I may as well admit it: I'm living at home. I feel kind of like a neutered dog. It's been about a year, and the fading summer breeze is a sometimes harsh reminder of the time that's passed and that deeply desperate sense, that feeling of personal dread that's come and gone, come and gone and that even right now I can't seem to free myself of as it moves like a slow creep throughout me and that sometimes has a voice that says: "See how little you've done, how not far you've come, in one year?"
I think I pointed to the crowd like Maciej Lampe did on draft night one too many times; promises and vows hard for a little porcupine like me with newly formed delusions of grandeur. For better or worse this is my home base: my sister's old room.
I'm not a grand strategist, I'm a grunt who never wanted to be in the army but now recognizes its necessity and how lucky he is. If I'm going to advance, it has to be with my head down, my intentions pure, and a day by day, step by step routine. Right now I'm working on moving out on my own again, but it's hard to do, and not just for the reasons obvious.
- I've never felt so close to my family as I do now. While returning to the proverbial "family womb" has not been the magical balm I originally thought would cure me (hence the still-ruptured feeling I have one year later), my family has been an IMMENSE boon to me and I feel connected to their emotions in a way I wasn't growing up.
- My mom and I have butted heads, but we've also reached an understanding. She's still the one I came to with my emotional problems as a kid. Last Friday I was feeling low after another bitter reminder that D.C. is my hometown but not my home. I came home late and sat across from her, and proceeded to confess to her things I couldn't put into words the many times we'd talked since I'd been back. I told her I felt like I'd been playing catch up for the last decade and then some, and that I'd just only recently realized it was a race not worth running in the first place. She listened to me, and then she took me in her arms like a child.
- While I still feel isolated from the independence that I had and that I wish to have, it has let me be more objective in how I look at my decisions regarding relationships (both romantic and platonic). It's been a lumpy pill to swallow, but I've had to realize just how much of a selfish, ego-driven, self-deluding and self-loathing human being I am. Thing is, I think a ton of people are like this, too. Worse still, a great many of them are unaware, or don't care. I do care, and I now wear my guilt in my eyes. It's not a great way to be, but I think it's who I am: just someone who's real hard on himself. Accepting that, I think I have gained the perspective that it's OK to walk a lonely path with some regrets and some guilt weighing you down. It makes the journey tougher, the oasis sweeter, the lodgings cozier...and above all, if I'm lucky to have companions, I'll love and appreciate them instead of take them for granted.
I'd abandoned this blog in large part because I felt bad about it. It was my China blog, the womb being the motherland that I felt a connection to and had returned to instill in myself a deeper understanding of what it is to be Chinese.
I should not be ashamed that I was defeated by my experience, by my poor choices more so than anything to do with the place or people. I learned a lot, and returned to another womb for a while.
So I return to "Back in the Womb Again", to talk about experiences. I still have China dreams, but there are wonderful people and experiences I've had since I've been back in DC, more to come, and a journey that doesn't stop but comes in steps.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Subways
Riding the WMATA, I suddenly realized I was now fully used to seeing so many 'foreigners' around me.
I thought about what it would be like if everyone besides me was full Chinese. It would be strange. There would be stares. Probably at least 2x-3x more people. Smells.
When I rode the subway in Beijing, and to a lesser extent Shanghai, I wore headphones and searched for empty space to stare into. I needed a certain kind of background music for those long rides. Cold Play and Radio Head and alternative rock.
There wasn't enough room to sit, much less get out a book and read. Yesterday I looked over the shoulder of a WMATA commuter and read his kindle secretly. Not as many PSPs in Washington. One thing I still like to do is ride the subway "hands free". I plant my feet in a kung-fu stance, and tighten my stomach muscles. If I concentrate, I can usually easily stay stable. I let myself imagine, sometimes, that I am one of the few who can do this. Sometimes, I fall into someone and grab them to keep from busting my ass. Then I apologize and look to grasp a handrail.
The conversations were more Washingtonian on the WMATA, while in Shanghai they were about money, and in Beijing they were about the Great Wall. That was a joke, they don't talk about the Great Wall while riding the subway in Beijing. Unless they are tourists. The big difference was, in China, if I wasn't melting into my subway itunes playlist, I was leaning my ear to conversations, trying to discern what they were gossiping about. In Washington, I don't try and eavesdrop on chatter, instead it becomes an effort to tune it out.
The subway in Japan is a different creature altogether. The masses are more orderly than China, but are still masses compared to Washington. Almost no one talks to each other, like well dressed mute babushkas. The outdoor subways are travel amongst beautiful backdrops. I always want to buy a drink or snack when transferring, because I imagine that snacks and drinks taste better in Japan. In reality, they sometimes do taste better, and they sometimes don't. They are always more expensive.
The New York subway is a lot like New York City: powerful, dirty, entertaining just to be in, and a little crazy. It's a very exhausting thing, mostly.
Subways are nice. But I like to drive in my car.
I thought about what it would be like if everyone besides me was full Chinese. It would be strange. There would be stares. Probably at least 2x-3x more people. Smells.
When I rode the subway in Beijing, and to a lesser extent Shanghai, I wore headphones and searched for empty space to stare into. I needed a certain kind of background music for those long rides. Cold Play and Radio Head and alternative rock.
There wasn't enough room to sit, much less get out a book and read. Yesterday I looked over the shoulder of a WMATA commuter and read his kindle secretly. Not as many PSPs in Washington. One thing I still like to do is ride the subway "hands free". I plant my feet in a kung-fu stance, and tighten my stomach muscles. If I concentrate, I can usually easily stay stable. I let myself imagine, sometimes, that I am one of the few who can do this. Sometimes, I fall into someone and grab them to keep from busting my ass. Then I apologize and look to grasp a handrail.
The conversations were more Washingtonian on the WMATA, while in Shanghai they were about money, and in Beijing they were about the Great Wall. That was a joke, they don't talk about the Great Wall while riding the subway in Beijing. Unless they are tourists. The big difference was, in China, if I wasn't melting into my subway itunes playlist, I was leaning my ear to conversations, trying to discern what they were gossiping about. In Washington, I don't try and eavesdrop on chatter, instead it becomes an effort to tune it out.
The subway in Japan is a different creature altogether. The masses are more orderly than China, but are still masses compared to Washington. Almost no one talks to each other, like well dressed mute babushkas. The outdoor subways are travel amongst beautiful backdrops. I always want to buy a drink or snack when transferring, because I imagine that snacks and drinks taste better in Japan. In reality, they sometimes do taste better, and they sometimes don't. They are always more expensive.
The New York subway is a lot like New York City: powerful, dirty, entertaining just to be in, and a little crazy. It's a very exhausting thing, mostly.
Subways are nice. But I like to drive in my car.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
yong ding men
When it turns you around
There
Like something infinitely distant,
walk towards it.
Each step takes hearts and minds
Into the past
Sandy peddlers
Wrap and unwrap sandy goods and meals
Sandy problems,
Stir and blow
Each step a little closer
to passing them,
Closer to a gate of Heaven.
Across now a rift road of universe
Black Tar
Yellow Striped
reminds us with a jarr,
of the now
Look both ways, no one’s hand to hold
And back on the path again
To Heaven.
Away from loneliness each footfall rests
In the ground, steady rhythm,
beating heart, step, step
And as the sun cools
We reach cool stone walls to rest.
Sit down, breath deep and see
Dogs run past, on children’s feet
Children speak with confidence
Wearing brightly helmets
Fallen, stars pick themselves up
And commence to racing colorfully
Across the ancient stones.
Wheelchairs pushed
by their ancient riders
Once lame,
Newly liberated, newly blessed,
By something like Heaven.
Loving hands, sandy hands
Guide orange kites
Tailed blue kites and white kites
Steadfast minnows swimming in place
As the grey evening waters
Push the cloud lilies past them
Laughter kind and pure,
Equal under Heaven.
And then from the laughter movement now flows ribbon like
Bold
From the quiet pastel scene and those spry twinkle eyed elders
Revered and mischievous,
Arise with colored plumes in hand
Fan dancing to the dragon drums
And the thunder cymbals wrought by gods
Each crash of which a crowd grows here
And the carriages of red and gold rumble on the stones
Each father, daughter looking on
With jesters, princes, concubines
And gossiping mother swans
In the Court of Heaven.
