Buy Nothing

This morning, my Handler looked over at me and said, with some boyish glee, "Tomorrow is Black Friday."

"Um, yes," I replied, more than a bit surprised. What did he care about Black Friday?

"I'm going to have my friends in the U.S. buy me some things," he continued. "And they will be coming back to China for their Christmas breaks, so they can bring it me. Of course, things aren't that much cheaper than they are here..."

"True," I agreed. "Of course, there is an element among the leftist, anarchist, hippie, counter-culture crowd that celebrates Buy Nothing Day."

He looked at me quizzically.

"Instead of spending all your money and paying into corporate greed, you buy nothing on the day after Thansgiving. Instead, you spend the day with your family, doing things together: talking, hanging out, watching movies — provided you already own them — making Christmas ornaments, baking cookies... You get the idea."

More quizzical looks. "But, uh, how does putting things on sale contribute to corporate greed?" he asked honestly.

"Well, a corporation won't sell things just to lose money, and once you're in the store, they are relying on you spending money on things you didn't want. Beyond that, even if something is on sale, if it's something you don't need, you've still wasted money. Sales are part of the whole consumer culture. Buy Nothing Day encourages people to resist judging themselves and others by what they own. Instead, we should focus on who they are or what they do. It resists consumerism and capitalistic greed and international imperialism." (I threw in a few -isms I knew would resonate, but it's all true, I promise.)

I looked up. My Handler was looking down, and shaking his head a bit. "You're actually making me think," he said. "I don't usually think. We need to talk about something else now."

I'll probably break my vow and buy something tomorrow; my Thanksgiving dinner isn't until Saturday, and I'm sure I've forgotten something. I cut myself some slack since I'm living overseas. But how's this for a deal: I promise to buy nothing on Sunday, instead.

My Favorite Topic

Safety!

That's right. I've got another one for the "Don't you worry about dying?!" file.

While waiting for the water to boil for my coffee this morning, I was looking out the window at the construction across the street. (I am very excited for them to finish this building, because I think it's going to be a mall and my chances for a coffee shop next door will increase exponentially.) After a long year of nothing much visible going on, the structure is finally peeking about the fence and affords a more interesting view.

So this morning I notice the following: they are constructing a third floor, there are some squarish sections of rebar poles sticking up haphazardly in a few areas, the crane is hauling up another huge pile of rebar, a man is walking across the floor. Wait. I can see his head.

I don't mean I can see the bubbly bit on top of his shoulders. No, I mean I can see his actual hair. As in: he is not wearing a hard hat. On a construction site. While walking under a crane carrying a who-knows-how-heavy pile of steel rebar.

(To be fair, when I looked out the window this afternoon, all the workers were wearing brightly-colored hard hats. The dude this morning must have been a supervisor who didn't think he'd be around long enough to wear a helmet, or some such deal.)

And the Band Played On

I went to the school's Germany Day (they love having themed cultural days around here). It was cute, in a mostly incomprehensible sort of way, seeing as I speak neither German nor Chinese. (But I was there representing the Kuehls anyway.) At the end of the assembly, the band got up and walked around the hall playing while all the actors danced around the stage. It was the closest I think I've ever been to life imitating a musical.

As the band made their first go-round the hall, I noticed that one girl's skirt seemed to be slipping off her hips. Hmm. I've seen boys with pants below their butts, but not pre-teen girls, and certainly not while marching around a room full of people. She didn't seem fazed. At all.

On the second pass around the room, her skirt appeared to be slipping even lower, and she wasn't making a move to pull it up. And then, wait... whoops! Her skirt fell to the floor. Just fell. There she was, in her tights. Playing the flute. Surrounded by people.

Um.

Uh.

And there were no jeers. No pointing and shouting. No tears. No running out of the room in embarrassment. She kept playing, and she moved out of sight, so she was still walking. My colleagues at the front of the room didn't notice a flute player without a skirt, so she must have pulled it back up at some point. I noticed her whisper something to her friend at the end of the number, but again, without any of the chagrin I would expect out of girl who had just flashed half the school.

Nope, she just played on.

On Whiteness

A few weeks ago, we went to see a concert given by my friends' choir. (Well, they sing in the choir; the choir does not belong to them.) Anyway, it involved meeting at a restaurant, cabbing to the venue, and then cabbing back for some late-night snacks and drinks.

Somehow, I ended up being one of the people who knew where we were going, so I was the "leader" of my cab (we had to break into two groups). I sat in the front and told the driver where to go. He asked, in halting English, if I was going to the subway. (I had given the name of the subway stop.) I said not really, but he should go there anyway. I could tell him where to turn.

We did a little back and forth. He definitely spoke better English than I speak Chinese — but not by much. He kept on looking over at me. The folks in the back seat were chatting quietly among themselves. And that's when it went sideways.

"You are very white," he said.

Um, OK. I've been called white before, but usually not in a good way. It's usually because it's the beginning of summer, and my legs are so glaringly pale that anyone in the area needs to put on sunglasses before they can look at me. Of course, "white" can also be a euphemism for "racist" or "boring" or "imperialist". None of which I much relish as adjectives to describe my personality.

