Dan in La Crosse

Almost a hero

Newsflash: Regina Jacobs' wonderful story is all because she took a wonder drug (see http://www.ecnnews.com/cgi-bin/g/gtue.pl?slug-cmunn28). Jacobs, a 25-time U.S. national champion middle-distance runner, recently tested positive for THG, a previously undetectable designer steroid.

On Feb. 29, 2000, I was electrified by Jacobs at the Armory Track and Field Center in upper Manhattan. That night, the 36-year-old ran after the world record in the indoor 1500-meter run. I was there as a reporter and interviewed her for an hour after the race. Unfortunately, she didn't get the record, but did jolt to life an entire arena. Here was my race report:

"Some might dismiss her world-record attempt as the vain, attention-seeking exploits of a prima donna. What those who were there realized, however, was that her bold prediction was instead the most sincere form of human striving. The standard she set for herself was ambitious. She invited the expectations of the world, and the eyes of the 3,000 spectators, for a race she knew she'd have to finish alone.

None of this fazed her. She appeared relaxed and jovial throughout warm-ups, then acknowledged the bright TV lights and action-hero warm-up music with quiet grace and smiling confidence. She knew that this was her show, but she let the crowd revel in the moment with her. She never tripped over her ego, though her confidence radiated through the air.

The crowd, comprised mostly of high-school track athletes there for their own meet, rose to its feet, displayed "Go, Regina, Go!" signs, and filled the airy old arena with pulsating screams. It was the rarest of track and field experiences, the type we've only heard about from our friends in Europe.

Ultimately, her very public failure showed that racing finds its magic in uncertainty. We begin each race filled with hopes, sure that we'll make our running dreams our reality by the time we cross the line. Experience teaches us, though, that our lowest lows lurk within us as tangibly as our highest highs. We toe the line eager to discover what the race will teach us and to explore our possibilities. Thoreau went to the woods for such enlightenment. We toe the line.

Jacobs will continue to fill stadiums and jolt to life once-languid American track fans. Her ultimate effect, she hopes, will show itself at the starting lines of American middle- and long-distance races, from high-school dual meets to New York City road races. Perhaps runners of all abilities will toe the line filled with wild dreams about breakthrough races they're about to run. Then, Jacobs will approve."

Hook, line and sinker, I was duped. But I was not alone -- she crafted her image meticulously, made every effort to make herself appear the squeaky-clean queen of American running, and had a legion of reporters who all wrote similar Regina hagiography.

And her story just got better by the year as her performances improved by the year, at an age when most runners are having their second total hip replaced. For example, she finally busted the world indoor 1500-meter record last winter, at age 39! Turns out, though, that all that glittered wasn't gold, just a junky pile of spare parts super-powered by a bottomless can of illegal, performance-enhancing whup-ass. She'll live out her days an almost hero, as her skin shrivels like a prune and her 'stache grows into a Grizzly Adams. Go, Regina, Go.

The yen and the yuan

At lunch with three of this university's best students on Monday, we were talking about places in the world we'd like to visit. We were having lunch because I'm helping them with speeches they will give, in English, to a crowd of dignitaries. Their speeches were the three chosen, out of this university's 10,000 students, so these students definitely are the intellectual elite of this school. And they, as with all the students here, have a great zeal for life and an innocence that is refreshing.

Each student -- two girls and a boy -- talked of a strong desire to go to America, especially New York City (yahoo!), Australia, New Zealand, Western Europe. Strangely missing was any mention of other Asian countries, so I asked, "what about Japan?"

"I hate Japan," came the immediate response from one of the girls, an English major. Her friend modified a bit: "We don't hate individual Japanese people, we just hate the government." Then the boy spoke passionately about how savagely Japanese soldiers treated Chinese people in the invasion during the 1930s and about how Japanese soldiers competed for Chinese skulls the way kids collect baseball cards. It should be noted that one of the girls, who actually held the most moderate view, is from Nanjing, the city near Shanghai that was the sight of the infamous "Nanjing Massacre" in 1937.

But, I said, Japan has changed significantly since then, with its philosophy of non-aggression and its re-birth since World War II. But the boy dismissed the changes. He said that the Japanese government, while outwardly more friendly and dedicated to peace, has made no apologies, not even an acknowledgement, of Japanes atrocities against China. "Look at the Germans," he said. "Their prime minister prayed at the Holocaust Memorial, crying, begging forgiveness for the actions of his country. And they paid Jewish people lots of money in reparations." The Japanese government, he said, has responded by wiping the historical stain from their memory, erasing it from textbooks and not paying any money in reparations. "I hate them and can never forgive them," he said.

Zonks! The next day, a group of my students was in my apartment, planning a Halloween party for this Friday night. When they were ready to leave, one girl, the class "monitor," or president, asked me where my Japanese friend lives. I told her he lives downstairs, and she made a motion like that of a boxer, gesturing toward his room. "Do you know what they did to us in history?" she asked. "I hate them."

And so, in both cases, I tried to point out that each country has its historical stains -- mine does, theirs does, everybody's does -- and that those stains will never be left where they belong, as history, unless we forgive and forget.

It was quite strange to be defending a country other than my own, for once. And it was somehow more disturbing because it involved my friend Manabu. When people criticize my country, it doesn't affect me as deeply. For one thing, I am well used to it by now, and my skin is miles thick. For another, it's expected -- the most powerful country will always have at least half the world against it. For another, I can deal with such conversations without a problem. In fact, I sort of thrive on being diplomat-boy.

But for very intelligent, considerate people to spout vitriol about my best friend's country, that bummed me out. It also made me a bit fearful for Manabu's safety. If people feel such deep animosity for Japan, it's only natural that someone may take out frustrations on a Japanese person.

Manabu, as usual, was cool about it. "It's okay," he said, his response to every problem. "What we did in China was very bad, but it's just something to read about in a history book." And I think his presence here will allow more Chinese people to understand that Japan's people are as gentle as is its post-World War II military strategy.

Roads to riches?

I had my students read the NYT article, linked to a few weeks ago on this site, about the ever-expanding network of roads, railways and pipelines all over China. The article focused on one new superhighway in China’s poorest province, in the rugged, mountainous west of the country. Its point was: although roads are being built everywhere, they’re being used primarily by foot traffic, not cars and trucks and busses, as planned. The underlying point, of course, is that China is developing infrastructure faster than it’s developing its economy and individual wealth.

