Thursday, May 21, 2009

Places where my soul lives

I spent about 13 hours on a bus this last weekend, so I decided to put every Ryan Adams album on my iPod and play through all of them. I realized we have something in common—a fascination with places. He has at least 10 songs where he talks about the places that have affected him: “Oh, My Sweet Carolina,” “Dear Chicago,” “Tennessee Sucks,” and “New York, New York” are some of them. But my favorite is “The End”:

"Oh Jacksonville, how you burn in my soul
How you hold all my dreams captive
Jacksonville, how you play with my mind
Oh my heart goes back, suffocating on the pines
In Jacksonville"

My fascination with places started in Rome and became consuming in Edinburgh. But I didn’t understand it until London. I tried to define it, understand it, write about it, but as always, found my ability lacking. But I found the answer in Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway:

"But she said, sitting on the bus going up Shaftesbury Avenue, she felt herself everywhere; not "here, here, here"; and she tapped the back of the seat; but everywhere. She waved her hand, going up Shaftesbury Avenue. She was all that. So that to know her, or any one, one must seek out the people who completed them; even the places. Odd affinities she had with people she had never spoken to, some woman in the street, some man behind a counter--even trees, or barns."

Here’s how I understand the quote: we exist in all the places we’ve touched. But it works the other way too: those places exist in us. We leave parts of our… I don’t know, essence or soul… in the places we go and we carry those places with us afterward. And so to know someone—I mean, completely know them—we would have to see all the same things in the same places at the same time. It’s almost a kind of soulmates, but obviously impossible to fulfill.

The whole deal with places goes deeper than this, though. The place itself seems to have a soul and identity. Rome is a philosophizing old man with a long beard. Edinburgh mystifies me. I've tried to identify it, and this is all I can come up with: It’s identity changes to suit each person, to draw in every unsuspecting visitor until they become fettered to it. Edinburgh is a vampire, a wise old man, a Druid sacrificing naive virgins, a seductress with fiery hair and a black dress. China doesn’t have a clear identity to me yet, but eventually I’ll figure it out.

So I’ve been trying to figure out how China affects my soul and what parts of myself I’m leaving here. Actually, I think I’m leaving the best parts of myself. It’ll live in the people I’ve affected most—my students. But how will China live with me afterward? Maybe China is the place where my soul became strong. Home is where my soul is renewed. Edinburgh is where my soul is mystified. Rome is where my soul is satisfied. I haven’t yet found the place that burns in my soul and captivates my dreams, as Ryan Adams says, but I’m pretty sure that place exists somewhere.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Love and dating

This last week, my students performed plays for their midterm exam. They had the option of choosing any topic that we’d covered in class so far this term. Topics included things like beauty, love/relationships, Earth Day, stereotyping, etc. Most of the topics were intended to get students thinking on their own and changing their minds about important issues, but that’s another blog…

I ended up a bit confounded that 75% of the groups chose the topic Love and Dating for their play. I was even more confounded that they all had exactly the same plot, although the insignificant details differed. Here’s how they all went:

1. Boy meets girl
2. Boy meets another girl
3. First girl finds out about second girl
4. Second girl finds out about first girl
5. Both girls leave boy
6. Boy’s reaction differs—often sadness, usually begging one of the girls to come back, one suicide

I think the oddity of 15 different groups from 4 different classes writing exactly the same play says a lot about cultural stereotypes on dating. The weird thing was that these weren’t only girls writing/performing the plays. One group of all boys wrote this play too. So these ideas about how relationships are “supposed to go” are pretty commonly accepted by both genders.

So what exactly does this say about love and dating in China? That every woman will be betrayed by a man? That all men want more than one woman? And what does the ending mean? Is it a realistic ending or is it an idealistic ending? Do the women really leave the men and do the men really feel grief when the women leave? Lots of questions… And I don’t have the answers.

I find the whole thing really sad. I can only conclude that girls go into relationships expecting betrayal because that’s what their culture says is okay. (I have heard many students say that it’s common (accepted?) that a boy have more than one girlfriend and that a man have a mistress after marriage, but I don’t know how often it really happens.) But in the guys’ defense, the girls here are kind of annoying in relationships. I mean, I wouldn’t want to date them. Most are whiney, prone to public fits, clingy, and very easily upset. They expect boyfriends to carry purses, lift heavy objects, provide emotional support, pay for every dinner, buy gifts, etc. And if they don’t… watch out! Foot stomping, purse throwing, loud wailing, and screaming will ensue.