While all this was going through my head, he was still thinking. "Your skin looks like... um... the word is... porcelain."

Yup. He was totally hitting on me. (And somehow, "porcelain" does sound nicer than "white".) He went on to ask if I was married and inquire about my age. But then I told him to turn onto another street and drop us off at the restaurant.

And yes, I let him drive off into the "foggy" Beijing evening.

I Didn't Say I Could Write

I have a mini-fan club. Or, I'm just as big a sucker as I was at 8 when any member of my family could get a free grilled cheese or BLT just by flattering my cooking skillz. (And I do have mad skillz.) All to say, these girls come to get my help on various standardized tests and essays.

Two days ago, I got a visit from one of the fan club. She's known by the entire staff to have a grocery store in her locker and a convenience store in her pockets. She claims it's not true, but it is. Since she's warmed up to me (it's amazing what saying nice things about an essay will do), I am on the list of teacher swho are regularly offered food. So while snacking on "sushi flavored" potato chips (they're really just wasabi flavored), we got talking about pronunciation.

Then we got talking about my bad Chinese pronunciation (read: horrible). Then somehow, it came up that I could read about 10 characters. She wanted to know which ones. Well, that meant I had to write them down... So I tried to write "lamb", and I think I did a halfway decent job -- but she broke into gales of laughter.

 I mean gales.

I know that there is a right and a wrong way to write Chinese characters. You are supposed to start with a certain stroke, and write each character in the same sequence. I looked at her.

"My elementary school teacher would be so angry with you," she said amidst her giggles.

"What?" I countered. "No one has ever taught me how to write."

She smiled. "I always got yelled at by my teacher, too."

Kids These Days

One of my students came in for her usual SAT tutoring session. (They are obsessed with their SAT scores. Some of them accost me at every spare moment for help with practice tests. To be fair, I do usually get the questions right (by usually, I mean I might have missed one or two of the hundreds of questions I have answered — can you say 800 boys and girls?), so I can't quite blame her for coming to me for help.)

One of today's reading was a paired selection about rock 'n roll. One of the two articles explained that the kids born in the 1940s are today's 50-year-olds (the article is from 1980), and they still love rock 'n roll (my parents excluded, of course). She looked at me for a moment.

I leaned back to my Partner-in-Crime and asked if he likes rock 'n roll (I know the answer is "yes" and I also know he is approaching that big 5-0 birthday). He said yes (what is that old lawyer saying about never asking a question you don't already know the answer to). I said I liked rock 'n roll. And we all know I'm old.

"But, don't you think it's too loud?" she asked?

What? Too loud? A 17-year-old child is asking me if music is TOO LOUD?

I reached for my iTunes (which was open, of course), unplugged my earphones, and turned up the volume. Then I found "Rock 'n Roll" by Led Zeppelin and let it rip.

I calmly went back to work. The next question asked about the meaning of a sentence ... a sentence about revolution, no less.

Well, that just demanded "Revolution" by the Beatles, so I let her have it.

You should have seen the look on her face for the opening guitar riff and yowl. Kids these days; they just don't get it.

Jump, Step, or Float

Earlier this year, I signed up for a yoga course. I've taken yoga classes here and there before. I occasionally joined my fellow climbers for Yoga for Climbers (strangely enough) on a drop-in basis, and I once took a yoga P.E. so I could qualify for student aid (seriously). Although it's not considered very "yoga" to compare your yoga skillz with those of your classmates, I do it anyway. And on the grand scale of "athletic things I'm pretty good at even though I haven't done it all that much", yoga ranks fairly highly. Those skills that helped me succeed (moderately) at gymnastics have carried over into this, my more sedate athletic adulthood.

So when it came time to get more active in Beijing, I went looking for yoga.

Not only is is alluring because of my native abilities (making it so much less frustrating and disheartening than other athletic pursuits), but it also has a strong focus on strength and control: things that my particular joint issues respond well to. And, I was hoping for a little help for my shoulders.

Some of you are aware of my shoulder complaints. After some youthful exuberances turned disastrous (and then promptly ignored), an adult life of typing and a top-heavy body shape have left me with some rather sad excuses for shoulder muscles. I was particularly worried when my former roommate-turned physical therapist explained to me how heating packs will actually melt the collagen in muscles, which then reform in less-than-ideal ways.

My hope was that some focused attention to strength and flexibility might help my shoulders work again. Hope.

And wouldn't you know, two weeks ago I was walking through school and I noticed that I was standing up straight. Not standing, but standing up straight. And it's not that I can't stand up straight, it's just that I usually don't. So to notice that I was doing it unconsciously? That was pretty cool.

The teacher is pretty cool: she skips the "ohms" but still keys into using the practice as a working meditation. We are encouraged to pay attention to how we feel, and work out accordingly. It's a lot like I've lived my life, actually — walking that line between wimping out and risking injury. (Seriously, this knee is a time bomb, but I'm not going to spend all my time sitting on the couch.)

Needless to say, I've signed up for the next round of classes.