If not, don't teach English to foreigners.
While this roundabout way of explaining simple things is sometimes demeaning, we just have to remind ourselves are are still growing up in Chinese: most of us are just big toddlers in terms of our Chinese skills. Especially with my host mom, I feel as though sometimes there is no possible way she understands what I am babbling on about, but she plays along accordingly. Sometimes I think similar things happen with small children, but it's how they learn.
I feel even more like a toddler in my inability to discuss deep topics, such as why North Korea scares a lot of Americans.
What I want to say: "They want to build nuclear bombs and threaten to decimate the populations of other countries, or at least establish themselves as a credible threat to the US. They also may not fit into the supposedly safer mutually-assured-destruction theory world, as they may not hesitate to use the nukes where other leaders would consider the well-being and safety of their people."
What I say: "They want to hit a lot of people, and kill them. They want to make a thing which will go BOOM in other countries." (with dramatic hand gestures)
Sigh. So is growing up. I may have a college-level American brain, but my Chinese brain is still in Kindergarten. It's funny though, because I definitely feel the change since I've been here. Just talking with Chinese people on the street, I can feel myself becoming more comfortable with the language. It doesn't sound so awkward and clanky when I am chit-chatting with my host-mom on the couch, and at times I forget I'm using Chinese altogether. That's the coolest feeling. I would never have been able to learn this in a classroom, with rigid curriculum and a teacher waiting to judge your every word. Obviously, the classes help to learn new vocab, but it's the practice that makes the difference. I am continually astounded with how often something we learned that very day comes up in a conversation. Maybe it was there the whole time, but I just didn't see it there before?
I'm really starting to get in my groove here. I finally see why studying abroad is so beneficial to learning the language. Each day has new challenges, awkward moments, and even frustrating times, but I love it.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Down the Rabbit Hole
Ali and I have been attending a kung fu class sporadically for the past month. It is held nightly on the track by the edge of campus, a place bustling with students as they go about their various exercise routines.
Tonight, however, the kung fu instructor, a student, was to hold practice in the basement of a classroom building so we could use the mirrors to check our stances. Ali was preoccupied with her upcoming midterms, so I found myself venturing into the massive building alone. There were so many rooms and so many people; I had no idea where to go other than down.
I found the stairs by accident, and plunged into complete darkness. The air grew cool and damp, and I realized the basement wasn't what I had imagined: a modern dance studio with mirrors along the wall, wooden floors, and maybe a nice stereo. Instead, I was thrown into one of the strangest scenarios I have ever encountered.
The first thing I noticed was the walls: bare, white, and dirty. I felt as though I were in some closed off parking garage, and wondered if I was in the right place. Somewhere in the distance, accordions played unrecognizable melodies which eerily bounced off the walls.
Then I saw the bikes. Thousands upon thousands of bikes, piled, stacked, leaning against one another, and simply thrown on the ground. Pink ones, blue ones, green ones, and red ones, all obscured by a thick layer of dust. I couldn't comprehend what I saw before me--how could so many bikes be in one place? Where on earth had they come from, and for how long had they all been here? Some had dried out vines on them, some were missing wheels, and some had no seats. The garage went on and on, with ramps and doors leading to more bikes. Tossed amongst the bikes was everything imaginable: clothes, shoes, bags, trash, boxes, books, and more. I shuffled through one small, yellow book to see that the first page had faded completely in the time it had been exposed to the lights of the garage. The rest of the pages revealed that it was some sort of propaganda book.
Over everything was heavy coating of brown soot. I simply could not fathom whether or not all of this was real; it was so strange. I felt as though I were in a dream. Between the impossibly endless bikes, maze-like, multi-level garage, eerie accordion music, and distant, bodiless voices, I felt as though I were in a completely different realm. Just as Alice found Wonderland, Chihiro found the Tea House, and Darby O'Gill found the realm of the Little People, I felt as though I had found my own parallel universe. It seemed to me that reflected in all of these bikes was the endless expanse of time. At some point in history, each bike had an owner. At another point in history, the owner had left the bike to rust and rot amongst the chambers of forgotten ages. Here I was, browsing through this gallery of time, being watched by the tragic, unloved creatures strewn from floor to ceiling.