A crippled whore,
Vermillion From lips to toes, limps to her place
Her steps and plumes same same
As all the others
She sways,
Revered as all the others.
The crowd delighted, joyous,
as the dancers step
Bards and soldiers clap their hands
As pauper children dart and dash
Between the wheels of bicycles.
And the old lao tou
Wrinkled beyond measure,
His wizened one eye watching
He keeps the beat with a closed fan
Softly tapping the arm
Of his jade throne, the one with wheels
Of stainless steel and rubber
Tap, tap, tap.
The sky dimming now like a closing eye
Keep walking forward, children
Young and old,
To and from Heaven.
Steady, step
There
Like something infinitely distant,
walk towards it.
Each step takes hearts and minds
Into the past
Sandy peddlers
Wrap and unwrap sandy goods and meals
Sandy problems,
Stir and blow
Each step a little closer
to passing them,
Closer to a gate of Heaven.
Across now a rift road of universe
Black Tar
Yellow Striped
reminds us with a jarr,
of the now
Look both ways, no one’s hand to hold
And back on the path again
To Heaven.
Away from loneliness each footfall rests
In the ground, steady rhythm,
beating heart, step, step
And as the sun cools
We reach cool stone walls to rest.
Sit down, breath deep and see
Dogs run past, on children’s feet
Children speak with confidence
Wearing brightly helmets
Fallen, stars pick themselves up
And commence to racing colorfully
Across the ancient stones.
Wheelchairs pushed
by their ancient riders
Once lame,
Newly liberated, newly blessed,
By something like Heaven.
Loving hands, sandy hands
Guide orange kites
Tailed blue kites and white kites
Steadfast minnows swimming in place
As the grey evening waters
Push the cloud lilies past them
Laughter kind and pure,
Equal under Heaven.
And then from the laughter movement now flows ribbon like
Bold
From the quiet pastel scene and those spry twinkle eyed elders
Revered and mischievous,
Arise with colored plumes in hand
Fan dancing to the dragon drums
And the thunder cymbals wrought by gods
Each crash of which a crowd grows here
And the carriages of red and gold rumble on the stones
Each father, daughter looking on
With jesters, princes, concubines
And gossiping mother swans
In the Court of Heaven.
A crippled whore,
Vermillion From lips to toes, limps to her place
Her steps and plumes same same
As all the others
She sways,
Revered as all the others.
The crowd delighted, joyous,
as the dancers step
Bards and soldiers clap their hands
As pauper children dart and dash
Between the wheels of bicycles.
And the old lao tou
Wrinkled beyond measure,
His wizened one eye watching
He keeps the beat with a closed fan
Softly tapping the arm
Of his jade throne, the one with wheels
Of stainless steel and rubber
Tap, tap, tap.
The sky dimming now like a closing eye
Keep walking forward, children
Young and old,
To and from Heaven.
Steady, step
Monday, April 19, 2010
Package
“It’s a package from China,” his sister said from beyond the kitchen, down the hall. “There’s CHINESE words on it.”
He looked from the computer screen at her, walking towards him across the green linoleum tiles, past the sink, and to the desk where she dropped the package and walked away.
He took the package in his hand without focusing on it, white paper. Soft. Maybe clothing? He hoped they wouldn’t ask him to open it; he felt relieved when he saw his father go out into the garden and heard his sister go up the stairs to her room.
Alone in the kitchen, he sat down and began to eat, the large envelope from China on the couch, out of view. He took a bite of sandwich. He had been mindlessly tapping at his keyboard for over an hour, mind in a fog, hungry and waiting for that sandwich.. Now, his stomach felt weird. He could still eat, and did, but there was no enjoyment in the taste nor texture.
Savor his meal he did not, but he did not rush through it. The uneasiness in his stomach, which felt amorphous and mobile, as if it would spread and then keep spreading from the inside out, kept him eating slowly. He knew he’d open the package as soon as he finished eating. It kept him eating slowly.
Almost finished, he paused and took a deep breath. He let out a sigh that was meant to calm his nerves. Each of his fingers felt heavy, yes there was a definite numbness in his fingers and hands, sort of like when one wakes up and finds it hard to make a fist. Or like in the cold, the hands and feet are the first to go. What was wrong with his nerves?
He got up, threw away the wrapping the sandwich had come in, and called out a “Thanks, Dad!” to his father in the garden. He picked up the package and immediately knew what he was feeling.
Lovesick. He’d been suspicious of it, having had felt it on and off in the past several months. But…things had been going well. Very well even. And this package, it was sent in good faith. It was a birthday present. He should have felt happy. He furrowed his brow, a little worried, a little disgusted with himself. He walked up to his room with the envelope in his hands.
The first thing he did was read his name, handwritten in blue ink in the middle of the envelope: “Daniel Lim Roberts”, and he smiled a sad smile when he thought of how her voice sounded saying his full name out loud. She knew him by that name. He'd inserted the "Lim" along the way, to honor his Chinese parentage. But growing up, he was just Daniel Roberts, Roberts, Danny, Dan, he might have even been D. Rob to some, sometime in high school. But to her, he’d been Daniel Lim Roberts. Never just Dan.
“I hate the thought of Dan…sounds so American!”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Daaaaan! What’s up, dude!” her head cocking and her hand twisting into something like a gang sign.
“You’re American accent is horrible.”
“‘American’ is a horrible accent, I didn’t invent it,” she said smiling. She always smiled like a cat.
“‘Friend of me, mother of Krissy, work of my father,’” he whined, mocking her now. “It’s ‘MY friend, KRISSY's mother, and MY dad’s job!’”
“Whateverrrr,” she had probably said. And then he’d probably tackled her. He chuckled quietly to himself at the memory. He missed their jokes, so simple and bland, devoid of any real snappy cleverness. It was easy, and it was funny. To the two of them. Everything else doesn't matter, and everything makes sense, when it's all wrapped in a world for two.
His eyes drifted down, below “United States of America.” She had written ‘美国’. The little characters, the lines curving and jumbling together like Mandarin chicken scratch. He had seen her, years ago, head down in her books, eyes almost menacing in their concentration, writing characters over and over, studying. He remembered sitting across and aways from her, and stealing glances. One night his friends had come in to the study hall and began back slapping, talking loudly, and she had looked up, frustrated. He’d shushed them, and tried to give a guilty smile to her, but she was already buried again in her books. He wondered if she wrote in Chinese a lot, nowadays.
On the package she had made a mistake writing his address, too, he noticed. He wondered if she’d said “Oh no”, or “whoops”, aloud yet softly to herself, scribbling out the error with her pen.
It had traveled a long way to get here, he thought, looking at the lumpy, handled paper. The stamps with red Chinese characters meaning flight, China Post, the little 元 symbol. The characters seemed to call to him, those symbols that spelled out history and culture and yes, even magic, strung together over cave walls and battered parchment or fine strokes on royal stationary and the fine calligraphy on giant scrolls where the characters formed their own paintings. He turned the package over to open it, and paused when he saw she’d written the return address there, where they used to live. He suddenly and concretely longed for his old life. What had she sent him? Had she included a letter? Without a doubt, no matter what gift was within, he yearned for a letter from her more than anything.
Inside was a laminated photo of the two of them, 8 x 11, from his going away party. She had her arm around him, the other hand had held her camera. He turned the photograph over. He read the sweet, hand written note on the back, with grammar mistakes and “u” instead of “you”. His eyes became watery after the second sentence, and when he read the words “Just want to tel you that I’m so happy to meet you in Shanghai and that I’m gratefull to be loved by you and have u in my life”, he was in tears.
At the end:
“Take care and don’t forget that I love u.”
He found the other laminated photo in his room, the one she had made from their Thailand trip, and compared them. She was beautiful in both, and absolutely striking in one. He looked now carefully at their eyes. Hers were the eyes commonly associated with the Oriental, single lidded, small, and nearly impossible to read. Early on they had seemed stern, cold, and even cruel, he had sometimes thought to himself. He'd learned over time how to read them. His were expressive and innocent, the kind of soft eyes that people trusted, that people associated with kindness and perhaps an inability to do harm to another. He looked at his eyes and his face in the photos. He looked for the sadness that didn't show up in pictures. The the dissatisfaction, ebbing confidence, the insecurity, the self-hate, the doubt.