My students each wrote ten questions about the article, and we discussed their questions in class. One student asked if building all these new roads really does any good. Edie, a sophomore, raised her hand right away. “Four words,” she said. “More roads, more richness.” But, another student countered, this article seems to say that roads are not making life any better for the villagers profiled in the article.

And then Jackie, one of my most insightful students, raised his hand. “I think we need to question why these roads are really being built,” he said. “I think maybe the government wants more visitors to remote parts of China, so they build roads so that tourists can get there. But I don’t think the roads do any good for people in the villages.” His point, basically, was that roads through remote places, such as the one in the article, are all for tourist show, not for resident dough.

I had my own frustrating experience with China’s roads two Mondays ago. Every Monday, I take the bus from this campus to the other campus, in Changsha (Hunan Province’s capital), teach all day, then ride the bus back home. It’s about an hour each way, and traverses the Highway for the Insane, the skinny, potholed road that’s surrounded on both sides by farmland and villages. Chickens, dogs, ducks, oxen, kamikaze minibikers, taxicabs, dumptrucks, busses all compete for the little space there is. No one slows down for anything. Horns blare constantly.

About halfway home on the Highway for the Insane, we came to a dead stop. Something – perhaps a crash, perhaps a roadkilled ox – was blocking the road ahead. And so we sat and sat and sat, people screaming at each other in Chinese, cellphones tooting, darkness all around. Finally, the bus driver decided to whip a U-turn. With a Volkswagen Beetle, it would be a possible maneuver, although not easy. With a 50-passenger bus, it’s unthinkable, unless you’re a Chinese bus driver.

He backed us up a small path, teetering on the cusp of a large cliff, and forward two feet, turning a bit. And back again two feet, and almost off the cliff, time to go forward two feet. After about 30 backward-forward maneuvers, the 50-passenger bus was safely pointed the other direction on the Highway for the Insane. No worries.

During the whole ordeal, not a cop showed up, not a mechanic arrived, no kind of emergency rescue or help was available, and the road was completely impassable, as there's no such thing as a shoulder. In villages, you’re alone, to fend for yourself, which must be why Chinese people are so incredibly resourceful. I was trying to call my Foreign Affairs guy to let him know I would be home late, but absolutely no light – no streetlights, no working lights on the bus. And so I held up someone’s cell phone, lit up, to a paper that contained the phone number of the Foreign Affairs guy. But the cell phone light would die after 30 seconds, and the ride was bumpity-bump-bump the whole way, and it was tough to see anyway, and so I couldn’t get his number despite repeated efforts.

As we rumbled the wrong way on the Highway for the Insane, and I held the faint cell phone light against the paper, fireworks lit up the distant sky. Flashes of radiant red and green and purple streaks shot across the cosmos. They were blasting off to celebrate a big event in Changsha: the Fifth Intercity Games of the People’s Republic of China, an annual competition featuring China’s finest athletes in every Olympic sport. This year, Changsha was chosen as host.

To prepare for the games, Changsha went into developmental overdrive – a massive new superhighway crisscrosses the city, 21st-century stadiums were erected, flowers hang from every lamppost, fireworks light up the sky each night. The city is dressed in its Sunday best, on display for Communist Party honchos and China’s Olympic hopefuls.

And yet, while Changsha shines with its new 8-lane superhighway, for all the important people to see, Central South Forestry University suffers with the two-lane Highway for the Insane. And there we sat, watching fireworks light up the sky to celebrate the new, ultra-modern Changsha, as our bus sat stalled on the ultra-primitive Highway for the Insane, just 10 miles outside of Changsha, and relied on faint cell phones to give enough light to call home. And, again, the Man in Black whispered: “Do not be worried.”

My new girlfriend

Without fail, every one of my students asks me if I have a girlfriend, every time they see me. It doesn't matter that yesterday, the last time they asked, I didn't have a girlfriend. It doesn't matter that, when their friend asked 20 minutes ago, and they were sitting there listening to me, and I haven't moved since, I said I don't have a girlfriend. There seems to be in them an expectation that I have a clone, out trolling for new girlfriends even as the other me, Mister Daniel, sits and eats rice with his students.

I had lunch yesterday with one of my classes, all girls. Inevitably, each one asks a few soft questions about if I can use chopsticks and if I think this food is delicious and if I want to visit their hometown. Yes, yes, yes.

Then, the girl blushes, starts to speak but gets discombobulated and retreats, giggling. After composure is gathered, she makes another try. Sometimes, on the second run through, the girl can get out, "Mister Simmons, is it okay if I ask you a private question?" These words, spoken in a near-whisper and through a blushed face, are adorable.

And I tell them about the St. John's cross-country team's rules of interviews: I am free not to answer any question, and I am free to turn the question around and ask them.

And then, finally, "Mr. Simmons, can you tell me, do you have a girlfriend?"

Well, yesterday, upon the first time the question was posed, I answered, "why yes I do." I was smiling widely, as I saw the girl right there in the dining room with us. The table of girls went bananas. "In fact, I can introduce her to you right now." And my students went even more bananas.

I went over to this little girl I always play basketball with, who always gets very excited when she sees me on campus and screams "Ni Hao!" Nearly every day, she comes up to me on the basketball court, bats the ball out of my hand and practices her underhand jumpshot from two feet out. Sometimes, I let her stand on my shoulders so she can dunk.

In the dining room, I asked her to hold my hand and accompany me over to the table full of my students, who were waiting anxiously, ready to scream. I appeared in front of them, holding hands with an eight-year-old, and said, "Isn't she lovely?" And they asked me where my girlfriend was, and I said they were looking at her, and I turned the question around and asked all of them about their boyfriends, per the rules of St. John's cross-country team.

Chinese torture

Fifteen years from now, it was to be a great story. As they head off to college, at points around the globe, the classmates return to where it all began: Zhuzhou City Kindergarten. There will be a reunion with their first foreign English teacher, Mr. Daniel, and a chance to reminisce about all that’s changed since then, in the days of squat toilets, SARS, cramped apartments and, gasp, Chinese language.

Theirs will be a story of growing up amid supersonic cultural change, of ditching almost completely the customs of their parents, of being the first in their family to own a car, visit America, buy a house. English, beginning with weekly lessons with old Mr. Daniel in 2003, was to be the only language spoken. Chinese, the peasant tongue, was yesterday’s news, a relic of old, pre-WTO China.