I found the kung fu lesson, in the heart of this strange realm. I was the only one there, which added to the sense of isolation. As the instructor guided me through the exercises, I couldn't help but wonder about my own bike. The slick, silver "Wolf" brand (affectionately named "Wolfie") was my essential means of transportation. On this sleek and silent beast, I practically floated around campus, weaving effortlessly amongst the slow walkers. When my time here was up, what would become of it? Would it end up in this catacomb, rusting away while I leave this place and live my life elsewhere? Would it be here, covered in dust, for decades and for centuries?
I suppose it was a strange reminder of our ethereal mortality. We live as though we are the first, the only, and the last. We are ignorant to the countless others who have lived equally important lives before us, and will never know of the endless stretch who come after. All we have is relics of the past, decaying pieces of an era that we can never know.
As I packed up and wandered through the garage, I stopped and stood for a moment. This wasn't just a basement or a garage. It was a tomb for the past. A memorial to all things now gone. The accordion music and strange voices haunted me as I moved up the ramp, but as soon as the cold March air hit my cheeks and I stepped outside, the sounds stopped abruptly.
And there was Wolfie, shiny and new, ready to race through the blissful world of open air in the here and now.
Tonight, however, the kung fu instructor, a student, was to hold practice in the basement of a classroom building so we could use the mirrors to check our stances. Ali was preoccupied with her upcoming midterms, so I found myself venturing into the massive building alone. There were so many rooms and so many people; I had no idea where to go other than down.
I found the stairs by accident, and plunged into complete darkness. The air grew cool and damp, and I realized the basement wasn't what I had imagined: a modern dance studio with mirrors along the wall, wooden floors, and maybe a nice stereo. Instead, I was thrown into one of the strangest scenarios I have ever encountered.
The first thing I noticed was the walls: bare, white, and dirty. I felt as though I were in some closed off parking garage, and wondered if I was in the right place. Somewhere in the distance, accordions played unrecognizable melodies which eerily bounced off the walls.
Then I saw the bikes. Thousands upon thousands of bikes, piled, stacked, leaning against one another, and simply thrown on the ground. Pink ones, blue ones, green ones, and red ones, all obscured by a thick layer of dust. I couldn't comprehend what I saw before me--how could so many bikes be in one place? Where on earth had they come from, and for how long had they all been here? Some had dried out vines on them, some were missing wheels, and some had no seats. The garage went on and on, with ramps and doors leading to more bikes. Tossed amongst the bikes was everything imaginable: clothes, shoes, bags, trash, boxes, books, and more. I shuffled through one small, yellow book to see that the first page had faded completely in the time it had been exposed to the lights of the garage. The rest of the pages revealed that it was some sort of propaganda book.
Over everything was heavy coating of brown soot. I simply could not fathom whether or not all of this was real; it was so strange. I felt as though I were in a dream. Between the impossibly endless bikes, maze-like, multi-level garage, eerie accordion music, and distant, bodiless voices, I felt as though I were in a completely different realm. Just as Alice found Wonderland, Chihiro found the Tea House, and Darby O'Gill found the realm of the Little People, I felt as though I had found my own parallel universe. It seemed to me that reflected in all of these bikes was the endless expanse of time. At some point in history, each bike had an owner. At another point in history, the owner had left the bike to rust and rot amongst the chambers of forgotten ages. Here I was, browsing through this gallery of time, being watched by the tragic, unloved creatures strewn from floor to ceiling.
I found the kung fu lesson, in the heart of this strange realm. I was the only one there, which added to the sense of isolation. As the instructor guided me through the exercises, I couldn't help but wonder about my own bike. The slick, silver "Wolf" brand (affectionately named "Wolfie") was my essential means of transportation. On this sleek and silent beast, I practically floated around campus, weaving effortlessly amongst the slow walkers. When my time here was up, what would become of it? Would it end up in this catacomb, rusting away while I leave this place and live my life elsewhere? Would it be here, covered in dust, for decades and for centuries?