His doubt, both in himself and about her, that had finally gnawed on his soul and heart until it was unbearable. He’d taken it, absorbed it, shoved it down. He'd made vows and demanded strength from himself, and even righteousness. He’d cursed himself and his weakness to the point of self-flagellation, trying to shut the uncertainty up and never wanting to look it in the eyes but at night when he lay in bed as she slept calmly his eyes were open and it stared at him from the darkness like an ashen wight. He looked at her now in the photo, and thought how she must have seen his face when she kissed him, when he told her “I love you.” How she must have trusted his eyes.
He didn’t want to open the wrapped gift anymore. It seemed to him, whatever it was that she’d sent to him…he didn’t’ deserve. And it didn’t matter. Not next to those photographs, and the secrets they'd held.
He opened it anyways. Inside were camoflauge shorts, and a brown leather bracelet with a string band; the bracelet was almost a replica of one she had brought back for him from Japan two years earlier. He put the shorts on, and the bracelet. He tried to be unceremonious about it, but he couldn’t quell the feeling of gravity as he tightened the bracelet. The items smelled like her.
Had she scented them with her perfume, intentionally?
Then was the photograph, the words, the sentiment, the “…don’t forget I love u”, did it all mean something more than her affection as a friend? His heart lifted at the thought. And then, just as swiftly, he felt ashamed, like a kid, playing dress up, imagining things.
Daniel had wronged her and lost her. He looked again at the words on the back of the Thailand photo. From almost a year ago. She had made that photo the night before his going away party, with the words, "See you in the capital!" He had broken her heart that very next night. But she still gave him the parting gift, with her words of encouragement, words similar to those she had written him now:
“I know u have your ups and downs, but I hope even though u don’t feel always happy that u’ll stay strong and believe in yourself and your loved ones.”
Believe in your loved ones, he thought, and he sat on his bed and stared, at nothing in particular, wearing his gifts.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Feng and A'Ping Welcome Me
Feng and his wife A’ping sat down with me at the little plastic table on a stone embankment in the street. My awkward deference continued as I waited for one of them to take a bite. “Come on, don’t be nervous” Feng said. He had small eyes that crinkled when he smiled, and a nose slightly shoat-like. He had one of those mouths with small lips and big teeth, where when he talked his teeth showed as if he was smiling. But he was usually smiling when he spoke in his soft fast way full of jokes that tended to trail off at the end until I could hardly hear, let alone understand. But I liked his big teddy bear presence and felt there was no condescension (my Chinese level was not cutting it with him, a graduate in Chinese ancient history) when he spoke to me. And when Liao Feng really smiled and added a chuckle, usually preceded by his raised bushy eyebrows pushing his forehead into folds and opening his eyes to small (as opposed to microscopic) proportions, he was that definition of wennuan （温暖）.
We slurped our thick noodles outside the little Shan Xi shack restaurant, a pleasant breeze coiling around and about the heat. I ate cautiously and listened consciously; my Chinese was pretty decent but either it wasn’t good enough or it had made too good an impression on them. A’ping asked me about the noodles I’d eaten before in Shanghai, Feng asked about Chinese food , traffic, and people back home in Washington. I asked what they liked to do, and they answered.
“Our lifestyle, compared to the students and friends you knew, is probably a whole lot different,” began Feng.
“After work we generally we cook, stay at home, keep each other company. We keep it simple,” A’ping added.
“You could say we’re more…Chinese.” He hesitated and she looked at him doubtfully.
“Or you could just say we like to keep things simple,” she said in her cool quiet way. A’ping was slender, with a symmetrical, round face, and delicate bones around the mouth and cheeks. She was beautiful, actually, and compared to her husband… well…it could be said that she was not a superficial woman AND that jovial Feng had himself a lucky catch.
I smiled and said I enjoyed the same kind of day to day, they smiled back but I couldn’t tell if they believed me and I felt a small flush of embarrassment.
We munched on the noodles and beef in the warm, clear broth. Coriander floated like lily petals in the soup. After wolfing down our bowls, Feng patted me on the shoulder with a broad hand and a broader smile when I tried to give him money, and walked over to the laoban (老板). As A’ping and I watched him pay and chat briefly with the owner, I knew she felt lucky, too.
We walked through the streets and alleys where fruit and vegetable sellers had their goods spread out on thick blankets and tables like preparations for a gorgeous feast. Everywhere walls were cracked and old, and the ground littered with indiscernible scraps and refuse. Children ran amongst grandparents and men sat smoking. Occasionally, we’d sidestep to make way for a bike. The couple pointed out convenient stores and places to eat, where to get medicine and how much a watermelon should be (1 yuan per 500g!). We crisscrossed narrow pathways of old tan colored cement and gray stone until we arrived at our home. I gingerly ascended the stairs.
After retiring to my room I thought about a summer of this…it couldn’t help but change me for the better. For the kinder. But it wasn’t going to be easy; it was difficult to communicate both because of the language, Feng’s rapid speech and accent… and the plain old difficulty of finding topics of discussion. I remembered how alien I felt touching the floor with my bare feet and hands. That green and white tiled floor, the dirt on each little white tile permanent. The little hard bed. My toes wanted to curl just walking around the house. I wondered if we’d be able to get along, if Feng’s good nature was just a front and if things would change after I’d handed him a thick stack of red 100s. I felt alone.
The two of them came to my doorway and I pushed all the negative thoughts aside to listen to their news. They had been researching things for me to do in the neighborhood and beyond, from sites in Beijing to little places to get a meal complete with a map. They laughed when I said I’d probably get lost trying to navigate the alleys to the neighborhood police station to register. They’d be more than happy to take me, of course. There was a brief moment of pause, and then A’ping said they hoped I would be able to stay with them. Then Liao Feng said the same. And in the company of these good people and their welcoming sincerity, I finally felt a tiny tinge of something like home.
We slurped our thick noodles outside the little Shan Xi shack restaurant, a pleasant breeze coiling around and about the heat. I ate cautiously and listened consciously; my Chinese was pretty decent but either it wasn’t good enough or it had made too good an impression on them. A’ping asked me about the noodles I’d eaten before in Shanghai, Feng asked about Chinese food , traffic, and people back home in Washington. I asked what they liked to do, and they answered.
“Our lifestyle, compared to the students and friends you knew, is probably a whole lot different,” began Feng.
“After work we generally we cook, stay at home, keep each other company. We keep it simple,” A’ping added.
“You could say we’re more…Chinese.” He hesitated and she looked at him doubtfully.
“Or you could just say we like to keep things simple,” she said in her cool quiet way. A’ping was slender, with a symmetrical, round face, and delicate bones around the mouth and cheeks. She was beautiful, actually, and compared to her husband… well…it could be said that she was not a superficial woman AND that jovial Feng had himself a lucky catch.
I smiled and said I enjoyed the same kind of day to day, they smiled back but I couldn’t tell if they believed me and I felt a small flush of embarrassment.
We munched on the noodles and beef in the warm, clear broth. Coriander floated like lily petals in the soup. After wolfing down our bowls, Feng patted me on the shoulder with a broad hand and a broader smile when I tried to give him money, and walked over to the laoban (老板). As A’ping and I watched him pay and chat briefly with the owner, I knew she felt lucky, too.
We walked through the streets and alleys where fruit and vegetable sellers had their goods spread out on thick blankets and tables like preparations for a gorgeous feast. Everywhere walls were cracked and old, and the ground littered with indiscernible scraps and refuse. Children ran amongst grandparents and men sat smoking. Occasionally, we’d sidestep to make way for a bike. The couple pointed out convenient stores and places to eat, where to get medicine and how much a watermelon should be (1 yuan per 500g!). We crisscrossed narrow pathways of old tan colored cement and gray stone until we arrived at our home. I gingerly ascended the stairs.