I’m a sucker for a great story, and so off I went to Zhuzhou City Kindergarten, sure that I’d love the little squirts and sure that they were journalistic gold, mine to mine. Their teacher, Mia, introduced me, and soon, a piano started playing and 26 children broke into a song:
“Hello, hello, hello, hello,
I am glad to see you
Hello, hello, hello, hello
It is nice to meet you”

For the first and last time, they looked adorable – itty-bitty bodies seated on itty-bitty chairs, innocent eyes, chubby cheeks, big smiles.

Then, class began. Mia whispered to me: “Talk about colors.” At Zhuzhou City Kindergarten, there’s a name for Mia’s words: “lesson plan.”

I picked up three plastic blocks, one red, one yellow, one blue. “What color is this,” I said, holding up the blue block.
A piercing scream came from the children, all saying something different, none understanding me, and only one decipherable word coming from them: “Waigoren!” That’s Chinese for “foreign devil.”
Next, I held up the yellow block, asked what color this one is.
Again, indecipherable screams, with a few more “Waigorens” heard above the din.
Next, I held up the red block. “What color is this?”
Again, screams, hoots, and “Waigoren!”

Okay, time for small groups. I divided the kids up into four groups. Again, chaos. I handed a blue block to the first child in the first group. “What color?” I asked. He threw the block at his friend. I went to another group. I held up a yellow block. “What color?” The yellow block was swiped from my hand by another child. He threw it at his friend. I went to the next group, held up the red block. “What color is this?” “I am fine, thank you, how are you doing?” answered a little girl in a pink jogging suit. “No, I asked what color is this block I’m holding?” “I am fine, thank you, how are you doing?”

My only consolation was that class, 45 minutes long, must be about over. I looked at my watch: 10:13. Class ends at 10:45. I decided: this is Chinese torture. The kids win. I will never return. Not that the school will want me to, anyway.

Class finally, mercifully ended at 10:45, with the riot police – the principal, gym teacher and busdriver – deployed to my classroom to bring the mob to order. Never have I felt so utterly defeated, so completely humiliated. The previous day, I had taught my college students for the first time, and felt utterly comfortable, in control, smooth. The students laughed at my jokes, asked good questions, behaved. The hour-and-a-half classes flew by. Now, 26 kindergarteners used me as their punching bag. Forty-five minutes was eternal.

And yet, somehow, Mia and the riot police had nothing but praise for my lesson, saying things like it was “very perfect” and that I’m “very clever” and that the children “love you very much.” In fact, Mia said, we’d like to invite you back tomorrow afternoon, to give a “public lesson,” attended by the children and their parents.

This was one of many surprises about the terms of employment with Zhuzhou City Kindergarten. I got into the situation because Mr. Ma, a colleague of mine in the English department here at the university, is friends with the kindergarten’s principal. As a favor to her, he asked me to come and teach there. I was promised 100 RMB a week, paid after every class, free round-trip busride from the university to the kindergarten, and one, and only one, lesson a week, on Thursday, from 10 a.m. to 10:45.

Well, Mia laid down her terms: 80 RMB per lesson, paid every month, not every week; take the public bus; give lessons, including “public lessons,” when we need you, etc. etc. etc.

Being spineless, and not knowing how to say, “I hate kindergarten and am never coming back” in Chinese, I agreed to come back on Friday for the public lesson, in front of the parents. I hated everything about this situation: it was a 30-minute busride each way, it would steal precious time to write and to learn Chinese and plan lessons for my college students, and all this hassle for my chance to experience Chinese torture.

And so, there I was on Friday afternoon, back at kindergarten. I walked into the room where I would give the “public lesson,” and it was palatial. Gleaming wood floor, big beautiful windows, a ballet bar on all the walls, a huge multimedia production outfit – huge speakers, jumbo TV screen, slick computer, keyboard, technology right up to American standards. The tech guy gave me a clip-on microphone to attach to my collar, which connected to a receiver, to be worn on my belt. Suddenly, I was Janet Jackson.

The kids came in, and parents started to follow. The parents were professionally dressed, wore gleaming jewelry, made it clear by their appearance that they were profiting mightily from China’s new prosperity. And, clearly, this kindergarten is one for kids – all single children – of means, to get the best education possible, for a big price.

And I realized something else: the best education possible means having a foreigner teaching English. It doesn’t matter if the foreigner is a dunce with kids. It doesn’t matter if the foreigner hates being there. It doesn’t matter if the kids, at that age, have no desire to learn English. All that matters is that a foreigner, with white skin and a heartbeat, is there for the parents to see and admire.

Magic happened: Mia gave me a lesson plan. It involved three apples in a basket: red, yellow, green. The kids were to guess what was in the basket, to work on saying “apple.” Then, I was to pull out an apple, praise them for saying “apple,” and ask, “what color is the apple?” And the kids were to tell me what color, I was to praise them, I was to pull out the other apples, ask what color, then praise them. Then, I was to show a picture of an apple tree, with three different colors of apples. And I would invite the kids up one-by-one, ask what color apple they wanted. And then they were to point to the appropriate apple, and I was to give them a sticker. And it was to end with me being the conductor of the applecart, singing a song, leading the kids out the door in a giant apple-picking train as we sang “All along the Apple Cart.”

And, amazingly, the kids did exactly what I asked of them. No one shouted “Waigoren.” No one threw apples at their neighbors, or me. And, yet, at the end of the lesson, as I conducted our apple train out the door of the palatial assembly hall, 26 itty-bitty kindergarteners in tow, and joined the kids in singing “All along the applecart,” I resolved: never again.

On the busride to the “public lesson,” as the bus narrowly missed speeding dumptrucks and taxi-cabs, the story I imagined to begin with took on a different tone. Fifteen years later, the kids are at their reunion at Zhuzhou City Kindergarten, reminiscing about all that’s changed since then, in the days of squat toilets, SARS, cramped apartments and, gasp, Chinese language. There will be a moment of silence as one of them reads the first line of the obituary for their first English teacher, old Mister Daniel: “In a collision with a blue dumptruck, the American English teacher was squished to death while en route to his weekly Chinese torture session.”

And so, I told Mia that I quit kindergarten. Of course, she protested vigorously, and promised to come to my apartment anyway the next Thursday, at the time of my next scheduled lesson. The next Thursday, I hid from Mia. First, I walked all over campus, two loops. Then, I came back to my room, went under my covers in my bed, not moving a muscle, not uttering a peep, letting the phone rings and the doorbell buzzes pass unanswered. There I was, 27 years old, unable to bear another single day of kindergarten.