I suppose it was a strange reminder of our ethereal mortality. We live as though we are the first, the only, and the last. We are ignorant to the countless others who have lived equally important lives before us, and will never know of the endless stretch who come after. All we have is relics of the past, decaying pieces of an era that we can never know.
As I packed up and wandered through the garage, I stopped and stood for a moment. This wasn't just a basement or a garage. It was a tomb for the past. A memorial to all things now gone. The accordion music and strange voices haunted me as I moved up the ramp, but as soon as the cold March air hit my cheeks and I stepped outside, the sounds stopped abruptly.
And there was Wolfie, shiny and new, ready to race through the blissful world of open air in the here and now.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
It Takes a Global Village to Raise a Child
I'm noticing a common trend in China: just when I start to feel like I'm adapted to living in Beijing, everything changes.
After two weeks of living in the Zhongguan Global Village apartment complex, I gathered up my things and moved into my home stay. This was nerve-wracking--what would my host family be like? What would their home be like? And, most importantly, would we get along? I prayed that I wasn't going to be one of the horror stories we had heard about, which involved terrible living conditions, excessive invasions of privacy, and, in one case, a host parent going through the trash of a student. I knew one thing: however unstable this experience would be, I wasn't going to be one of the students moving back to Global Village.
I met my host mom on a sunny sunday outside of the Global Village. She's a friendly, middle-aged woman who works in accounting at the university. She doesn't own a car, so we took a cab to her apartment just outside the world-famous West Gate of Beida--I feel like I'm walking into Mulan every time I go through it.
The apartment is tiny! It is essentially three rooms, with the master bedroom/living room to the left, the hallway-balcony-gone-kitchen in the middle, and my room to the right. I was a little worried about the bathroom because the shower is quite literally a hose above the sink, which drains into a smelly hole in the ground, but so far it's been okay! Despite it's size, it is a very charming place to live. I often feel a bit more cheerful when the sun streams across the lightly-colored wood.
I like my room a lot. It's fairly spacious, and the bed is very comfortable--a welcome change from the very solid bed at Global Village. The room belongs to my host mom's daughter, who is a college student in Seattle. In many ways I feel like I'm living her life--her room is adorned with pink curtains and stuffed animals that surround me as I work, and there's a poster of Alan Iverson above the bed. A framed butterfly hangs on the wall, and my keys are anchored with a hello kitty figurine.
Ironically, one of the first things I noticed was a leprechaun pen. Now, owning about five of them, I knew immediately from where this pen had come--which was from my very own University of Notre Dame. I was astounded, but when I asked my host mom, she told me one of her previous students, Mariel, had lived there, along with several other ND students throughout recent years. I couldn't believe it! Mariel and I had been in the same Chinese class way back when, and last year, when she was abroad, she would send back emails detailing her adventures, and I specifically remember reading the email in which she raved over her host family and wishing I could have one as good. It's strange, but that little pen and "play like a champion today" magnet made me feel like being hugged--as if I had a little slice of ND here comforting me in China. It lessened the stress of moving into a new place a lot, and I'm grateful to the domers who lived here before me.
My mom and I get along really well--we often spend hours talking about everything and anything. She speaks no English, so she often has to help me as I stutter along in Chinese. Sometimes, though, I wonder why she hosts students. Is it because she genuinely likes welcoming foreigners into her home? Is it because of the money she gets for hosting us? Or is it because she's lonely?
We eat lunch together twice a week. She cooks the most amazing food I've had in China--I honestly don't know how she does it. From noodles, to chicken, to tomato-egg omlettes, she can do it all in a matter of minutes.
