How Sweet the Bitter Soup Page 5

  As I looked at this innocent little girl, I thought of what kind of mother she might have. I thought about who would adopt her and what her life would look like. The role of a mother is so important, I thought. I guess I’d known that before, but holding her, looking into her eyes, a quiet and clear thought washed over me. Children need love, yes, but they need boundaries and clear expectations from their parents. This baby, this girl, would need a mother who wouldn’t be afraid to say “no” at times. This girl would need to know that she was expected to work hard in school, to prepare for the future. I thought about my own life and my sweet parents. They had done their best, but I wished they had been more direct with me. When I became a mother, someday, I would tell my children things directly. I would teach them. I would tell them about my faith—why I chose to go to church, what I believed about God, how the spiritual aspects of my life were so important to me. I never doubted my parents’ faith in God, though they lived their faith quietly. Their approach had its own beauty, but I wish they’d been more open, more direct. I felt peaceful thinking about how I might do things differently if I ever had the chance.

  I put this little girl down, walked to the crib next to hers, and picked up another baby. Similar thoughts went through my mind about this little girl and what her future might hold. Suddenly the world didn’t seem so big. I knew that I was in China and that it was the other side of the world from my home, but at that moment, I felt very connected to everything around me, including these little girls. I loved being there—in China, in the orphanage, all of it. My mind was wrapped up in their lives, in my life, and in how our lives could intertwine.

  Before I knew it, it was four o’clock and our time was up. My heart hurt and I didn’t want to leave. I felt bad for those babies and I felt a little bad for myself. I so wanted to be a mother. I had never been more sure.

  chapter 10

  I had decided immediately that I didn’t want to be the kind of expat who lives in China but can’t say anything other than “ni bao” and “zai jian” (hello and good-bye). I was loving China, and I wanted to make the most of my time there. Learning Mandarin was an obvious necessity to really learn the culture and be a part of things. To do this, I used a variety of methods, including informally learning phrases from Chinese friends and colleagues, studying characters from a textbook, and occasionally hiring tutors.

  I’d never thought I would be able to make sense of this language, but as I studied and practiced, I began picking it up more easily. By the spring, I could go to the tailor and order clothes by myself. True, the girls who worked there and I always had a good laugh about my Mandarin, but I convinced myself that they were laughing with me rather than at me. Usually if I threw enough words out there and used some gestures, I got my point across. If nothing else, making these attempts forced me to get out there and at least hear the language. By accident, I began picking up a little Cantonese, too, since that was the local language. Sometimes I would get them mixed up and use parts of both in a sentence. People still managed to understand!

  I had the chance to get a foot massage quite regularly here since it was only about $5 US for an hour-long massage. This is a very popular thing in China, especially in the wealthier areas. It is not only relaxing, it is also considered a kind of preventative medicine. I usually went to the same person every time because the massage was just right, and I noticed improvement in my Chinese after talking with him.

  My friend, Ryan and I would sometimes get foot massages together and it always ended up being a strange and fun combination of a party and language lesson. We often brought along treats like gummy bears or sodas and we would chat with each other and with our friends, the massage guys. We had our favorites and I like to think we were their favorites too.

  My foot massage guy knew no English, so he taught me Chinese by using Chinese. I kept telling him that he was a brilliant teacher. It just came naturally to him, but as a teacher myself, I was amazed at how pedagogically sound it all was. He really used the available tangible contexts: he said things in many ways until I finally got the idea, then went back and explained all the other ways to say that one thing he had just taught me. Through this process I was getting a great deal more vocabulary and could repeat the things I knew, thus getting more oral practice. He always began with the same questions so I could practice answering them, and then he told me about his day, week, or whatever, and I got listening practice. I guess those who aren’t linguists or teachers might not find this fascinating, but to me, this was sort of groundbreaking. I started thinking about writing something about it—”How I Learned Chinese at the Massage Place.” Except I would have to come up with a much better title.

  On Saturdays, or even on some evenings, I liked to take the bus into Siqao, which was the closest city to the Estates. I just loved the ride itself and was fascinated by the people I encountered on these trips. They did things differently than what I was used to; even the way people dressed was so different from what I expected. I don’t mean that in a cliché way, like everyone was walking around in traditional Chinese clothing. What I mean is, for example, that so many guys wear dress pants and suit jackets. It’s kind of funny. The people who sell vegetables on the street, who work construction, who fix the sewer, who do your taxes—all of them wear dress pants. Siqao is just the dress suit capital of the world, I guess. Whether the fashion choices, food variety, or a host of other cultural differences, all I knew was that this place was growing on me.

  Another thing I loved to observe was how everyone could sit all day in that squat position. It’s normal in China, especially for men, to assume that position while waiting for the bus or while relaxing and talking to friends. I actually find the position quite comfortable and natural, but it’s something you don’t see in the States. Seeing groups of five on a motorcycle, everyone’s making-up-the-rules-as-we-go-along driving, the buses that really didn’t have any particular route and would stop anywhere and tell you to get on (doesn’t matter where you’re going; they’re going your way), the fact that you’d sit with complete strangers at a restaurant if there were no other tables and they had room at theirs, and even, dare I say, the dirt and the grey buildings—it was all growing on me.