We're so different we're the same

This week in class, I had the students partner up and play journalist: introduce yourself to your partner, ask at least 10 questions about him or her, record all the answers in your notebook, and then introduce your partner to the class. No Chinese, ever! Only ingles in this clase.

The kids took to it no sweat. They asked great questions, gave great answers, and not a word of Chinese was heard. Bueno.

As each student introduced their partner, a pattern emerged: the interviewer would point out all the ways he or she is different from the partner. "While we are different in most ways, we do have one thing in common," was an often repeated phrase.

I wonder, psychologically, if this is a reflection of the blatant conformity -- the sameness -- of Chinese culture, especially youth culture. Before I meet a student, I can guess, with certainty, their interests: basketball, football (soccer), ping-pong, badminton and Brittney Spears or Backstreet Boys. No Chinese student is into jazz. No Chinese student is a mountain climber. No Chinese student collects stamps. It doesn't matter what a student looks like -- twiggy computer kids will profess undying love for Yao Ming; meek girls will swear their favorite activity is playing basketball; fat kids can't get enough of playing football. It's the same the same the same, student after student after student.

And college, a dream that only a quarter of the population realizes, only deepens this sense of sameness. First-year students live either eight or sixteen to a room. The only recreational activities available are basketball, football, ping-pong and badminton. There are no pubs, no dancehalls, no karaoke studios, no privacy in which to have a boyfriend/girlfriend, no Outdoor Learning adventure courses.

Long into the night, every night, after dark, you can hear the endless bouncing of basketballs on the 12 campus courts. And when I awake every morning, at six, bounce-bounce-bounce go the basketballs. Other than carhorns blaring and cellphones tooting, it's the most pervasive sound in Chinese society.

And, so, perhaps the eagerness to point out all the differences between the interviewer and the interviewee is tacit recognition of this sameness. Unconsciously, we understand how alike all of us are, but we want to be independent and feel like our own people, not a bunch of clones. And it's the same in America: go to a Johnnie-Tommie game. What you'll see are 10 thousand clones: affluent Catholic Midwestern white kids, half in red, half in purple, wearing shirts and chanting cheers about how very different they are because one group is Tommies and the other is Johnnies. Unconsciously: God, we're clones, but let's bash each other to make it feel like we're SOOOO different. And it's great fun to bash Tommies, so I don't begrudge my students for pretending they're very different from their classmates.

Different tones of Sheba

I had my first Chinese lesson last week with my teachers, Helen and Trinity. They're both 24 and teach English at this university after graduating from it just last year. They are both extremely cool and very patient teachers. I require it!

It must have sounded like a henhouse in my apartment. We went through each vowel -- a, o, e, i, u and u with dots over it. Then, we went through each of the four tones each vowel can take. Each tone has a different meaning. We began with "a:" a (flat), a (ascending), a (descending then ascending) and a (descending).

Then, we put the tones together with different consonants, beginning with "b:" ba (flat, meaning "eight"), ba (ascending, meaning "to yank/pull"), ba (descending then ascending, meaning "target"), and ba (descending, meaning "father").

I remembered that, growing up, we had a dog named Sheba. And so, to remember, I recited the many tones of Sheba: "She-ba" (flat), "She-ba" (ascending), "she-ba" (descending then ascending) and "she-ba" (descending).

Next, we learned the most critical phrase: wo (descending then ascending o) e (descending e) le (flat e): I am hungry.

A tale of two chickens

Last Saturday, I spent the morning hooping it up with my friend Manabu Kawahira. Manabu is my best friend here, a 27-year-old, 5-foot-2 Japanese teacher with a buzz cut. He comes from Okinawa and worships Wu Tang Clan, a New York punk-rap group, and Jason Williams, the hot-dogging point guard for the Sacramento Kings. In his own words, Manabu is here because “I must grow up – mentally, physically, teaching Japanese, speaking English.” He went to college in Osaka to become a “public man,” but failed the examination and is now pursuing plan B: Japanese professor.

More importantly, though, he’s desperate to learn how to hoop it up, and I’m desperate to teach him. So, we worked on jump shot mechanics, dribble drills, passing games, drop steps, Pac-Man defensive shuffles and low-post moves. In these drills, Manabu was me and I was Mr. Hilling and Mr. Heather and Mr. Einan and Mr. Thompson, the great coaches I was lucky enough to grow up with as my hoop dreams flourished.

We finished hooping too late to get to the prison slopline, so we ventured out to the surrounding village, in search of lunch. And we came upon a place that looked perfect: no door, dirt floor, flies swarming, jumbo rice cooker and three tables. At one table sat a group of college students, always a good sign; at another table sat three generations of the restaurant owner’s family, another good sign; and the other table was empty. We entered.

“Do you speak English?” I asked. Puzzled stares around the restaurant. Then the waitress started spouting Chinese to Manabu. And Manabu spoke back the only Chinese phrase he knows: “So sorry, I don’t speak Chinese. I am Japanese.” So, she brought us a menu, totally incomprehensible to us. I decided it would be good to have chicken, eggplant and cabbage.

Eggplant and cabbage were easy. I pointed to the ground, made a motion to indicate a plant coming up from the ground, made a hand signal for “2,” then pointed at a purple shade in a painting on the wall, and then a green shade. Chicken was a bit more difficult. After a few failed attempts, I put my hands under my armpits, started flapping my wings, and squawked. Ten minutes later, a bowl of fried eggplant, a plate of steaming cabbage and a mound of chicken cubes arrived. Exquisite. An hour later, after devouring every last crumb of all three dishes, plus bowl after bowl of rice, and washing it down with a beer, we paid the bill: 14 yuan, about a buck fifty.

The next Saturday – yesterday – I again started the day by hooping with Manabu. He went around the world, draining jumpshot after jumpshot, then went side to side in dribble drills, then we practiced chest-passes as we shuffled the length of the court. Next, we worked on the low-post game. Manabu is the Okinawan Bill Russell.

Again, we hooped too long to make the prison slopline, and so off we went into the village, in search of lunch. This week, we went upscale – sliding glass doors, tile floors, wood tables, only a few flies and, again, a table of college kids, a table of three generations of the restaurant owner’s family, and an empty table for us.