After retiring to my room I thought about a summer of this…it couldn’t help but change me for the better. For the kinder. But it wasn’t going to be easy; it was difficult to communicate both because of the language, Feng’s rapid speech and accent… and the plain old difficulty of finding topics of discussion. I remembered how alien I felt touching the floor with my bare feet and hands. That green and white tiled floor, the dirt on each little white tile permanent. The little hard bed. My toes wanted to curl just walking around the house. I wondered if we’d be able to get along, if Feng’s good nature was just a front and if things would change after I’d handed him a thick stack of red 100s. I felt alone.
The two of them came to my doorway and I pushed all the negative thoughts aside to listen to their news. They had been researching things for me to do in the neighborhood and beyond, from sites in Beijing to little places to get a meal complete with a map. They laughed when I said I’d probably get lost trying to navigate the alleys to the neighborhood police station to register. They’d be more than happy to take me, of course. There was a brief moment of pause, and then A’ping said they hoped I would be able to stay with them. Then Liao Feng said the same. And in the company of these good people and their welcoming sincerity, I finally felt a tiny tinge of something like home.
First Steps into Beijing (May 30, 2009)
A well spring of mixed emotions. As our cab went to the airport we sat in silence, and with one exception right before I went through security we passed through the airport in some kind of strange, drifting o.k. kind of feeling. The connection was cut and the silence that had become comfort, and then worry, was now a heavy kind of acceptance without malice but crushing in its lack of anything.
Upon takeoff, I had the distinct feeling I was independent, and after we’d touched down and I’d boarded a bus for the nearest destination close to Xuan Wu district, I felt proud of myself. I looked out the windows at the trees and the blue sky, and if you felt the need to reread that I don’t blame you- my memory of Beijing was a gray and dusty, at best yellow and dusty. My memory of here was a large city on a similar scale to Shanghai but without it’s flair for modernity and color. Taking the historical monuments away from it, I had always looked at Beijing in my mind’s eye as un-beautiful. Riding along the highway with veritable small forests on both sides, I dreamt up a story about a Greek Garden oasis in the post apocalypse and the sister and brother who find refuge there. Surrounded by a thin layer of trees like the Beijing highway, the mansion of marbled floors and stone pillars was home to a venerable benefactor, and the Thor like giant who protected the oasis from the creatures fell and craven on the outskirts. I snapped awake, happily. Already it seemed the landscape of Beijing had a beauty that was almost dream-like.
I was also happy with my interaction with the people I encountered within hours of arriving. I probably tipped my driver, Mr. Mu, a little much, but he was engaging and helpful (the cynic in me screams ‘business opportunist..you moron’) and we chatted in Mandarin about the N1H1 flu, buying guns in the States, and hu tongs full of ancient prostitutes. Every time I asked for directions, even when people didn’t know where or even what I was talking about, I never experienced the kind of haughty indifference sometimes purposefully thrown at you by Shanghainese. In the streets, I saw a man holding his baby and clapping while swaying just a bit on the sidewalk. A moment later his wife came pushing the empty carriage, mimicking him and clapping her hands, and just behind her was the child’s grandmother who really got going swaying her hips and clapping and laughing. Atmosphere is the canvas you walk upon, and feel and breathe and whose texture you feel. It’s always colored by the people; I felt like this was a place more vibrant than where I had come from. I felt like I was starting something.
But now I was alone, in my hotel room. It brought back memories of feeling very hungry in Lian Xing Building at Jiaotong University 2 and a half years ago. On the street I pulled on my hood even though the weather was hot and sunny, headphones in and hands in my pockets weaving through the crowds. I had no one to call, I felt, for reasons of pride, and also because of promises I had to keep. I logged into an internet bar and felt too old for this, and remembered over 3 years ago doing the same thing with giddy joy as a college student in this very city. At that time I’d grinned and said ‘Zao!’ to passing Chinese families in our hotel; while that positive spirit was to an extent rekindled upon my return, it could never be the same.
I’m not the same person, in age nor experience. From soft clay to a tempered reluctance, I’ve been altered by Shanghai and my time abroad. Reluctance to accept people and let them close to me, the friends who I do let close come with an expiration date. The friends I love back home grow farther apart from me with each month. My mentality is wary, guarded, and I wonder if this is pessimism at work or something that comes with age. Perhaps I’ve made the right move.
Or perhaps not. I have always had someone constant in the 2+ years in China. And now, I’ve severed her. No shudders this time. Yes, tears. And we both said ‘I love you’. And the hug lasted like those first ones, and those tight ones, and those ones I thought would occur millions of times and still believe might. And then we said goodbye and walked away.
I’ve changed, she’s changed, we all change. Places change. Eventually, we reach a point where change just hurts too much. I fear in the recesses of gut I will be melancholy and nostalgic forever. An avatar of memory without the focus to live today.
Upon takeoff, I had the distinct feeling I was independent, and after we’d touched down and I’d boarded a bus for the nearest destination close to Xuan Wu district, I felt proud of myself. I looked out the windows at the trees and the blue sky, and if you felt the need to reread that I don’t blame you- my memory of Beijing was a gray and dusty, at best yellow and dusty. My memory of here was a large city on a similar scale to Shanghai but without it’s flair for modernity and color. Taking the historical monuments away from it, I had always looked at Beijing in my mind’s eye as un-beautiful. Riding along the highway with veritable small forests on both sides, I dreamt up a story about a Greek Garden oasis in the post apocalypse and the sister and brother who find refuge there. Surrounded by a thin layer of trees like the Beijing highway, the mansion of marbled floors and stone pillars was home to a venerable benefactor, and the Thor like giant who protected the oasis from the creatures fell and craven on the outskirts. I snapped awake, happily. Already it seemed the landscape of Beijing had a beauty that was almost dream-like.
I was also happy with my interaction with the people I encountered within hours of arriving. I probably tipped my driver, Mr. Mu, a little much, but he was engaging and helpful (the cynic in me screams ‘business opportunist..you moron’) and we chatted in Mandarin about the N1H1 flu, buying guns in the States, and hu tongs full of ancient prostitutes. Every time I asked for directions, even when people didn’t know where or even what I was talking about, I never experienced the kind of haughty indifference sometimes purposefully thrown at you by Shanghainese. In the streets, I saw a man holding his baby and clapping while swaying just a bit on the sidewalk. A moment later his wife came pushing the empty carriage, mimicking him and clapping her hands, and just behind her was the child’s grandmother who really got going swaying her hips and clapping and laughing. Atmosphere is the canvas you walk upon, and feel and breathe and whose texture you feel. It’s always colored by the people; I felt like this was a place more vibrant than where I had come from. I felt like I was starting something.
But now I was alone, in my hotel room. It brought back memories of feeling very hungry in Lian Xing Building at Jiaotong University 2 and a half years ago. On the street I pulled on my hood even though the weather was hot and sunny, headphones in and hands in my pockets weaving through the crowds. I had no one to call, I felt, for reasons of pride, and also because of promises I had to keep. I logged into an internet bar and felt too old for this, and remembered over 3 years ago doing the same thing with giddy joy as a college student in this very city. At that time I’d grinned and said ‘Zao!’ to passing Chinese families in our hotel; while that positive spirit was to an extent rekindled upon my return, it could never be the same.
I’m not the same person, in age nor experience. From soft clay to a tempered reluctance, I’ve been altered by Shanghai and my time abroad. Reluctance to accept people and let them close to me, the friends who I do let close come with an expiration date. The friends I love back home grow farther apart from me with each month. My mentality is wary, guarded, and I wonder if this is pessimism at work or something that comes with age. Perhaps I’ve made the right move.
Or perhaps not. I have always had someone constant in the 2+ years in China. And now, I’ve severed her. No shudders this time. Yes, tears. And we both said ‘I love you’. And the hug lasted like those first ones, and those tight ones, and those ones I thought would occur millions of times and still believe might. And then we said goodbye and walked away.
I’ve changed, she’s changed, we all change. Places change. Eventually, we reach a point where change just hurts too much. I fear in the recesses of gut I will be melancholy and nostalgic forever. An avatar of memory without the focus to live today.