But still… it’s just sad that girls have to expect the very high likelihood that they’ll be cheated on. It’s a pretty bleak future.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Phenomenal woman, that's me

The girls in China have a confidence problem. This semester, I decided to fix it. In my classes, we've talked frequently about beauty, inner beauty, confidence, how strength isn't just for men, etc. Despite pushing the subject so much, I'm not sure it's made much difference. But in a culture where "San Ba" (translated means 3 8, March 8) is both the name of International Women's Day and a slightly derogatory nickname for a woman who is too independent or doesn't know her place, I can't blame them for being a little hesitant or unable to embrace their woman-ness. The culture as a whole doesn't really encourage female power. Also, girls here are obsessed with beauty. They'll go so far as to bleach their skin, wear black contacts to make their eyes appear bigger, or smear youth-enhancing sheep placenta on their various body parts in order to fit the pretty rigid beauty mold (ask anyone: the requirements for beauty are white skin, big eyes, long hair, a "tall" nose, size zero clothing, and a small mouth). So between the cultural pressure and their own desires for acceptance and beauty, they've had some trouble taking my advice to heart.

So in light of our recent discussions about racial and gender equality in the U.S., I decided to bring to my Lit class a poem celebrating WOMAN. Check it out: Phenomenal Woman, by Maya Angelou.

I expected an energetic response from a class of 30 girls and 3 boys, but I got pretty blank faces all around. We even read it, they discussed it in groups, and still... nothing. So I metaphorically pulled up my sleeves and decided I needed to do some inspiring. (And considering this morning started with me lying on the kitchen floor in pain, I didn't expect anything good to come of the morning's classes.) The poem's not about being beautiful or fitting into the beauty expectations of your culture, it's about looking at all the flaws in your body and saying "you know what, those are mine! And they're awesome!" It's about confidence, no matter what "pretty women" or men think. I feel a little pride looking back at the experience. I feel like finally I may have changed their minds a little bit. I had a limited number of copies (I've started limiting my copies and collecting them after class since Earth Day), but I told them if they liked the poem and wanted to keep it around for inspiration or encouragement, they could. Usually, the kids just drop the copies back on my desk on the way out, but today, I got ambushed! The girls who didn't have a copy of the poem rushed up to me like it was Halloween and I was giving out free Reese's.

So, overall, a successful day. And one last word for the ladies:

I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Tortures that the untalented must endure

I said something a few posts ago about how my writing feels like something I've vomited up and that I always find the writing process painful. That thought has been occurring to me more often lately. Maybe it comes with the increased number of entries to this blog. I begin to wonder if blog writing has become the poor-man's writing medium. Blogs are the electronic music and modern art of the writing world. It's a place where those who have the desire but are a little lacking in the talent area can spill out their rhetoric in an increasingly-appreciated platform. Instead of creating symphonies and Mona Lisas, we're scratching out house music on a synthesizer and throwing blobs of paint onto a canvas hoping something meaningful comes out of it. And to anyone who's starting to be insulted by this blog, please don't. I'm talking only about myself here.

And speaking of symphonies and art, let me side-track for a moment and say that I never really liked the Mona Lisa anyway. My interests tend, more often than not, to lean toward the more morbid. At the moment, I'm listening to Franz Schubert's "Death and the Maiden," which also happens to be the name of one of my favorite paintings. I'll only include the link since the painting isn't really G-rated. And it also isn't really a painting; I think it's technically an etching. But I digest... (Fans of Family Guy will get it.)

Back to the writing dilemma... I feel like Cristina from Vicky Cristina Barcelona. She says, "I feel like I have so much to express, but I'm not gifted." I think all English majors, deep down in their little hearts, feel the desire to be the next Faulkner, Morrison, or, if they're in it for the fame and not the prestige, Meyer. I mean, that's why we're English majors, right? We see the beauty in the words, we feel moved, and if we're lucky, we see the entire world change in the course of 50 pages. And then we want to be the one that causes the world to change. But what about those English majors who realize, miserably and after years of struggling, that they just aren't 'gifted'? Does it become a case of "those who can't do it, teach it"?