For the first week, I assumed she was a divorcee or single mom. I didn't want to ask. That is, until I came home one night to see (and smell) her husband, smoking and watching television on the couch. I smiled as I met him, but passive aggressive rage was building in my mind--if there is one thing that is constantly offensive to other people, it's smoking. And he smokes. A lot. It's really kind of thrown a wrench into this situation--just as I was used to my host mom, my smokey-the-bear host dad comes along and stinks up the place. It's not that I hate people who smoke, but the smell is just unbearable. I need to keep my door shut when he's around, because as soon as the smell hits I can feel my sinuses swelling and congesting. Sometimes I open the window, but with the life-threatening pollution, it's not much of an improvement.
While my host mom and I have bonded over many conversations, my host dad is quiet, doesn't really make eye contact, and spends the majority of his time laying in bed and looking rather sickly. He's some sort of engineer, and will be gone for long stretches of time and around for others. I don't get it. I can feel myself withdrawing a bit to this new presence in the home, slowly inching back out as I talk with him more and more. I think he's genuinely friendly, but I just haven't had that moment of bonding with him yet.
Sometimes, I think of the girl who's life I now live, and wonder if she hates me for sleeping in her bed, using her keys, putting my clothes in her drawers, and sitting at her desk. I know if someone was at this moment putting his grimy hands all over my room, I'd hate him too. I wondered why her parents would do that to her--but Mary, a year-long student who had lived here previously--said something that changed this perception: "They do everything for their daughter. Every penny goes to her education and her well-being."
At that moment the world turned upside down. Everything these parents do, they do with their daughter in mind. The tiny apartment, the patchwork fixtures, the lack of a washing machine and car--all of it is to save money so she can study at an American university, gain experience, and live a good life. While they don't own a computer, their daughter owns a Macbook Pro and an IPhone 4S. My heart was touched by this--the amount of sacrifice they have endured is tremendous. I knew this was also my purpose--I was a gear in the motor of this plan--but I didn't feel as though that was a bad thing. My host mom has never made me feel like a means of gaining money--she's been there every night to open the door, to lock it after I leave, to turn the hot water on so I can take a shower, and even to tip-toe into my room now and then to present me with gross little candies that I eat when I run out of strawberries. Whenever I'm home she cooks for me, even though she is only required to twice a week. When I cut my finger on a shard of glass this morning, I found myself wishing she was home so I could ask her if she thought I should get stitches. Later that night when I finally did ask her, she told me not to wash it because it would take longer to heal. I smiled, telling her I wouldn't, even though her suggestion made absolutely no sense. But even something like that makes me grateful I have her around. I know we'll have our challenges as a family this semester, but I think this new global village is a good one.
 |
| Global Village |
 |
| Global Village |
After two weeks of living in the Zhongguan Global Village apartment complex, I gathered up my things and moved into my home stay. This was nerve-wracking--what would my host family be like? What would their home be like? And, most importantly, would we get along? I prayed that I wasn't going to be one of the horror stories we had heard about, which involved terrible living conditions, excessive invasions of privacy, and, in one case, a host parent going through the trash of a student. I knew one thing: however unstable this experience would be, I wasn't going to be one of the students moving back to Global Village.
 |
| My Host Parents' Room/Living Room/Dining Room |
 |
| Actually not as bad as it looks! |
The apartment is tiny! It is essentially three rooms, with the master bedroom/living room to the left, the hallway-balcony-gone-kitchen in the middle, and my room to the right. I was a little worried about the bathroom because the shower is quite literally a hose above the sink, which drains into a smelly hole in the ground, but so far it's been okay! Despite it's size, it is a very charming place to live. I often feel a bit more cheerful when the sun streams across the lightly-colored wood. |
| My room! |
I like my room a lot. It's fairly spacious, and the bed is very comfortable--a welcome change from the very solid bed at Global Village. The room belongs to my host mom's daughter, who is a college student in Seattle. In many ways I feel like I'm living her life--her room is adorned with pink curtains and stuffed animals that surround me as I work, and there's a poster of Alan Iverson above the bed. A framed butterfly hangs on the wall, and my keys are anchored with a hello kitty figurine.
