I Went to China...

... because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

That, of course, is what Henry David Thoreau famously said in Walden, except he went to the woods while I'm the one who went to China.

This summer, during my glorious three and a half weeks in America, I realized that none of you believed me when I said I was going to live abroad for ten (or more) years. And yet, here I am, back in Beijing. And I have no intention of working in the U.S. anytime soon.

I also realized that I'd never done a very good job of explaining my reasons to you... I tried three years ago, and obviously failed. And I actually started writing this post right after I returned three weeks ago, but still couldn't quite explain it.

And then today, while prepping for a lesson, I stumbled across Thoreau's quote. I've seen it before of course; we all have. I've even been known to quote it to myself or others on occasion. (Although I must admit I've never made it through the whole book, and I've tried more than once, both as a teen and an adult. He's just. So. Wordy. And dry.) But there are moments when the man can make his pen sing. This quote is one of those moments.

Thoreau continues is much the same vein, and this much-quoted passage ends with this:

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

I'm not sure there is any better description for life in China, although I must admit that my Western, whitewoman, privileged, prima donna ways keep me from really living as most Chinese do. Somethings I choose, somethings are thrust upon me by my well-meaning, kind hosts, but I have a much more robust understanding of what is truly essential in life now than I did three years ago.

I must think about my moves and decisions. I must learn to communicate, and learn what is essential for communication. I am learning patience and understanding and graciousness. My life is full of tiny frustrations that turn into monumental nightmares and tiny victories that turn into life-affirming epic poems.

And sometimes, life in China is mean and I (quite literally) publish that to the world. But often, life in China is truly sublime, and I hope you see that reflected in this blog also.

So now, the next time someone asks me why I moved to China, I can simply tell them that I wished to live deliberately. And I have. And I am.


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Location:Beijing, China

First Impressions

Well, I've been at my new school for a couple of weeks now (a week ago &madash; I'm writing kinda slowly) so it's high time I tell you my thoughts. I won't belabor the "China You Win!" aspect of the school, but suffice to say I've been here for two weeks, and everyone has been back for a week, and I still don't have a classroom (or a desk), a schedule, class lists, or all my teaching materials.

Let us move on to the things I'm digging about my school.

At my first new teacher meeting, we went around the table and introduced ourselves and our subject areas. Among the usual English and math teachers, there was a music teacher, and an art teacher, and a PE teacher, and a librarian. But there is not just one of each of those, oh no, there are entire departments.

And this might be the best thing about this school: in this age of high-stakes testing and drastically reduced budgets, this school has a fully-functioning art department and music program.

Fast forward to the start of last week. The whole school was back for three days of professional development. As we all know, any time two or more teachers start talking, whinging is soon to ensue. And yet, after three days of working on backward design, no one was bitching. The staff remained active and engaged in the activities. This is both a testament to the positivity of the staff and the pedagogy of those leading the sessions.

This might be the single best thing about this school: they are not a bunch of whinging slackers.

In one meeting, our vice principal mentioned that our kids don't have to make AYP. That's right, no high-stakes testing. Our parents still have crazy-high expectations, but it doesn't all come down to an assessment instrument that the kids find worthless and incredibly stressful.

That might just be the single best thing about this school.

Towards the end of the three days, she gave us a homework assignment: we are to design all our units using this backward design process. She encouraged us to do our best, but, and she stressed this, we should try even if we don't completely get the process.

Wait, let me repeat: it's ok for the teachers' to not be absolutely perfect as long as we continue to develop. That might be the single best thing about this school.

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Location:Beijing, China

A Dog's Life

You see a lot of unexpected things on the streets of Beijing. You see little kids peeing and pooping, grown men whizzing against any old wall, old ladies spitting, or a middle-aged man cleaning his ear with a pen knife.

But today, I saw something that really boggles the mind.

It was a poodle, a toy poodle (the Chinese love them some small dogs). The poor thing was shaved in classical poodle style — you know, with a pom-pom on its head and each leg.

But wait, there's more!

Each pom-pon was died pink. The anklets were a cotton-candy while the head was more of a Cindy Lauper hot pink.

And the dog? Was male.


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Location:Beijing, China

I Miss the East German Judge

– or –

I Guess the Cold War Really Is Over

I'll just admit right now that I haven't been keeping up with the Olympics. The whole "return to China-unpack a new apartment" thing has been keeping me distracted. And while I guess I could look for coverage in Chinese or online, I just haven't. I've never been a giant Olympics freak — at least not since I moved on from my girlish obsession with gymnastics.

But I remember those early Olympics before the Wall came down. I remember when Nadia defected to the U.S. And I remember the East German judges.