  At some point during this first year in China, I began to treasure my Sundays more deeply than I ever had before. Easter meant more to me. It seemed to me that my personal faith was growing. I found myself keenly aware of my own spirituality. I sat in my apartment one day, immersed in reading the scriptures—in this case the Old Testament—and I felt such happiness, like I was in exactly the right place doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I’d been preparing a lesson—a discourse on how trials and affliction can strengthen us—to teach in the women’s group I belonged to the following Sunday, and rather than it being a task to complete, I felt joy in preparing it. After all, this women’s organization wasn’t just any group. The Relief Society of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is one of the oldest and largest women’s organizations in the world. Somehow being in this small version of it, in China, made me feel part of the whole even more. Through these discussions on Sunday, I felt connected to women—my sisters—all over the world.

  I felt nothing but gratitude during times like this—for my life and the beautiful experiences I was having in China, but also for the family I’d come from, the challenges I’d faced, and all I’d learned in the process. It was supposed to mean something—all of it was— and my time in China was giving me the clarity to finally get that.

  chapter 11

  Chinese people are very health-conscious, and older people in particular take great pride in their stamina and youthful abilities. There was a man-made mountain down the road from the teachers’ apartments, and I often climbed it, usually early in the morning, just as the sun was coming up. It was a tough workout for me, despite my having gotten in much better shape since coming to China; I could run six miles three times a week, but climbing this mountain almost took more o
ut of me. I always felt great afterwards, though, which was probably what kept me going.

  The other thing that kept me going was the fact that these ninety-year-olds continued to pass me on the way up. They would bounce right by me and, noticing that I was struggling, give me a nod of encouragement and a “zao sbang bao” (good morning).

  I saw this again and again—the stamina of these older people. They were so incredibly fit and healthy, and I often wished all of America could live in China just long enough to let this lifestyle have an influence. We are so caught up with the latest diet and newest trick toward losing weight in the US, yet the answers are really so simple. Having struggled with trying to learn healthy eating habits myself, I knew how difficult it could be to establish and maintain healthy habits. But now, in China, I had finally internalized everything I’d been trying to learn and I felt healthier than ever. And it wasn’t a quick fix that had gotten me there; it was a combination of modifying my diet (though not so much that I didn’t still eat McDonald’s or Pizza Hut once a week) along with the active lifestyle that in China was just so accessible, and inviting.

  Not only did people climb the mountain in the morning, they also did tai chi in the park. It was a beautiful thing to watch. Tai chi is a series of fluid, smooth movements that flow together like a very slow dance. To do it well requires great balance and flexibility, and also great patience. When I first joined them in the park to try to learn, I wanted them to put it in fast-forward. These movements are great, I thought, but can we speed it up a bit? It was only after I let go of the time element and did as they said, thought about each and every movement, that I began to get it. It is about the process, about the journey from one movement to the other, rather than simply getting to the next move—much like life should be, I suppose.

  Another thing that stood out to me was how comfortable people were with wearing their pajamas outside their houses. In the evening, this was a fascinating thing for an outsider to watch. After dinner, when the sun went down, couples, families, and individuals came outside for a walk. They walked through their neighborhoods, to the park, or around the lake. When it was hot, the women might carry a small fan. Sometimes they would walk backwards for a while, since that’s good exercise for the bum muscles. And they did all of this in their pajamas.

  When I first saw this, it seemed strange, since in America the most we’ll venture outside for in our pajamas is to get the paper from the porch (actually, do people even do that anymore?)—and even then we put on a robe first. Not in China.

  As time went on, I began to like this habit more and more. Now I find going out in my pajamas comfortable and a normal part of my routine. I never see any other Westerners doing this, and I guess that’s not unusual. I love that I don’t really care.

  It never occurred to me how unusual it was that I had adopted the wearing-pajamas-outside thing until I ran into two teachers from the school one night. They had just come from the Pink Chair, a popular make-shift bar outside a local restaurant. There was no actual furniture there, save a few plastic pink chairs, hence the name.

  Now that I was here in China, being given this incredible chance to learn and grow, I didn’t want to waste one moment. There was something to learn, either about China or about myself, all the time, and I just could not fathom giving up a Friday night to watch others get drunk and complain about school—which, according to the people who attended the Pink Chair get-togethers, was exactly what happened there.

  I had also heard some of my colleagues more than once complaining about “the Chinese,” and I definitely couldn’t tolerate that kind of talk. So my Friday nights were filled with reading, yoga, arranging my pictures, and sometimes having dinner with friends.

  When Tess and Becky rode up on their bikes that night, I got a strange vibe from Tess, who rolled her eyes when she saw me. These two women were people I considered to be friends, and I didn’t know what to make of her gesture.

  “Hey, guys,” I said.

  “Hey there, Lori. Nice pj’s,” Tess said with a stifled sneer.