“Does anyone speak English?” I asked. Puzzled stares all around. The waitress then started spouting Chinese at Manabu. “So sorry, I don’t speak Chinese. I am Japanese.” And she brought the menu, still incomprehensible. This time, I had a Chinese-English dictionary. I pointed at the word for “eggplant.” And the owner went back to the kitchen and then re-emerged with a perfectly symmetrical lavender eggplant. I gave him the thumb’s up. Then, I pointed at the Chinese word for chicken. Again, the owner disappeared. Soon, he reappeared at our table, his right hand grasping the neck of a live chicken, covered in sandy brown feathers. The chicken squawked and flapped its wings furiously. The owner pointed at the chicken, inquisitively. I gave the thumb’s up.

Ten minutes later, a bowl of fried eggplant, a plate of steaming cabbage, and a wok full of chicken chunks stir-fried in red peppers arrived at our table. We grubbed for the next hour, swilled a brew to wash it down and paid the bill: 28 yuan this time, about three-fifty. Fresh meat ain’t cheap.

Chocolate cabbage

It's amazing and absurd how many people scream "Heeeel-ooooh" at me wherever I go. Kids on bikes, I can always count on a chorus of Hellos. Kamikaze mini-bikers, about every third one who passes. Storekeepers, at least half. College students, especially in groups, always. I try to acknowledge every "Hello," although it's often difficult because of the prevalence of "Hello" snipers. Through copious practice, the Chinese have learned to disguise their "Hellos," so that they appear out of thin air, far away from any human voice. Perhaps it's ghosts, or just the villagers in my head, who shout it, but it's constant. And, dare I say, annoying? When I return to America, I'm going to scream "Neeeeeee-Hooooooow" at every Chinese I see. That'll show em.

At the end of one particularly enjoyable run, in which I reached the startling revelations that ten-ton dumptrucks may be dangerous and a chorus of villagers shouting "hello" may be annoying, a boy approached. He had a buzz cut, stood long and lean at about 5 feet tall, wore a filthy blue turtleneck and had a mud streak down the middle of his nose. He appeared at the campus gates, the end of my hour run.

"Hello, hello, hello," he screamed, running at me. Oh, boy, more fun, I thought. But he got close and put out his hand, said "nice to meet you, my name is Bee Yo Tan (exact Chinese spelling)," and had the most mischevious smile and raspy voice. I greeted him and we chatted for five minutes. I was immediately mesmerized by this kid. He smiled and told me he loves chocolate, said he was waiting to take the bus home so he could eat rice with his parents, announced that someday he wants to visit America, and was altogether pleasant and refreshingly uncondescending. He seemed genuinely interested in speaking English, not just in antagonizing the waigoren ("foreign devil"), which seems the motivation of most kids his age. In fact, many of them aren't subtle, shouting "Waigoren, waigoren, waigoren" as I pass. Old Bee Yo and I parted, and I had a good feeling about China again.

Well, today Bee Yo reappeared. I was walking on campus, felt someone jump onto my back, took a gander and there he was. His mother had scrubbed his face, buzzed his hair and cleaned his blue turtleneck since we first met. He looked adorable. I was with a few of my first-year students, and we all got to talking.

Bee Yo is the kind of guy that must be kidded. Anything to get him smiling and laughing in his giddy way. And so I told my students he likes chocolate. "Do you like chocolate bars?" Bee Yo smiled and nodded in agreement. "Chocolate ice cream?" Smile, nod. "Chocolate pie?" Smile, nod. "Chocolate broccoli?" Smile, nod. "Chocolate chicken?" Smile, nod. And on and on: chocolate duck, chocolate cabbage, chocolate bok choy, chocolate eggplant, chocolate pig's feet, and Bee Yo just kept smiling and nodding. And my students fell onto the floor laughing, and Bee Yo couldn't figure out what was so funny about liking chocolate everything. But he laughed because everyone else was laughing, and I loved China even more.

Second Second Opinion

Q. Have you found any underground (or above-ground) Catholic churches in your town or close by? Do they even have any Christian churches there? I would need some spiritual uplifting if I were living the life you're living right now.

How is the teaching going?

Have you found any places to eat other than the faculty cafeteria? Any
sources of Pepper Steak, Lemon Chicken, egg rolls, tea?

Do you have any of the powdered drink that athletes here use to avoid stomach upset? I guess I'm thinking of Gatorade. Do you want me to send you some?

Spencer's dad was a pharmacist and Spencer always had special teas for any health problem he had. Know any pharmacists yet?

-- (Real, Actual, Biological, Non-surrogate) Mom, Falcon Heights, MN

A. Great questions, Mom! Yes, Rauol has heard rumors of a Catholic church in Zhuzhou City, although its location is still a secret. I will find it soon, with the help of some of my students.

Teaching here is a dream. I get to pretend I'm Garrison Keillor every day in front of a rapt, reverent audience, I get to teach kids English and hear their determined, albeit often butchered, attempts at speaking it, I have not a lot of work outside of class and I get to plan my lessons completely on my own. And my students visit me outside of class, ever eager to get more practice. It's similar to the way school must of been in America in the 50s: the teacher is boss, do what he or she says, make every effort to get ahead and practice, practice, practice.

Eating is a singular delight. I still visit the prison slopline at least once a day, and it's getting significantly better. My earlier qualms with it had a lot to do with the timing: it was National Holiday, no one was around, so the food reflected it. I've also visited numerous hole-in-the-road restaurants nearby, and, good Lord, they're divine. Somewhere in the past 5,000 years, these people figured out how to cook. My favorite food, by far, is cabbage. I eat my weight in cabbage, it seems, every day. Other delights are fried eggplant, octopus soup, duck casserole and boiled snails. If I've had Pepper steak, Lemon chicken or egg rolls, I wouldn't know it. I can't read the menus, so it's still point and pray. And someone above answers, in the form of steaming delicious creamofsomeyoungsomething. Of course, the bill makes its way eventually: sometimes over two dollars for six courses, but usually not.

No powdered drink required. I had a spat of diarrhea early on, I took an antibiotic (prescribed by my Mayo doc), it went away. No worries.

I know no pharmacists yet. Peace.

Chinese Athletics

What has three mattresses and four metal poles? No, not a bedroom set, but Chinese pole vault. Adding to the insanity of the woman tossing a javelin around the campus "playground," today brought a collection of guys flying high over a rusty bar and landing on the mattresses. I think of American pole vault, where every LeRoy-Ostrander High and St. Pius X Junior High requires helmets, oversize foam mats, and total supervision all the time. Every precaution is taken and then some, and more accidents happen, I'll bet, than in the Chinese version. Somehow, these people know how not to die.