I'm not sure why this is becoming such an issue at the moment. Maybe I'm just bored. Actually, I think I know why. I've been reading what's turning into a really amazing book. I highly recommend it to anyone who, like me, leans toward the macabre or is just bored of reading the tripe that comes most often from modern American authors. (Oh, if you're in China and can't get ahold of a hard copy, I have the ebook and audio versions. Just email me and I'll send one to you!)

So that's the deal. I'm reading this amazingly eloquent and morose book and wishing I had the... I don't know what it is... words, talent, attention-span... to create something meaningful myself. But all I come up with is... this... A blog about blogging.

Ways I didn't want to integrate...

When we volunteers first came to China, we were given instruction almost daily about how to integrate into our community and school. Most of these things include speaking the language, paying attention to customs and non-verbal communication, and trying to be inoffensive. But our trainers didn't say anything about nose-picking!














I've realized in my short time here that public nose-picking isn't such a cultural taboo. However, I never expected that I'd join the trend. But... that unfortunately has happened. It was during a seemingly uneventful shopping trip downtown. K and I were browsing inside a small clothing shop, and when we went to leave, we found that a crowd had gathered to watch (this is a pretty common occurrence here). At the front of the crowd was a grown woman with her finger pretty firmly planted in her left nostril. I suppose I was feeling a bit feisty/irritated/impatient this day, because instead of ignoring the unwanted attention and walking away, I decided to do some impulsive integration. So... you guessed it... I stuck my finger in my nose and wiggled it around in there for a full 30 seconds (and if this doesn't seem like an eternity to you, just stick your finger in your nose and try it!), all the while having a staring contest with my nose-picking soul-mate. I feel half-disappointed and half-relieved to report that I did not emerge the victor in the nose-picking competition. She was four times the nose-picking woman that I am.

Other ways that I've reluctantly integrated include sticking my head out of a bus window and puking, walking so slowly that a snail could lap me, and making Chinglish my first language (I accidentally said "They're very responsibility." the other day.)

I'm sure our trainers didn't have these things in mind when they gave us advice about integrating, but in a way, I feel like they might be just as important when learning about a people and culture. Now that I've picked my nose in public and puked out of the window of a moving bus, I can't really feel moral superiority anymore when I see someone else do it. So I have learned something from the experiences.

But don't worry, everyone, I don't plan on taking up the noble art of the hack-and-spit.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Foucault and Chinese categorization

I rediscovered a favorite quote the other day. It's written by Michel Foucault and it quotes Jorge Luis Borges who quotes a Chinese encyclopedia that says "animals are divided into:

a. belonging to the Emperor

b. embalmed

c. tame

d. suckling pigs

e. sirens

f. fabulous

g. stray dogs

h. included in the present classification

i. frenzied

j. innumerable

k. drawn with a very fine camel-hair brush

l. et cetera

m. having just broken the water pitcher

n. that from a long way off look like flies

I've been trying to re-evaluate this quote in light of my recent experiences here in China. It's all about how Westerners can't stand when things don't follow a logical order. But I'm convinced now that the writer of this encyclopedia entry was talking more about humans than animals. It's a bit cynical to look at it this way, but a lot of the population here can be put into the same categories--tame, innumerable, et cetera, belonging to the Emperor (or in this case, the PRC).

And if you're wondering which category I put myself into, it's this one: m(e): having just broken the water pitcher. I'm sure I could make this into another existential poem, but I'll spare you all the pain. :-]

Some existential poetry

I've never claimed to be a poet. In fact, I kind of hate writing. But I got a little inspiration this morning. And since K and I were talking about existential poetry yesterday, it seemed fitting to post it.

"The Fly With His Legs Stuck in My Window Screen"

Sometimes he twitches
But most of the time, he’s still.
He’s realized by now that he’s not getting out.
His life has come down to this moment—
Staring into the world that he so desperately wants to be a part of.

He remembers the days of flight, of freedom.
He remembers, also,
(as he stares out into the big green world)
The day he left it.
The allure of the unknown was too much to resist.
I wonder if his other fly friends tried to warn him--
Those that enter that world never come back.

His twitches come less often now.
He spends his time looking at his comrades
Who have also fallen to the Charybdis of my window screen.

He’ll eventually fall
After he dies.
Then I’ll sweep him up
And throw him away with the rest of the garbage.