  “Thanks,” I said, not offering an explanation.

  Becky looked between us and said, “Well, we better get going. Enjoy your walk.”

  “I will,” I said, and they rode off. As they pulled away on their bikes, I heard Tess say to Becky, “Seriously, did you see that? Does she think she’s Chinese?”

  The comment stung, just for a second. But I kept walking. It was an interesting question, actually. Obviously the answer was no, but it was telling that people were so quick to get uncomfortable when someone else stepped outside of their assumed category. No, I did not think that going for a walk in my pajamas made me Chinese; I did think I was in China, however, and that I would like to try on different cultural norms. Was I going to take up smoking because most men here smoked? No. Was I going pretend that chicken feet were my favorite food? No. I did not plan to do things in which I had no interest just to fit into the culture, and I had no intention of trying to be something I wasn’t. But how could I know who that was if I wasn’t open to new experiences? Going for an evening walk in nice clean pajamas after having washed for the day was an interesting concept, and one I was really growing to like.

  Part of the reason I enjoyed it so much was that there was a connection among people as they did it. I really felt a part of the community during these walks in a way that I wouldn’t have if I’d been walking with a specific destination in mind or was in a big hurry. Even though my neighbors and I weren’t walking side by side, we were all outside, enjoying the night air, together. We said “ni hao” to each other or simply nodded as we passed one another. We were greeting our neighbors and taking advantage of the beautiful walkways and gardens that surrounded us. I was finding these evening walks to be one of the most peaceful, thought-provoking times of my day.

  When I came back to the states years later, once in awhile I would revisit this tradition. When I did so, it was easy to mentally transport myself back to China, walking among all the families who were doing something good for their health and making a connection with the people and things around them. When I did so, it was easy to mentally transport myself back to China, walking among all the families who were doing something good for their health and making a connection with the people and things around them.

  chapter 12

  One day, I took an early bus into work. The streets were quieter than usual. One of the Chinese teachers I worked with got on at the same stop and we exchanged pleasantries. He was probably in his fifties and was very distinguished looking. He was always kind to me and patiently listened and nodded as I tried to crank out a few sentences in Mandarin.

  On this particular morning, we were the only two people who got off at 13th Street, which led to the back gate of the school. The rain had started the night before and hadn’t stopped. It was doing that a lot during this time (hence the term “rainy season”).

  As we exited the bus, we realized that all the side streets were flooded with at least a foot of water. We checked a few others to see if there was less water there, but they were all just as bad. Now, this man did not speak any English, and my Mandarin was more limited than I realized. I didn’t seem to have the vocabulary for this situation. He began talking super fast and making all these gestures. Because I had no idea what he was trying to communicate, I timidly began to just walk through the puddle. I figured there was really no alternative and a little (or a foot of) water wouldn’t kill me.

  He took me by both arms, looking straight into my eyes, and said, “Deng yi xia!” (Wait a minute!). He took off his shoes and socks, put his socks in his pocket, grabbed his shoes, and rolled up his pants. I started to do the same.

  “Bu!Bu! Wobeini”

  I knew this literally meant “I back you.” I was still doing this translation in my mind when he walked over to me and actually scooped me up onto his back. I fussed a little at this, because I was not exactly a lightweight, and he was not a young guy! I had these immedi
ate and awful images of him falling down in the water because of me and I couldn’t stand it, so I tried to refuse.

  “Bu xing!” I cried. “Wo tai zhong. Bu keyi” (No way, I’m too heavy, you can’t.)

  Well, he insisted. He carried my gigantic backpack and I carried an umbrella, trying to protect both of us from the rain.

  When we arrived at the school gate, I thanked him profusely as he gently let me down off his back. I felt so embarrassed, but I was incredibly moved by his gesture—not to mention impressed by his strength.

  All I could think about throughout the week was my colleague’s poor back. I didn’t see him for a couple of days and that made me very nervous. I kept wondering if I had misunderstood his offer. Maybe he hadn’t intended to carry me at all. Maybe he was offering to carry my backpack, not me. Maybe when he bent down and said something about his back, maybe it was that his back really hurt, and then I jumped on! I had images of him talking to his colleagues about this: “What could I do? I offered to carry the foreigner’s backpack and next thing I knew, she jumped on me!!”

  Thoughts like this haunted me all week until I finally saw him, caught him alone, thanked him again, and asked him how his back was. He laughed and said it was no problem. Then again, I doubt he would have told me the truth if his back had been killing him all week. Regardless, long live true chivalry in China.

  chapter 13

  My friend Mike, his wife, Janice, and another friend Ryan decided to start a running club after school, and I could not have been more excited. As soon as Mike mentioned it, I jumped at the chance to join. For me, running had always been something of a dream—one of the end goals in my fitness quest process. To put on running shoes and step outside and simply run is something that successful, healthy, fit women do. I used to dream about it—of being that kind of confident, successful woman—and although I was not yet entirely there, I was closer than I had ever been, so this running club was a dream come true.