Back in the day, each event was evaluated from one to ten (one to eight for diving for some bizarre reason), and a judge from six? eight? countries each gave a score. The highest and lowest were dropped and the rest averaged. I have no idea how the judges were picked, but there always seemed to be a U.S. judge and a Russian one, a West German one and an East German one. I think France and Great Britain alternated and the other Eastern block nations must have taken a turn. I don't remember any other continents represented.

It really upped the excitement level. Because we all knew that the Eastern bloc was going to mark down the Western athletes — but we didn't know by how much... And it was obvious who your friends really were.

Skip ahead to a few weeks ago when I was staying with my sister and her family. My brother-in-law has always been something of an Olympics freak, so it goes without saying that the TV was generally tuned to the Olympics. And, if diving or gymnastics was on, well, I'd take a break from sewing to watch.

And there it was on the screen: One score. That's it. They post one score having already conferenced and marked and deducted and judged. The IOC got rid of the East German judge! (OK, so the fall of the Berlin Wall did that, too, but you get my drift.) How are you supposed to tell your allies apart from your enemies?!

And, when I'm in class and I do something particularly mean and I blame it on the East German judge, the kids just stare at me like I'm crazy... Which I am, but still.

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Scrub-a-Dub-Dub

I have spent the last few days doing something that many of you will find surprising: I have been scrubbing my kitchen. And I don't mean a little wipe-down of the cabinets, oh no. I mean full-on floor-to-ceiling scrub.

There are a few reasons why my kitchen is in such a sad state. First off, my apartment is a few years old (maybe 8-10?). While in the U.S., that would be relatively new, it is exacerbated by the other factors. First on that list is that I am now in the university district, and college students are not known for their cleanliness. Of course, a landlord should be able to clean up after someone leaves, and I can tell that there has been some wiping down of the walls, but it hasn't been done very well.

Why? Because in my experience, the Chinese aren't really all that big on cleaning. They don't mind wiping so much (although even that sometimes is a struggle), but they do have a thing against soap. All of this could add up to some grime in a Western kitchen, but then there is the fact of Chinese cooking.

The Chinese stir-fry (as I'm sure you all know), and when you stir-fry, tiny droplets of oil become airborne. Those droplets then stick to anything and everything: the walls, the ceilings, the cabinets. And when that builds up after 10 years of lackadaisical wiping with limited surfactants...

Well, even I feel the need to don the rubber gloves and fill a basin with hot-soapy water and use some elbow grease.

I am not even doing the best job. I have not moved the fridge to clean behind it — I'm frankly scared by what I'd find. And although I've considered getting a toothbrush out, I also haven't gotten that far. Maybe once I finish the first pass, because until I get it done, I am too skeezed out to put my dishes or food away.

And I still have a cabinet and a wall left.

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Location:Beijing, China

Welcome Home

Two years ago, when I flew to Beijing, I was scared. I was heading off into the Great Unknown, Alone, and it was intimidating, to say the least. Getting on the plane was an act of courage.

Last year, when I flew to Beijing, I was depressed. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into, and more importantly, what I was leaving behind. Getting on the plane was once again an act of courage.

This year, getting on the plane wasn't no big thing. My summer break was short, true. Too short to really see and do everything I wanted, but it was nice. I had a wonderful time with my friends; they reminded me again and again why we are friends in the first place. I had a wonderful time with my family; they made me feel welcomed and loved and indulged my idiosyncrasies.

But I found that I was not returning to Being with the same sense of dread and fear in the pit of my stomach. I knew it would be hot, yes. I knew it would probably be smoggy, as well. I knew some of the sewer grates would smell and there would be garbage in the streets. But, it doesn't really bother me anymore. It just ... is.

Yesterday afternoon, I hopped in a taxi and went back to my old neighborhood to visit my Handler. (And buy some stuff. But more on that later.) I told the man "Yuquan Lu." He repeated it back and started driving. I sank back into the seat and started to read a magazine. He then said something else to me (which I didn't understand), and something in me was different.

I just looked up and said, "Yuquan Lu ditie." (That's Yuquan Rd. subway station for those of you who don't speak Chinese.) And he started driving.

Even three weeks ago, I would have tried to figure it out, repeated Yuquan Lu and tossed in a Wukesong or two. Then I would have reverted to English to tell him I at least knew where we were going. Finally, I would have rounded out my song and dance with a "ti bu dong" (I don't understand) or two.

But yesterday, I just leaned back again and let him drive me across town.

I had (half-jokingly) told my Handler that I might need him to talk to the cab driver when I landed, depending on my inebriation/sleep status. It turns out that I didn't need him, so I texted him that I had made it to my apartment.

He replied, "Welcome home."

Yes, I guess I am.

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Location:Beijing, China