I have a friend
He's five foot two
He comes from Okinawa
And his name is Manabu

Teacher-diplomat

It’s been a week of teaching now, and I can’t decide which of my seven classes I love most. From the first second of the first class, I have absolutely loved being in front of the students and working with them. For the first time in a long time, I feel that my daily life has an important purpose, one that is tangible – teach Chinese students English – and easily measurable, day to day. They’re desperate to learn, I’m eager to teach, let’s get after it.

On the first day of all my classes, we covered the basics. We started by standing up, doing shoulder shrugs, neck rolls, jumping jacks and toe-touches, concentrating on diaphragmic breathing the whole time. Then we wiggled our arms and practiced saying our first idiom: “We’re shaking out the kinks.” Then a deep breath, in and out, and back to the seats. I emphasized the importance of eating oatmeal in the morning

I passed around a sheet, on which each student listed Chinese name, in Pinyin (Romanized Chinese), and their English name. While it was circulating, I introduced myself: name, where I’m from, how I got to China, blah blah blah. Doing this was a real thrill, as it allowed me some perspective on my life so far. I came to realize how proud I am of Minnesota: the students ooh and aah when I tell them that there are gazillions of acres of forests and over 10,000 lakes, just in this one state!

Then, we talk about the Mississippi River. When I ask, “Where do you think this beautiful word comes from,” almost instantly comes the reply: “Indians!” I’ve read that Chinese students are well educated about the slaughter of American Indians and the slave trade, as both serve to diminish the U.S. Anyway, we practice spelling “Mississippi” ever faster, which the kids love as much as I did when I first learned it. Each class, we’ll speed up a bit.

When each student has signed the sheet, I say, “Do you have any questions.” Inevitably, the first few include: Do you know Kevin Garnett? Can you dunk? How tall are you? Do you have a girlfriend? (alternatively, Can you please tell us who is the most special person in your life?) In some classes, the questions go no deeper. However, a few classes got downright feisty, which made me glow with delight. Some examples:

“Teacher Daniel, you know when the U.S. shot down the Chinese plane four years ago, what do you think about that?”
“I do not know the details, but I want to apologize for this action. Sometimes, the U.S. government and military do not act with proper respect, and sometimes very unfortunate accidents occur.”

“Teacher Daniel, why would you leave a job as a journalist to come and teach us? Why do you come to Zhuzhou, instead of a big, famous city like Beijing or Shanghai?”
“I came to China because many of my friends have taught in China and made me very jealous of their experience. They loved their time here, and they suggested that I come, too. I have decided to teach here in Zhuzhou primarily because this university offered me a teaching job. However, I think that it’s important to be in a developing part of China, instead of a more developed city like Beijing or Shanghai. Here is where the Chinese customs and culture are more authentic, and I want to experience this.”

“Teacher Daniel, what do think of the Bushes?”
“I think they are very beautiful, just like all the greenery on this wonderful campus.”
“I mean, what do you think about the president of your country?”
“I did not vote for him and I do not support his policies. However, because he is the president, I respect his authority. I think that, often, he is not very good at communicating with the rest of the world. His intentions are better than most people realize, but his tone is very upsetting. I understand why people in different countries do not trust him.”

“Teacher Daniel, what does your family think about you coming to China?”
“My parents, like all parents, are a little bit worried for my safety. If you think about your parents, they may worry about you if you went to America, too. But I tell them often about how special my experiences are in China, and I think they are starting to understand why I came here. In fact, they may even visit me! The rest of my family is very interested to learn more about China, and I am eager to tell them about it.”

“Teacher Daniel, can you tell me what are the main differences between American students and Chinese students?”
“Chinese students are smarter and better-looking. Just kidding, of course. It is hard for me to know, because I am just starting with Chinese students. I think that Chinese students and American students are both eager to learn and both very curious. Those qualities are in every student, everywhere.”

“When you are about to interview someone as a journalist, how do you feel?”
“I feel frightened! It is very difficult to approach a stranger – someone I have never met – and ask the person very private questions. I can feel sweat starting to pour down my face, but I take a deep breath, say a prayer and begin asking questions.”

“You have told us that there are many exciting times as a journalist. But, there must be sad times, too. How do you deal with sad times?”
“I go for a run if I am feeling very tense or sad. It allows me to escape into my own thoughts and be with nature.”

“Teacher Daniel, do you think that Taiwan is a Chinese province?”
“That is a question I’m not qualified to answer, because I do not know the history well enough. Do you think Taiwan is a Chinese province?”
“Yes, it is a Chinese province. I believe that for over 1,000 years, Taiwan has been a Chinese province.”

“Teacher Daniel, do you consider yourself a cool man or an impulsive man?”
“Say what?”

After the barrage of questions, I go around the room and attempt to pronounce each student’s name. Of course, I butcher the Chinese version terribly, and they roar with laughter. This has a purpose: to model making mistakes, but continuing to speak anyway until I get it right. Of course, this willingness to sound like a buffoon, but keep talking anyway, is essential to the students learning English.

The English names they’ve chosen range from the conventional – Susan, Connie, Kevin, Jason – to the seasonal – Autumn, Winter, Spring, Summer – to the natural – Flora, Water, Daffodil, Lily – to adjectives – Breezy, Windy, Sunny, Shiny – to the patently absurd – Procson, as in People’s Republic of China son.

Many students did not have names, and asked me to choose them. So, there are Turbo and Ozone (from the movie “Breakin”), Patty, Michelle, Stephanie, Monica and Diane (from my family), Spud and Muggsy (as in Spud Webb and Muggsy Bogues), and, the two hooligans in the back row, of course, are Brad and Joey. My only regret was that I couldn’t bear to name anyone “Kirby.” Unfortunately, this name now conjures an image of a doughboy being led into a courtroom, instead of a superhero scaling center-field fences to save the day. What a bad waste of a great life – and name!

The students have a delightful innocence about them. Part of this, I’m sure, comes from my classes being 90 percent female. Even when asking hardball questions, the students have the most innocent, schoolgirl tone of voice. I passed out a list of rules and expectations to each class, and the room fell silent. Each student read it, silently, beginning to end, not one eye looking up for over five minutes. When I asked for volunteers to read each rule in front of the class, hands shot skyward. After each kid read a rule, the rest of the students applauded.