Friday, April 2, 2010
re post:
Hammer dropped
The night had gone on in a bit of a polite asking about old friends and family type of vibe. Nice to see you after so many months. Small talk. Pat on the back. Constantly looking for opportunities to cheers and clink glasses. 45% natural, 55% awkward. Mast and I were at a bar littered with foreigners, I was in the doldrums after making my girlfriend (his former classmate) cry because I was in a depressing mood an hour before, and I was counting just how many foreigners there were in Shanghai.
"More and more..."
"Yeah."
We finished our well priced Belgian brews and he said let's get out of here. We'd gone through the formalities, lightly touching on dangerous subjects related to failed business partnerships and "cunning"friends from our old Shanghai Jiao Da days. Touched on but certainly not delved into; the delving perhaps will never happen in our lifetime but sometimes I wonder...
After some Korean small food and Budweiser, the conversation, in that way that only happens after a certain amount of inebriation, shifted to the more serious side. We talked about T-Gun, Justin, dreams, and what success was. Now, Mast had already talked to me back at the Kaiba (bar littered with foreigners) with helping me settle in Qing dao. He made it somewhat clear (he's never 100% clear to the point that when he is 100% it tends to steamroll you) he could help me with a job, visa, whatever. Still, even when discussing the hard facts of my potential move from lady Shanghai, I had never felt serious about the conversation.
At the Korean bar, it was different. I felt like he was leading up to something. I knew it. I looked into the bottom of my glass. It was cut at the bottom, fanning out in crystal shards that drew the light from the ceiling, through the skim at the top of the golden beer down through the bottom. I played with it as Mast talked about the best and worst qualities in men he'd met throughout his life, and how good and bad bosses ascertained talent in these men.
I looked up, into his eyes, as he said the words: "Do you want to know what I think about you?"
"If I am talking about you, your qualities. The good ones, you have many. But the bad. I can tell you that your eyes have no enthusiasm. You look like a child who doesn't know what he wants to do."
His words only hurt because they were absolutely, without a bit of error, true. Maybe it was that easy. Maybe he was saying what was obvious...but then that would only make it apparent to the world.
I was silent a long time after he said that. Mast was the same one who had told me some two years ago "You Chinese has not improved that much," when we were at Jiao Da. His words meant something to me now, much as they did then. I told him, well he was following his dream, that was what motivated him.
He swiftly said, "No, real estate is not my dream, not at all. Even when I was at Jiao Da, studying everyday. I did it with all my heart. Not because it was my dream, or my motivation for my future, but because I do the best at whatever I am doing, at that time." My small retaliation had failed.
For as far back as I can remember I have been an underachiever. Since middleschool, when grades began to slip. I've spent so much effort trying to catch up in the social sphere of things. I didn't know the value of an internship in college. I didn't even speak with my mentor about what I could possibly do with my major when I switched to international relations. I switched from creative writing, the subject I tap only now as my passion. What did my creative writing professor tell me during our meeting freshman year? "To make a basketball allusion, I'm Larry Brown, and you're Allen Iverson. You have the talent, but you don't have the work ethic."
Quitter. Underachiever. Loser. I've rarely put myself 100% into doing anything in my life. I measure myself with anyone and I find the way or ways to come out well below them. In many ways I'm afraid to be alive.
I wanted to fight someone, while Mast closed the bill. I wanted to go down into that dirty hole, that romance with the unclean, that booze swilling, drug induced semi-fog where ones destruction was foretold and the only thing to do was to meet it with a half-sneer.
The last thing he told me I remember, before all the brotherly goodbye stuff, was this:
"If you don't know what you're doing in Shanghai. Then leave. Don't waste time."
The night had gone on in a bit of a polite asking about old friends and family type of vibe. Nice to see you after so many months. Small talk. Pat on the back. Constantly looking for opportunities to cheers and clink glasses. 45% natural, 55% awkward. Mast and I were at a bar littered with foreigners, I was in the doldrums after making my girlfriend (his former classmate) cry because I was in a depressing mood an hour before, and I was counting just how many foreigners there were in Shanghai.
"More and more..."
"Yeah."
We finished our well priced Belgian brews and he said let's get out of here. We'd gone through the formalities, lightly touching on dangerous subjects related to failed business partnerships and "cunning"friends from our old Shanghai Jiao Da days. Touched on but certainly not delved into; the delving perhaps will never happen in our lifetime but sometimes I wonder...
After some Korean small food and Budweiser, the conversation, in that way that only happens after a certain amount of inebriation, shifted to the more serious side. We talked about T-Gun, Justin, dreams, and what success was. Now, Mast had already talked to me back at the Kaiba (bar littered with foreigners) with helping me settle in Qing dao. He made it somewhat clear (he's never 100% clear to the point that when he is 100% it tends to steamroll you) he could help me with a job, visa, whatever. Still, even when discussing the hard facts of my potential move from lady Shanghai, I had never felt serious about the conversation.
At the Korean bar, it was different. I felt like he was leading up to something. I knew it. I looked into the bottom of my glass. It was cut at the bottom, fanning out in crystal shards that drew the light from the ceiling, through the skim at the top of the golden beer down through the bottom. I played with it as Mast talked about the best and worst qualities in men he'd met throughout his life, and how good and bad bosses ascertained talent in these men.
I looked up, into his eyes, as he said the words: "Do you want to know what I think about you?"
"If I am talking about you, your qualities. The good ones, you have many. But the bad. I can tell you that your eyes have no enthusiasm. You look like a child who doesn't know what he wants to do."
His words only hurt because they were absolutely, without a bit of error, true. Maybe it was that easy. Maybe he was saying what was obvious...but then that would only make it apparent to the world.
I was silent a long time after he said that. Mast was the same one who had told me some two years ago "You Chinese has not improved that much," when we were at Jiao Da. His words meant something to me now, much as they did then. I told him, well he was following his dream, that was what motivated him.
He swiftly said, "No, real estate is not my dream, not at all. Even when I was at Jiao Da, studying everyday. I did it with all my heart. Not because it was my dream, or my motivation for my future, but because I do the best at whatever I am doing, at that time." My small retaliation had failed.
For as far back as I can remember I have been an underachiever. Since middleschool, when grades began to slip. I've spent so much effort trying to catch up in the social sphere of things. I didn't know the value of an internship in college. I didn't even speak with my mentor about what I could possibly do with my major when I switched to international relations. I switched from creative writing, the subject I tap only now as my passion. What did my creative writing professor tell me during our meeting freshman year? "To make a basketball allusion, I'm Larry Brown, and you're Allen Iverson. You have the talent, but you don't have the work ethic."
Quitter. Underachiever. Loser. I've rarely put myself 100% into doing anything in my life. I measure myself with anyone and I find the way or ways to come out well below them. In many ways I'm afraid to be alive.
I wanted to fight someone, while Mast closed the bill. I wanted to go down into that dirty hole, that romance with the unclean, that booze swilling, drug induced semi-fog where ones destruction was foretold and the only thing to do was to meet it with a half-sneer.
The last thing he told me I remember, before all the brotherly goodbye stuff, was this:
"If you don't know what you're doing in Shanghai. Then leave. Don't waste time."
Tattouage
An old thing I'd written:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"What are you doing here?"
"Who are you?"
"What is all this for?"
The boy’s brow furrowed in young suspicion. His eyes were almost angry. He looked at me like I was a stranger who had beckoned him to come over. Scoot, you little pot-licker.
There were two of them, a smaller boy having run up to see, emboldened by his questioning friend. "Ta shou shang you shenme dongxi?" The larger of the little boys whispered to his friend. He spoke loud enough that I could easily hear, and he probably assumed I couldn’t understand Chinese. Or did he?
I’d learned a long time ago that children are often much, much, bolder than grown-ups. Even the shy ones, once they’ve gotten used to you a little, will tell you to your face your nose is big or you run funny.
"Shi xiong mao de shou", I said, and looked at him. It’s a bear’s paw. I didn't want to be scary, I was mostly just exhausted, for one and didn't want some kid annoying me. However, apart from that I had was also looking forward a bit to his surprise at my having understood him, and my response in his language. That was always a good kick for foreigners, surprising the locals. He and his friend would probably pause, a little open mouthed, and ask "You know Chinese?" Maybe they'd say "哇！" (Wow!) and start asking me questions about where I was from. That's usually how these things turned out.
