give back, do something good

I pass by a dark threadwork silhouetted against the hot, metallic night sky. Passing by old folks chatting away, I understand very little and can only guess it must be gossip or the daily hardship. I see children held close by their parents, precious young clad in simple sometimes dirty clothes, and wonder about their futures and their parents worries. Will they grow up working for 2.5 块 an hour? My knee creaks like an old gray tool already rusted, I ascend the stairs to my home and count my blessings with each level.

Two nights ago I had drinks and conversation with my wise, older friend Mast and a new Korean friend. It was nice because we three noticed and even spoke aloud of it our common dispositions. I have always been impressed with Mast's character, wisdom, intelligence, empathy, and sense of humor. A deep voice, serious face, and slow movements give a sense of experience and authority that go far beyond impression. He has helped with my studies, my girlfriend, and encouraged me to stay humble and kind. Mast recently began a real estate business with another guy; both were former students at my school. It is very hard, as a foreigner without a Chinese partner and without business level (though both of theirs is very good) Mandarin. However, when I hear Mast say that they will definitely be successful in the future I have no doubt. But it was this night that he told me that he and his partner planned on giving a significant portion of their income to a local child for education. My respect for him instantly burst forth: in my inebriation I congratulated and complimented and voiced my awe and enthusiasm. But alcohol or no, my inspiration was real.
Idealism is something I have always had in me, it is something we all have inside. I have pushed it aside in the recent past. But Mast and my friend P.Stone back in the States are real visionaries, and want to be successful in a way that does not involve stepping on heads to ford the river nor utilizing slavish labor. Idealism and success combined, business sense and benevolence intertwined is something I believe can be done and in the process make ourselves more fulfilled and happy.

a history of violence

The other day I was inside a McDonalds, glorious symbol of America for better or worse. That or Coca Cola. It was crowded with people my age or younger and there was a dynamic atmosphere you'd be hard pressed to find in an equivalent back home. Suddenly the manager put his hand on the back of another man who had been talking to two girls. For a split second I thought it was a friendly gesture, but this was quickly dispelled when he violently jerked the man away from them and began shouting and pushing him. At the second shove, the man made a fist and screamed at the manager, his face contorted in rage but also what looked like pain. No sound came out. The man was mute, and my unaffected friend beside me told me that other Chinese mutes often select McDonalds as the place to peddle their vouchers. Apparently it happened all the time. I watched as the man was bullied out the door, and could not help but choose his side and pity him staring from the outside before finally walking slowly away. I did not think to remember the anger I have often felt here in Shanghai towards locals trying to sell me goods or beg money from me, an anger that sometimes bubbles into rage and a desire for violence.

I played basketball with a guy from Haerbin, the "Ice City", yesterday. I shook his hand and told him I had heard a rumor that the people from Haerbin were fighters. He smiled and said that it was true, that Shanghai people were "pussies" and that in Haerbin they "don't talk, they throw a punch." His English was easily among the best I had ever heard from a Chinese local; I was shocked that he had never left China, and as the day went on I joked with him that I didn't believe he had never studied in the States. Peace told me a couple stories about his fights, including one where he smashed a taxi cab door into the head of a drunken Shanghainese. This coupled with his virtual mastery of English, including some choice slang, gave me a strange sensation. I could not help but respect him more for both his language ability and apparent violent streak. Though most likely not a true indication, Asians who speak good English give the impression of a high degree of intelligence. Despite my increasing leaning towards calm, passive tranquility in my day to day life, there still lies in me that primal feeling of violence, brute strength and intimidation as synonymous with power, respect, and success. Anyways, his basketball style was a little physical, and he played well. An opponent in one of our games often joked around, talking trash in a Sam Cassel (I imagine), jovial kind of way. The smiling jester quickly got under Peace's skin, who after a point went forehead to head with him telling him in Mandarin not to tell people what to do, how to play, or what a foul was. After that, Peace's game declined into a somewhat physical war with whoever was guarding him, even if it was a double team. After the game, he confided in us the obvious: that the guy had gotten under his skin and made him lose his cool on the court. But it was his explanation of something that I hadn't noticed during the game that was strangely fascinating:
"That guy [the trash talker] was pretty good!"
"I didn't notice it, why do you say that?"
"Because he guarded me in the post, I couldn't hit him in the face with my elbow" Peace gave us a demonstration of a classic Shaq move. "Yea he backed away just enough to avoid it," he continued smiling.
"It's eerie how normal you talk about trying to elbow him."

And it was.

back again

It is now noon time in Shanghai, and the sun is hot. It beats down on broken stone sidewalks and the tanned faces of country side Chinese who will never make more than enough money to survive. The sidewalks have yet to be littered with slop and refuse, the garbage that gives the humid night a sickly sweet smell in and around the groceries and food stands. I sit in my air conditioned room on my laptop wrongly thinking I am living like a real Chinese.

With that said, I am living like a Chinese compared to last semester. Every day it is seven flights of stairs in 35 degree (Celcius, about 95 F) humid weather. Last night my roommate, Skating and i went shopping at the supermarket about a block away and I saw a big rat scurry right in front of my flip flopped feet. I share a bathroom in a two bedroom apartment with three Chinese girls, and there is no living room. A shower always leads to water coating the floor, and there are water footprints mixed with dirt on the floors a lot of the time. There was no hand soap anywhere when I arrived. Just like the beginning of last semester, this is going to take a couple of weeks to get used to.

Right now, I am eating less and less. I am actually afraid to go out by myself for food because reticence has really taken a hold of me. I spent the last four days with my girlfriend, and said goodbye to her at the airport. I am in love with her but yesterday morning could be the last time I see her. In any case, this is all a good challenge for me. As long as I can stay focused on my one clear goal, learning Chinese, everything else can stay murky and gray.

School hasn't started yet, but it certainly feels strange walking around the campus, Tao Li Yuan, and passing by Lian Xing Lou knowing so many friends have gone. Aside from friends, familiar faces have left and returned to their home countries. Coupled with my change of address, Jiao Tong has all but lost it's feeling of home. There will be no room 613, G and Sol's place of refuge and snacks. Charlesy and his crew of misfits have all gone, no longer relaxing their hangovers away under the umbrellas of the coffee shop. While I was home in D.C., I missed this place like a home but I seemed to have forgotten that everything was already changing before I left Shanghai on vacation. Ah, now it's 1 o clock and I have gotten nothing productive done today. Time to venture out into China, I reckon.

Synopsis- 1st Semester

This past semester I had one goal: Chinese improvement. I did improve my Chinese, to be sure, my Aunty even told me my mom during our family reunion in Boston that I wasn't wasting my parents money. I also had a lot of fun in Shanghai, met people of all ages and nationalities in my program, made good Chinese friends (startlingly easy, at times), experienced the best night life of my life, realized the danger of internet bars is very true, and trained like a Spartan, dined like an American, and met an amazing girl.

My blog started with some observations about Shanghai and Chinese, but kind of...I don't know...de-evolved into a more personal journal the likes of which I had wanted to leave to xanga. Well, my xanga is pretty much retired and I don't regret my writings. However, next semester is going to be different. I plan to live more cheaply, healthly, and really try and squeeze the Chinese out of Shanghai. It's a wonderful, international, modern city. You can live in the Chinese side, the foreign side, or straddle the line. I'd like to think I more or less was between them, but Chinese is the thing so I will try and say goodbye to the comforts I grew accustomed to last semester.

In short, if I get comfortable as early as October, that means I'm doing something wrong.

Zaijian