In addition, the students respect their teachers unconditionally, and do their homework. Because the students are packed like sardines into their dorms – most first-year students have 15 roommates, one toilet and no phone – they must go to the classrooms to study. Every night, the classroom buildings are packed with students, and not a sound for hours, despite the presence of thousands of undergraduates, at night! Unbelievable.

I’m also encouraged by the honesty in their questions. Obviously, they have many, many questions about life in America and life as an American. For almost all of them, I am the first American they’ve ever met. Hearing their questions gave me a better defined sense of purpose here. I am here to teach English, of course. But, I’m also here to give them an idea about the character and ideals of America, to show them, I hope, that not all Americans are arrogant, ignorant, war-mongering thugs. Perhaps, they will learn not to miss the American forest for the Bushes.

Superhighways for stick-stick walkers

Read this story in the NYT: http://www.nytimes.com/2003/10/10/international/asia/10ROAD.html?8hpib. It's about the explosion in road construction in China, with one problem: it's pedestrians carrying vegetables to market -- and not automobiles -- that are clogging the new, gilded roads. This phenomenon is one of the many beautiful contrasts in China, as skyscrapers rise and superhighways are paved, but a good majority of the people still live simple, agrarian lives. I freakin love it!

Shotgun wedding

On Sunday, I trekked all over Changsha (Hunan's capital city of about 5 million people) -- up and down the sprawling main road, over the half-mile wide Chiang Jiang (Chang River), up to Hunan Normal University, and back.

Early in the walk, there was a very loud explosion -- pop, pop, pop, pop, etc. -- similar to that made when many bricks of BlackCat fireworks are lit. This on the main avenue, with thousands of people on the street. Strangely, only I seemed to notice this two-minute long explosion. Surely, there must be a tragedy -- a fireworks factory caught fire, perhaps, or an electrical disaster.

Massive plumes of smoke started pouring out the doors of a two-story building across the street. Within seconds, a mass of people rushed out the doors, shrouded in smoke. Yes, I thought, this is serious.

And, shortly following the first mass of people, emerged a beaming man, dressed in a black tuxedo, carrying his bride in his arms. And the crowd cheered, tossed rice, sang songs.

Apparently, blowing stuff up signals new beginnings -- an explosion to announce the occasion and to "drive away the evil spirits." My friend Rauol, another American teacher here, tells me that such explosions occur all the time, when a new store opens, when an event begins or, as on Sunday, when the groom first kisses the bride.

It's only greenhorns like me who bother to notice stuff blowing up around us, and thank God for it -- spontaneous explosions are not to go unappreciated. I quickly snapped a few photos of the bride and groom emerging from the smoky cloud. Freakin brilliant!

Second opinion

Q. Does red mean go in China? Green means stop? I had heard that it
was so but never got the facts confirmed.
-- Jill TR, Rochester, MN

A. Excellent question, Jill. Unfortunately, it only begets two other age-old questions of Chinese driving: does anything mean "stop" in China, and, related, on which side of the street do Chinese drive?

Nothing -- not red lights, not potential collisions with oncoming dumptrucks, bicycle rickshaws or American runners -- makes Chinese drivers stop. This was confirmed to me this past Saturday night.

On the bus ride from Zhuzhou City to Changsha, there was a sudden thump, and the bus skidded to a stop. A look to the front revealed that the thump was caused by the front of the bus crashing into a wrought-iron gate, which was being extended across the road to signal the approach of an oncoming train. A look to the right revealed total darkness, except for one round yellow light in the distance, which belonged to the approaching train.

The bus straddled the tracks, unable to back up because of the wrought iron gate behind it, unable to go forward because of the wrought iron gate in front ot it. At this point, the man next to me, dressed head-to-toe in black, gave me the first, and only dose, of English he had: "Do not be worried." What, me worry? Not a chance, not when I'm watching a train barrelling toward the bus I'm on, the one that's stuck on the train tracks.

Undeterred, our intrepid driver somehow managed to barrel his way through the wrought-iron gates, sneaking out of the train's way with roughly three minutes to spare. My friend Trinity turned back to me, laughed and said, "Daniel, do you realize we almost died?" Ha, ha, ha, yes, wasn't that a laugh!

So, let the record stand: for wrought-iron gates and oncoming trains, Chinese drivers will not stop. Red lights offer not even the slightest hesitation, although, technically, red does mean stop, just like at home.

And, technically, Chinese should drive on the right side of the road, just like at home. However, the issue becomes foggy when you consider that, at least 75 percent of the time, Chinese drivers are on the wrong side of the road, in the game of perpetual leapfrog played by every Chinese vehicle. It's not uncommon, at all, for two cars to pass each other, each one on the wrong side of the road. This is especially pervasive on the two-lane roads all over the countryside, such as the one linking my university, which is truly in the hinterlands, to Zhuzhou City to the south and to Changsha City to the north. This is the road I run each day and, every time a dumptruck approaches, blowing its war siren of a horn, and a taxi scrapes by, also blowing its horn, and a stray dog races out at me, the voice of the man in black whispers: "Do not be worried."

Somehow, things work out, and the ancient rules of the road, a mystery to me, are followed by all, and all live to see another death-defying, hearing-impaired day.

Great editorial

Check it out: http://www.startribune.com/stories/561/4143782.html. It's about the California recall debacle, but touches on a broader, more insidious theme: anger politics. As the article states, the U.S. seems filled with people -- the majority of whom are white, middle-aged males who listen to AM radio -- who have a lot in life but somehow harbor conspiracies about how they'd have SO much more if only interlopers didn't meddle in their affairs. The interlopers include very specific entities, such as "the media" and "immigrants" and "government" and "feminists" and "affirmative action." The Man, they seem to think, is keeping them down, despite the fact that a look in the mirror will reveal that, indeed, they are The Man. And, while in front of the mirror every morning, they should, everyday, practice turning their frown upside down, before they get in the SUV and get blasted another refreshing dose of xenophobia on the AM radio waves.

Questions for the lunchlady

You, lunchlady, and I are not terribly conversant. I point, you pile, I leave. However, we need to chat about some things. Surely, you must have an endless list of questions for me -- please give me the address of your blog -- and I have some questions for you:

1) Where's the meat? Now, the pile of flesh-colored cubes, soaked in chile sauce, that I pointed at -- and you piled -- yesterday, that sure looked like chicken, and it sure brought a smile to my face. Imagine my dismay, however, when I put chopsticks to cubes, cubes to mouth and, tofu?! I, as a carniverous creature, native to the middle part of North America, am used to eating lots and lots of cows, chickens, turkeys and other creatures. However, I see many of these same creatures everywhere I go in China, yet I almost never see them on the slopline. How to explain this?