Ironically, one of the first things I noticed was a leprechaun pen. Now, owning about five of them, I knew immediately from where this pen had come--which was from my very own University of Notre Dame. I was astounded, but when I asked my host mom, she told me one of her previous students, Mariel, had lived there, along with several other ND students throughout recent years. I couldn't believe it! Mariel and I had been in the same Chinese class way back when, and last year, when she was abroad, she would send back emails detailing her adventures, and I specifically remember reading the email in which she raved over her host family and wishing I could have one as good. It's strange, but that little pen and "play like a champion today" magnet made me feel like being hugged--as if I had a little slice of ND here comforting me in China. It lessened the stress of moving into a new place a lot, and I'm grateful to the domers who lived here before me.
My mom and I get along really well--we often spend hours talking about everything and anything. She speaks no English, so she often has to help me as I stutter along in Chinese. Sometimes, though, I wonder why she hosts students. Is it because she genuinely likes welcoming foreigners into her home? Is it because of the money she gets for hosting us? Or is it because she's lonely?
We eat lunch together twice a week. She cooks the most amazing food I've had in China--I honestly don't know how she does it. From noodles, to chicken, to tomato-egg omlettes, she can do it all in a matter of minutes.
For the first week, I assumed she was a divorcee or single mom. I didn't want to ask. That is, until I came home one night to see (and smell) her husband, smoking and watching television on the couch. I smiled as I met him, but passive aggressive rage was building in my mind--if there is one thing that is constantly offensive to other people, it's smoking. And he smokes. A lot. It's really kind of thrown a wrench into this situation--just as I was used to my host mom, my smokey-the-bear host dad comes along and stinks up the place. It's not that I hate people who smoke, but the smell is just unbearable. I need to keep my door shut when he's around, because as soon as the smell hits I can feel my sinuses swelling and congesting. Sometimes I open the window, but with the life-threatening pollution, it's not much of an improvement.
While my host mom and I have bonded over many conversations, my host dad is quiet, doesn't really make eye contact, and spends the majority of his time laying in bed and looking rather sickly. He's some sort of engineer, and will be gone for long stretches of time and around for others. I don't get it. I can feel myself withdrawing a bit to this new presence in the home, slowly inching back out as I talk with him more and more. I think he's genuinely friendly, but I just haven't had that moment of bonding with him yet.
Sometimes, I think of the girl who's life I now live, and wonder if she hates me for sleeping in her bed, using her keys, putting my clothes in her drawers, and sitting at her desk. I know if someone was at this moment putting his grimy hands all over my room, I'd hate him too. I wondered why her parents would do that to her--but Mary, a year-long student who had lived here previously--said something that changed this perception: "They do everything for their daughter. Every penny goes to her education and her well-being."
At that moment the world turned upside down. Everything these parents do, they do with their daughter in mind. The tiny apartment, the patchwork fixtures, the lack of a washing machine and car--all of it is to save money so she can study at an American university, gain experience, and live a good life. While they don't own a computer, their daughter owns a Macbook Pro and an IPhone 4S. My heart was touched by this--the amount of sacrifice they have endured is tremendous. I knew this was also my purpose--I was a gear in the motor of this plan--but I didn't feel as though that was a bad thing. My host mom has never made me feel like a means of gaining money--she's been there every night to open the door, to lock it after I leave, to turn the hot water on so I can take a shower, and even to tip-toe into my room now and then to present me with gross little candies that I eat when I run out of strawberries. Whenever I'm home she cooks for me, even though she is only required to twice a week. When I cut my finger on a shard of glass this morning, I found myself wishing she was home so I could ask her if she thought I should get stitches. Later that night when I finally did ask her, she told me not to wash it because it would take longer to heal. I smiled, telling her I wouldn't, even though her suggestion made absolutely no sense. But even something like that makes me grateful I have her around. I know we'll have our challenges as a family this semester, but I think this new global village is a good one.
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