Instead, he responded immediately, and knowingly, and gave my pride at playing the awe-inspiring stranger a kick in the nuts, “Wo zhidao a, wo shi wen zuo shou de nage”.
Oh. He knew all along; he’d been referring not to my right shoulder but the Chinese character “Forever”, or “Eternity”, on my left arm.
“Shi ‘yong’. ‘you yong’ de ‘yong’”, I said, now a little concerned.
The older boy looked at me for another second with his companion, wearing their little jackets and near shaven heads. Then they scampered off at a half skip, the younger one saying “Na ge xie de bu dui” (“It’s written wrong”) and going on to describe the proper composition of the character meaning forever, stroke by stroke.
I looked at the ground and smiled ashamedly. How fitting.
I had gotten the red and black Chinese character, which looks a little like the character for ‘water’(永 versus 水）, when I was sixteen years old. Handed the artist a banana-yellow fake I.D. with my grainy, gloomy photo on the front the state of California behind it. I had been from a 40 oz in the back of my friend’s truck outside of school when the question came up. Not drunk enough to be turned away at the door, but tipsy enough to be open to suggestion.
I chose a Chinese character to represent my Chinese half, immediately vowing I would get a tattoo on my right shoulder to represent my Caucasian side. Cute, right? I chose ‘eternal’ out of the twenty or so Chinese characters (I had never studied Mandarin before) advertised on the shops wall because a tattoo, and its meaning...well they last forever.
It was the first time I had been in a tattoo parlor, and the first thing you notice is the smell. Usually a tattoo shops walls are either clinical, hospital white, or gothic black The walls are then covered with the colors and shapes and sizes of hundreds of tattoo displays. But whatever the mode of color employed, the smell is the same. The chemical smell of the ink, apparatuses, and cleaning fluid, and a touch of latex. The second thing you notice is the sound, assuming the shop is busy. That buzz from the gun, bringing to mind pain and needles and hard edged, sharp machinery. Combine the two, plus the visuals from the pulsating color of the designs strewn on the walls and in large book end shelves, and you have an atmosphere that would too readily lend itself to the genre of gore-torture movies popularized by the "Saw" films. (On a side note, this atmosphere feels quite homey to me now)
When I was 17, 18, even 22, I didn’t think I would ever go out of my way to hide my tattoos. Surely, even at that younger age where I flaunted ink in public, I would be annoyed at the beach; I felt judged by older adults and felt that it was a judgment unfair. I told myself that was the price I paid for the decision. Besides, anyone who got to know me would see that I was a nice guy. In fact, people who met me, including ex-girlfriends, often remarked I wasn’t the type suited to tattoos...but that it was cool that I had some. In that regard, I felt they were a sexy secret I was almost eager to share to ignite a reaction. Much like surprising some Chinese kids with hidden language skills. Close to ten years later I try to cover up my tattoos more and more.
In Ko Phi Phi, Thailand, my lovely, adorable girlfriend (who dislikes my tattoos) remarked that she had never seen so many tattooed people in her life. And looking at the packs of foreign tourists and expats on that little island, at the birds and characters and portraits and butterflies and numbers and words on tanned bodies, I had to agree. We stopped outside a tattoo shop and I joked with our friends: "What better way was there to show you had a great time vacationing in Thailand, than a permanent tribal on your face?" I was speaking loud enough to hear so that others could perhaps catch my mild, but real, disdain. Everyone was tattooed here, lounging around waiting to get drunk on the beach, a colony of beach bums had taken over Thailand’s most beautiful beaches and made them a tourist trap. Yea, get some tattoos the Thai way, you stagnatis.
I was, however, curious about the prices. A willowy beautiful young foreign shop keep, who’d run off to Phi Phi for 10 months via Malaysia, told me about the process. How they used the traditional bamboo needle/hammer to do the tattoos, and how it made for brighter colors and hurt less than the machines. She showed me her tattoo of “Faith” on her lower lip, written in cursive. She couldn't have been more than a couple years older than me when I first got mine.' I was impressed, but remarked that the pain of the gun was why some people got them in the first place. She gave me a weird look.
When people asked me about my tattoos, I used to explain how my left arm was for my mother, and that I’d get more Chinese characters to complement the ‘yong’ at the peak…kind of like a poem or line of importance describing family or love and sealed by that forever about it like the sun over the mountain. It was incomplete, but either way it displayed my love for my mother and my family and my Chinese heritage. I used to explain the bear's paw symbolized the strength of my father, and his admiration for Southwestern Native American culture. Sometimes, said I was part Native American to people I figured I wouldn’t see again. When I got the one on my chest, a bird, explanations became harder. For one thing, people couldn’t discern it.
“Dude, is that a witch?”
“I’m thinking...Star Trek, maybe?”
“It looks like a moon over water at night” (My favorite, and an explanation I used going forward sometimes)
“Banana.”
I’d have to explain the bird, they’d screw up their faces, and then either because they saw it or to save my face, they’d go “Ah!” and say yes, it was definitely a bird.
The one on my back is pretty self-explanatory. 'I love my brothers,' in a mish mash of Chinese and Spanish. With the triangles symbolizing the three of us together. (我amo我的hermanos)
Now, when people ask about my tattoos, I joke that a tattoo lasts forever, I really liked the Cincinnati Bearcats, and that I didn’t know what I was thinking with the one on my chest. I feel like I’m being lighthearted. You know, not taking myself seriously. For one I’m tired of the question. But also, I think they have lost some meaning over the years. At the least, I forget that they’re there.
The one on my back is the hardest to reconcile because it came with the clearest meaning. I got it drunk, not just tipsy like the first one, to commemorate the friendship and brotherhood with my two best friends. It was like a deal sealer for the three of us, not that you need a tattoo to say you’ll be friends and loyal to each other for the rest of your days, but the process had gravity to it. That night, in New York, we stayed up all night. After three bars and wandering around the city for hours, we entered a neon drenched store front, to porcelain walls and that familiar scent.
I was the only one who got a tattoo. My two brothers chickened out. Or perhaps they just had the sense not to rush into permanently marking their bodies, as I slammed the counter exclaiming:
"Fuck it, I'll get the tattoo for all three of us!"
Now, at this point in our lives, those two guys annoy the heck out of me. I even feel like I lost respect for them. One, because he always changes his mind, is undependable, and is a loud buffoon. The other, because he never lets any argument of any size go, and he whines incessantly. But I do love them as brothers, and no matter what any of us go through I can say with confidence that we’ll make the same jokes when we’re together. No matter what side of the world we see the sun setting in, we'll be close, I think. But I don't have the urge to meet them right now; I'm glad the tattoo is on my back.
About three years passed, and when one of them finally came around to getting his unifying, blood brother tattoo, I didn’t have the heart in me to say I thought it was a real dumb idea. I still do.
When I arrived in Shanghai for my first semester of studying Mandarin at Jiao Tong University, I had no idea it would be the most fun, if not one of the happiest, times of my entire life. Those five months spent studying, going out, and most importantly, meeting people from around the world and connecting with them, was unforgettable. And I often long for that time back. I was popular with everyone I met there, as well as those I didn’t meet. There was never an hour of time when I didn’t have someone available to eat with, drink with, or laugh with. If I spent time alone it was by choice and by turning my cell phone off. I didn’t worry a bit about things, except for studying Chinese and a certain girl. She was also the reason it was one of the best times of my life. But she’s another story, a much longer story probably. I was happy, taking in the sights and sounds of a new world. Shanghai. My tattoos and biracial makeup made me something unique, and I felt special and I felt like a complete package. That was two years ago.
And that leaves me with yesterday. My inaccurate Chinese character. Even the 的 on my back isn’t written correctly. I was exhausted, sitting on that track, my head and heart pounding the blood through me at such a surge I could barely talk without throwing up my insides. In the middle of a training regimen that just two years ago I could complete, shower and change, and then go for diner and drinks .