2) Where's the tea? Yes, I know I provide great amusement every time I request Pepsi. You turn the Pepsi dispenser on just for me, as no other person ever has Pepsi with meals. Nor, I've noticed, does any other person have any kind of drink with meals. Now, I've been raised to believe that China is a land of obsessive tea drinkers. Yet, not once, anywhere on campus, have I seen anyone drinking tea, or tea available for sale. Is this campus, when it comes to tea, dry? If it were an option, I would choose it over Pepsi, saving you the hassle of turning on the Pepsi machine each time I enter your domain.

3) Where's the fruit? In America, we're taught to believe that, together, fruits and vegetables should account for at least five servings a day. You've got the veggie quota met, even exceeded, but this is an unequal marriage. Again, I'd be led to believe that this campus bans fruit, except that, everyday, I stop by the old, kind woman's fruit stand, twenty strides from your cafeteria, point at ten mandarin oranges, and chow them the rest of the day. If they were available at your cafeteria, I promise I would buy from you. No offense to the old, kind woman who is my sole source of fruit.

4) Who eats the sloppile after every meal? Surely, this cannot go to waste. An idea: feed the sloppile to a hungry cow, and, after a few months, feed the once-hungry cow to this meat-hungry American.

Return to childhood

The longer I'm here, the more I remind myself of an eight-year-old. Every conversation, whether I'm fumbling through busted Mandarin, or a companion is gasping for English, is reminiscient of kindergarten. Which, fittingly, I will be teaching an hour every week, I just found out.

And then there's eating. The faculty dining hall is straight out of the plans for St. Rose of Lima's school cafeteria -- white tile floors, ceramic tables with permanently attached blue laminate chairs, and a slop line.

The lunchlady scoops a couple piles of rice onto my silver platter, which is exactly reminiscent of those used in American prisons. I go to the next station, where another lunchlady piles on creamofsomeyoungsomething. And the next station, and some creamofsomeyoungsomethingelse. I never know what kind of someyoungsomething it is, I just point and pray.

So far, everything has been quite edible, even tangy and spicy and enjoyable. Thanks be to God. Today, however, not so much. One mystery dish looked for all the world like beef chips. I chewed my first bite, though, and nope, not beef chips. Instead, rubbery, chewy something that, for the first time, tripped my gag reflex. On closer inspection, the "beef chips" came to resemble something of the liver/kidney genre. I am widely fed, but liver/kidney is one genre I don't do.

And so, with my chopsticks, I picked through the dish, extracting the edibles -- some kind of green onions and red peppers -- and discarding the inedible liver/kidney action. In this, I was eight years old again, sorting through my tater-tot casserole, removing the icky green beans, ground beef and mushrooms, leaving me with a pile of tater-tots.

The other mystery dish, thanks be to God, contained meat! But, but, but, I took a bite, chewed some flab and then cruch -- a bone, and this creature was not osteoporotic. I bit another piece, more flab and, again, crunch goes my chompers on a bovine bone.

And, chopsticks in hand, I picked out the green chiles and red chiles from this dish, transferred them to the "edible" pile, along with the green onions and red peppers from the other dish, and re-united the flabby, bony beef with its internal organs in my "discard" pile.

I was ashamed of myself. Here I thought I had crossed food's final frontiers in Sweden -- raw beef, raw steak, raw herring, raw crayfish -- and now I can't even qualify for junior membership in the Chinese Clean Plate Club.

The discard pile was just too rauncy, though, and I had to part with it. And how does one part with the discard pile?

In the middle of the cafeteria, close to the slopline, are two red buckets. In one red bucket, you put your used chopsticks, cups, anything not edible to anyone. In the other red bucket, your push the remains of your dinner. It is one big pile of slop, the kind of concoction schoolkids in America throw together at the end of meals to gross out everyone but themselves. Only in China, this sloppile greets you as you enter the slopline, empty silver prison tray in hand, and begin pointing and praying.

Lawn signs, Zhuzhou

Campus teems with greenery -- manicured shrubs, sprawling lawns, trees, ivy everywhere. On every lawn is at least one poetic lawn sign. Here's what they say:

Cherish the wood grass,
share the green

The green, the true love
in all softness and warmness

please keep your feet off
the green green grass

Ancient Chinese secret, maybe

Eat with chopsticks, look like chopsticks. It's amazing how svelte, bordering on twiggy, nearly everyone is here. Surely, a daily schedule of hard work and strenuous exercise and a historic tendency toward food shortages start to explain this phenomenon. But, eating with chopsticks enters the equation, too. After runs, I of course want to shovel down mounds of food in quick order. With chopsticks, this becomes much more difficult than with a fork or spoon. The shoveling is much slower, much more tedious and requires much more work. For me, I welcome the change, as it introduces a new component to my post-run grubbing: chewing.

Beware the baijui

I'm always thirsty, as I'm used to guzzling my gallon jug of water every day at work and, here, people might go a month on a gallon of water. It's unwise to drink out of the tap, so bottled is the only way to drink, and the costs add up quickly.

To remedy this, I went to the little faculty grocery store tonight. It was filled with young college girls, looking very innocent. I saw some jumbo bottles -- probably half-gallon jugs -- of clear, water-like liquid. Bingo! I picked three bottles off the shelf and headed to the next aisle.

The girls went bananas, in their very proper way. One girl looked in astonishment at my bottles, pointed, and said something in Chinese that made everyone else laugh. Soon, all eyes were trained on me and my bottles of water. Huh?

Finally, out of this confusion, the one boy in the store pointed at the bottles and blurted out, "By-joe!" And, immediately, it clicked: the bottles in my hand contained not water but baijiu (BY-joe), a clear, heavily alcoholic, throat-searing Chinese "spirit" that, according to one of Frank's professors, "smells like piss, tastes like poop." I've had sips of it before, and his description fits perfectly. For some reason, it's cherished by Chinese men, who have contests to see who can endure the most baijiu. That's a contest I won't enter. I put back the baijiu, was directed to the water jugs, and made off with four 1.5 liter jugs. Shew!