As I write in my room, I have a fever and can hardly eat a bowl of soup thanks to that workout. No job, lost money, wondering what to do with my life for who knows the hundredth time since that semester ended. It all seemed so clear back then, when I registered for school. And it felt that way when I sat down in that chair and felt the needle’s buzz hum over my skin and that satisfying, scratching pain that makes you feel like you’re accomplishing something, or that you're brave. When the truth is you haven’t done a brave thing in your life, and just because something lasts forever on the skin of youth stretch taut with muscle and vigor doesn’t mean it will be remembered. Or matter.
I felt whole back then, indeed my only want was time for reflection. Now I have so much time I can’t sleep well.
At the track, I watched those kids march away together in friendship, and wondered if they’d stay friends, stay brothers, and ever get a tattoo of it. Their mothers probably wouldn’t let them.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"What are you doing here?"
"Who are you?"
"What is all this for?"
The boy’s brow furrowed in young suspicion. His eyes were almost angry. He looked at me like I was a stranger who had beckoned him to come over. Scoot, you little pot-licker.
There were two of them, a smaller boy having run up to see, emboldened by his questioning friend. "Ta shou shang you shenme dongxi?" The larger of the little boys whispered to his friend. He spoke loud enough that I could easily hear, and he probably assumed I couldn’t understand Chinese. Or did he?
I’d learned a long time ago that children are often much, much, bolder than grown-ups. Even the shy ones, once they’ve gotten used to you a little, will tell you to your face your nose is big or you run funny.
"Shi xiong mao de shou", I said, and looked at him. It’s a bear’s paw. I didn't want to be scary, I was mostly just exhausted, for one and didn't want some kid annoying me. However, apart from that I had was also looking forward a bit to his surprise at my having understood him, and my response in his language. That was always a good kick for foreigners, surprising the locals. He and his friend would probably pause, a little open mouthed, and ask "You know Chinese?" Maybe they'd say "哇！" (Wow!) and start asking me questions about where I was from. That's usually how these things turned out.
Instead, he responded immediately, and knowingly, and gave my pride at playing the awe-inspiring stranger a kick in the nuts, “Wo zhidao a, wo shi wen zuo shou de nage”.
Oh. He knew all along; he’d been referring not to my right shoulder but the Chinese character “Forever”, or “Eternity”, on my left arm.
“Shi ‘yong’. ‘you yong’ de ‘yong’”, I said, now a little concerned.
The older boy looked at me for another second with his companion, wearing their little jackets and near shaven heads. Then they scampered off at a half skip, the younger one saying “Na ge xie de bu dui” (“It’s written wrong”) and going on to describe the proper composition of the character meaning forever, stroke by stroke.
I looked at the ground and smiled ashamedly. How fitting.
I had gotten the red and black Chinese character, which looks a little like the character for ‘water’(永 versus 水）, when I was sixteen years old. Handed the artist a banana-yellow fake I.D. with my grainy, gloomy photo on the front the state of California behind it. I had been from a 40 oz in the back of my friend’s truck outside of school when the question came up. Not drunk enough to be turned away at the door, but tipsy enough to be open to suggestion.
I chose a Chinese character to represent my Chinese half, immediately vowing I would get a tattoo on my right shoulder to represent my Caucasian side. Cute, right? I chose ‘eternal’ out of the twenty or so Chinese characters (I had never studied Mandarin before) advertised on the shops wall because a tattoo, and its meaning...well they last forever.
It was the first time I had been in a tattoo parlor, and the first thing you notice is the smell. Usually a tattoo shops walls are either clinical, hospital white, or gothic black The walls are then covered with the colors and shapes and sizes of hundreds of tattoo displays. But whatever the mode of color employed, the smell is the same. The chemical smell of the ink, apparatuses, and cleaning fluid, and a touch of latex. The second thing you notice is the sound, assuming the shop is busy. That buzz from the gun, bringing to mind pain and needles and hard edged, sharp machinery. Combine the two, plus the visuals from the pulsating color of the designs strewn on the walls and in large book end shelves, and you have an atmosphere that would too readily lend itself to the genre of gore-torture movies popularized by the "Saw" films. (On a side note, this atmosphere feels quite homey to me now)
When I was 17, 18, even 22, I didn’t think I would ever go out of my way to hide my tattoos. Surely, even at that younger age where I flaunted ink in public, I would be annoyed at the beach; I felt judged by older adults and felt that it was a judgment unfair. I told myself that was the price I paid for the decision. Besides, anyone who got to know me would see that I was a nice guy. In fact, people who met me, including ex-girlfriends, often remarked I wasn’t the type suited to tattoos...but that it was cool that I had some. In that regard, I felt they were a sexy secret I was almost eager to share to ignite a reaction. Much like surprising some Chinese kids with hidden language skills. Close to ten years later I try to cover up my tattoos more and more.
In Ko Phi Phi, Thailand, my lovely, adorable girlfriend (who dislikes my tattoos) remarked that she had never seen so many tattooed people in her life. And looking at the packs of foreign tourists and expats on that little island, at the birds and characters and portraits and butterflies and numbers and words on tanned bodies, I had to agree. We stopped outside a tattoo shop and I joked with our friends: "What better way was there to show you had a great time vacationing in Thailand, than a permanent tribal on your face?" I was speaking loud enough to hear so that others could perhaps catch my mild, but real, disdain. Everyone was tattooed here, lounging around waiting to get drunk on the beach, a colony of beach bums had taken over Thailand’s most beautiful beaches and made them a tourist trap. Yea, get some tattoos the Thai way, you stagnatis.
I was, however, curious about the prices. A willowy beautiful young foreign shop keep, who’d run off to Phi Phi for 10 months via Malaysia, told me about the process. How they used the traditional bamboo needle/hammer to do the tattoos, and how it made for brighter colors and hurt less than the machines. She showed me her tattoo of “Faith” on her lower lip, written in cursive. She couldn't have been more than a couple years older than me when I first got mine.' I was impressed, but remarked that the pain of the gun was why some people got them in the first place. She gave me a weird look.
When people asked me about my tattoos, I used to explain how my left arm was for my mother, and that I’d get more Chinese characters to complement the ‘yong’ at the peak…kind of like a poem or line of importance describing family or love and sealed by that forever about it like the sun over the mountain. It was incomplete, but either way it displayed my love for my mother and my family and my Chinese heritage. I used to explain the bear's paw symbolized the strength of my father, and his admiration for Southwestern Native American culture. Sometimes, said I was part Native American to people I figured I wouldn’t see again. When I got the one on my chest, a bird, explanations became harder. For one thing, people couldn’t discern it.
“Dude, is that a witch?”
“I’m thinking...Star Trek, maybe?”
“It looks like a moon over water at night” (My favorite, and an explanation I used going forward sometimes)
“Banana.”
I’d have to explain the bird, they’d screw up their faces, and then either because they saw it or to save my face, they’d go “Ah!” and say yes, it was definitely a bird.
The one on my back is pretty self-explanatory. 'I love my brothers,' in a mish mash of Chinese and Spanish. With the triangles symbolizing the three of us together. (我amo我的hermanos)
Now, when people ask about my tattoos, I joke that a tattoo lasts forever, I really liked the Cincinnati Bearcats, and that I didn’t know what I was thinking with the one on my chest. I feel like I’m being lighthearted. You know, not taking myself seriously. For one I’m tired of the question. But also, I think they have lost some meaning over the years. At the least, I forget that they’re there.
The one on my back is the hardest to reconcile because it came with the clearest meaning. I got it drunk, not just tipsy like the first one, to commemorate the friendship and brotherhood with my two best friends. It was like a deal sealer for the three of us, not that you need a tattoo to say you’ll be friends and loyal to each other for the rest of your days, but the process had gravity to it. That night, in New York, we stayed up all night. After three bars and wandering around the city for hours, we entered a neon drenched store front, to porcelain walls and that familiar scent.
I was the only one who got a tattoo. My two brothers chickened out. Or perhaps they just had the sense not to rush into permanently marking their bodies, as I slammed the counter exclaiming:
"Fuck it, I'll get the tattoo for all three of us!"
Now, at this point in our lives, those two guys annoy the heck out of me. I even feel like I lost respect for them. One, because he always changes his mind, is undependable, and is a loud buffoon. The other, because he never lets any argument of any size go, and he whines incessantly. But I do love them as brothers, and no matter what any of us go through I can say with confidence that we’ll make the same jokes when we’re together. No matter what side of the world we see the sun setting in, we'll be close, I think. But I don't have the urge to meet them right now; I'm glad the tattoo is on my back.
About three years passed, and when one of them finally came around to getting his unifying, blood brother tattoo, I didn’t have the heart in me to say I thought it was a real dumb idea. I still do.
When I arrived in Shanghai for my first semester of studying Mandarin at Jiao Tong University, I had no idea it would be the most fun, if not one of the happiest, times of my entire life. Those five months spent studying, going out, and most importantly, meeting people from around the world and connecting with them, was unforgettable. And I often long for that time back. I was popular with everyone I met there, as well as those I didn’t meet. There was never an hour of time when I didn’t have someone available to eat with, drink with, or laugh with. If I spent time alone it was by choice and by turning my cell phone off. I didn’t worry a bit about things, except for studying Chinese and a certain girl. She was also the reason it was one of the best times of my life. But she’s another story, a much longer story probably. I was happy, taking in the sights and sounds of a new world. Shanghai. My tattoos and biracial makeup made me something unique, and I felt special and I felt like a complete package. That was two years ago.
And that leaves me with yesterday. My inaccurate Chinese character. Even the 的 on my back isn’t written correctly. I was exhausted, sitting on that track, my head and heart pounding the blood through me at such a surge I could barely talk without throwing up my insides. In the middle of a training regimen that just two years ago I could complete, shower and change, and then go for diner and drinks .
As I write in my room, I have a fever and can hardly eat a bowl of soup thanks to that workout. No job, lost money, wondering what to do with my life for who knows the hundredth time since that semester ended. It all seemed so clear back then, when I registered for school. And it felt that way when I sat down in that chair and felt the needle’s buzz hum over my skin and that satisfying, scratching pain that makes you feel like you’re accomplishing something, or that you're brave. When the truth is you haven’t done a brave thing in your life, and just because something lasts forever on the skin of youth stretch taut with muscle and vigor doesn’t mean it will be remembered. Or matter.
I felt whole back then, indeed my only want was time for reflection. Now I have so much time I can’t sleep well.
At the track, I watched those kids march away together in friendship, and wondered if they’d stay friends, stay brothers, and ever get a tattoo of it. Their mothers probably wouldn’t let them.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Google out of China - one small persons's view
"你说的对 中国人的性格是这样的
人权 只是说说而已
中国政府不喜欢 太公开的信息啊
我明白你的意思
但是这是政府的决定， 我们是平凡的人
只要可以开心的活下去就好"
I was talking with Skates, a young girl from Wuxi who I lived with for a few months along with 2 other girls in Shanghai. She liked girly punk bands, was well known throughout the Jiao Da foreign community as the smilin'-ist tutor around, and every time she greets me she does so with a hearty "Hey, MAN!"
The above was her response to my queries about Google's leaving. When I'd asked, she said she and most of her friends and the people she knows use Bai Du (along with most of the Chinese internet surfing population). So, to her and many, Google's departure didn't have a very big impact. Then, I asked her "Well, do you think that Google's leaving represents a setback for freedoms in China?"
"You're right, human rights in China are merely talked about...the government plain doesn't like the information available from Google. But this is the government's decision, we're just your average people. As long as we can continue to live happy lives, that's just fine."
人权 只是说说而已
中国政府不喜欢 太公开的信息啊
我明白你的意思
但是这是政府的决定， 我们是平凡的人
只要可以开心的活下去就好"
I was talking with Skates, a young girl from Wuxi who I lived with for a few months along with 2 other girls in Shanghai. She liked girly punk bands, was well known throughout the Jiao Da foreign community as the smilin'-ist tutor around, and every time she greets me she does so with a hearty "Hey, MAN!"
The above was her response to my queries about Google's leaving. When I'd asked, she said she and most of her friends and the people she knows use Bai Du (along with most of the Chinese internet surfing population). So, to her and many, Google's departure didn't have a very big impact. Then, I asked her "Well, do you think that Google's leaving represents a setback for freedoms in China?"
"You're right, human rights in China are merely talked about...the government plain doesn't like the information available from Google. But this is the government's decision, we're just your average people. As long as we can continue to live happy lives, that's just fine."
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
poem written in yangshuo
Wata Buffalo <><><><
David 李 Hawks
Hey beast, I see you,
yonder on the grassy shore
Tethered and peaceable
and alone.
So I’m pulling over, paddle laid
straightaways on my lap
Palms on the bow
That means peace, by the way
My god,
You’re beautiful.
You’re shy, too, stealing looks at me
As I stare your bronze body into shame
The sun
hits you
in
such
a
way.
Your horns are short and neat
and sweet, you couldn’t gore me,
would you?
Mine companions thataways, drifting down the teal river
We’re alone so…
So finally now, we share a gaze
Longer than memory, history,
And in two onyx abysses I’m lost.
I seek
To return, go back to a time
When your nostrils weren’t threaded with string
And that life,
Where as a pure peach one-inch boy,
I hung happily on your neck.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
worlds apart
12:43 AM, February 25, 2010. I imagined this time would come. The complete and utter separation of the two worlds I've lived in.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Creativity
Saw a play tonight called "In the Red and Brown Water" that featured beautiful, real words, some energized, and plain good, acting, and dance and movement. It gave me that feeling, a feeling that has grown stronger in my mid-twenties: I feel I need to be creative, artistic, and to do these things well enough to express my soul beautifully. By the end of the performance I wanted to be an actor, an interpretive dancer, a singer. I wanted to stand and applaud a wonderful experience, but something held me back. Others didn't stand in that small theatre. My mother cheered behind me, but I knew my father next to her wasn't standing. As the actors bowed and looked at us, I felt a queasy guilt undulate in my gut. I should stand, but I didn't. The playwright's brilliant words and poetic soul had just been transmitted, perfectly, by these beautiful vessels of emotion and passion.
I felt I had failed in my duty as an audience member. Held back by the petty fear of judgment. I am ashamed still, that I did not stand, and at least show how I felt. Show that I felt a connection to that work, not to mention my sheer adoration. Is this, too, what I am doing with myself?
Not a day goes by that night comes and I feel the hours and minutes scatter away like dark insects among kudzu in the rainy dark. Another day gone, and I summon my resolve, with a dose of self-loathing anger, and vow that tomorrow I will be a writer! With the sunlight comes computers, and dishes, and maybe some work. With the day comes doubt, and a quickening heart rate, and more movement...the kind of movement a hummingbird makes.
I fear slowing down. I fear the blank page, the pen held over the paper unmoving. I fear inspiration, followed by a small success. I just wrote 10 pages straight through, why not take a break? Only the break lasts a month. Most of all, I have feared that I will try and try and try for real. And I will fail.
It has to happen, fears must be faced all of them for life to have the kind of color I want and need it to. And connection to that world spoken of, music'd to, is what I yearn for more than anything.
I felt I had failed in my duty as an audience member. Held back by the petty fear of judgment. I am ashamed still, that I did not stand, and at least show how I felt. Show that I felt a connection to that work, not to mention my sheer adoration. Is this, too, what I am doing with myself?
Not a day goes by that night comes and I feel the hours and minutes scatter away like dark insects among kudzu in the rainy dark. Another day gone, and I summon my resolve, with a dose of self-loathing anger, and vow that tomorrow I will be a writer! With the sunlight comes computers, and dishes, and maybe some work. With the day comes doubt, and a quickening heart rate, and more movement...the kind of movement a hummingbird makes.
I fear slowing down. I fear the blank page, the pen held over the paper unmoving. I fear inspiration, followed by a small success. I just wrote 10 pages straight through, why not take a break? Only the break lasts a month. Most of all, I have feared that I will try and try and try for real. And I will fail.
It has to happen, fears must be faced all of them for life to have the kind of color I want and need it to. And connection to that world spoken of, music'd to, is what I yearn for more than anything.
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