In the interest of painting a clear picture of my experience here, I do need to mention that the frustrations are usually outweighed by the comfortable living.
Part of the good living is that I make a US salary, which is high for this city, but the other is that the cost of things is so cheap. For example, massages !
Here is my Massage Count:
September:
-Down the street from my apt – 60 min. for 90 RMB/$11
November:
-Fake Hot Springs Full Body 45 min. – free
-Extra Food Massage 98 RMB/$12
-Foot massage at Real Hot Springs 45 min. – 198 RMB/$30
December:
-Amarela, Pangalo, full body came to our room, 600 Pesos/ 100 RMB/$14
-Hotel h20, Manila, hour body massage, 800 Pesos/$18 USD
January:
-3.3 center, Sanlitun, 60 min. foot massage, 60 RMB/$9
February:
-3.3., Foot massage 60 min/60 RMB
March:
Discovered Dragonfly discount for teachers! 2nd hour is free!
-1 hour foot, 1 hour body, 150 RMB
-1 hour foot, 1 hour hot oil, 250 RMB
April:
1 hour foot, 1 hour body, 150 RMB
May:
-1 hour foot, 1 hour body
-1 hour foot
-3.3, 30 minute foot
-3.3m 60 minute foot
June:
-1 hour foot, 1 hot stone massage
-3.3, 30 minute foot
-3.3, 30 minute hand
-1 hour foot
-3.3, 1 hour foot
-1 hour foot, 1 hot stone massage
July
-3.3 1 hour foot
-1 hour head/shoulder, 1 hour body
-1 hour foot, 1 hour body
On Friday, Kelly and I went out to dinner, got manicures and massages, then met up with friends at a fancy bar for martinis. I got a kiwi-cucumber martini, which was every bit as refreshing as it sounds, and a really good dirty martini. Each were Y50/$7.
It’s not just that things are so cheap and affordable here, especially if you make US salary. I think the difference really come from moving here from New York.
As an assistant teacher and grad student in NYC, you get used to a certain standard of living. Open bar.com, for example, is not just a fun little tool. No one gets $1.50 PBRs from the Johnsons if you can afford a real beer somewhere else. On the L.E.S., I lived with mice, leaking bathrooms, and without heat…loving every minute of it.
In Beijing, my life is almost too comfortable. Kelly and my apartment has so much space, we can’t seem to keep it clean. We can eat out at nice restaurants any or every day of the week. We can buy bottles of imported liquor and any other random purchase we don’t really need from the shopping village in Sanlitun. It’s all so…convenient.
And that’s a major reason why I’m going home after this year. I’m simply too young to live this well. After this, I won’t be able to afford this life style until my 40’s, and that’s just right. If I stayed here for another year, it’d make my transition into rough NY living all the more painful, and I won’t have that. Next Stop, NYC!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Victory is Mine!
That’s right. I won my first battle with a Chinese person yesterday.
Let me explain something about living in China as an only English-speaking expat: It sucks.
You are nothing, unless they are trying to sell you something for 3x’s what it’s worth. You always lose.
Chinese workers, especially but not exclusively at the bank, decide their own rules. One teller will take your travelers cheques, another from the same bank says it’s impossible. One will give you the amount you wanted from your own account. Another says it has never and can never be done.
Settling in, even with a translator, I had to deal with many of these frustrations. I’ve had to make the same trip multiple times, to wait for someone who’s in the mood to do their job. You can rant and rave, but the power is not yours, and you leave, defeated, without getting your way.
Yesterday, I was on a mission. I needed 8 different Chinese New Year cards for my family in Malaysia. Kelly and I leave tomorrow to spend the holiday with them. At the teller, as so often happens, one of the items didn’t have the correct bar code sticker. (That’s right, it had one, but not the “correct” one.) So, as is the common frustrating practice in China, she put it down, discarded on the counter, and proceeded.
When she asked for my money, I pointed to the card and made my best face for “I need this.” Kelly ran back to try to get another one, with all the proper stickers, of course, and I set about stalling.
To say the girl behind the counter was unhappy would be a grave understatement. She held out her hand furiously, asking for the money to complete the transaction. I continued pointing to the card and spoke in useless English that I needed that card and was not leaving. She roller her eyes, tapped the counter, and yelled at me in Chinese. I yelled back in English with my wallet clasped firmly to my chest. She may be pissed, but I’d be dammed if I left that store without being able to check this one thing off of my “to do’s” with my trip fast approaching.
She called the manager, or some other person, pointing her finger at me and the card and screaming. (Mind you, there was no line behind me. Not a single person was waiting for this woman.) The other worker took the card and I presume went to find another.
Then it as back to me and her, staring, growling, not backing down.
In what felt like cneturies but was probrably more like minutes, Kelly returned with the card.
She grabbed it and rang it up, whispering the price so low that I had no way of hearing it. I held out 100 RMB bill, and Kelly leaned over and saw it was 71.
I held out a 1, which is customary here. (People can’t stand having or giving 1 yuan bills, so they’ll always ask if you have 1 to make it a 5.) She took my hand and firmly pushed it towards me before handing me the change with four 1 yuan bills. In China, this is like being slapped in the face.
I’m not going to lie, I may have abused the privilege of speaking another language by muttering some obscenities under my breath. My blood boiled, but then I realized what had happened. She was pissed, because I had WON.
She didn’t want to ring up that card, and yet she DID. That’s right. I left the store with exactly what I wanted to leave with.
Victory is mine!
Ok..I realize in typing this that it doesn't translate so well into an overseas account of victory, but I assure you, it is. Sometimes I feel like I'm not interacting with anyone or learning enough because I don't have the language. It's nice for me to realize that I am learning things about living in this city, like the disrespect of not taking 1 kuai.
Let me explain something about living in China as an only English-speaking expat: It sucks.
You are nothing, unless they are trying to sell you something for 3x’s what it’s worth. You always lose.
Chinese workers, especially but not exclusively at the bank, decide their own rules. One teller will take your travelers cheques, another from the same bank says it’s impossible. One will give you the amount you wanted from your own account. Another says it has never and can never be done.
Settling in, even with a translator, I had to deal with many of these frustrations. I’ve had to make the same trip multiple times, to wait for someone who’s in the mood to do their job. You can rant and rave, but the power is not yours, and you leave, defeated, without getting your way.
Yesterday, I was on a mission. I needed 8 different Chinese New Year cards for my family in Malaysia. Kelly and I leave tomorrow to spend the holiday with them. At the teller, as so often happens, one of the items didn’t have the correct bar code sticker. (That’s right, it had one, but not the “correct” one.) So, as is the common frustrating practice in China, she put it down, discarded on the counter, and proceeded.
When she asked for my money, I pointed to the card and made my best face for “I need this.” Kelly ran back to try to get another one, with all the proper stickers, of course, and I set about stalling.
To say the girl behind the counter was unhappy would be a grave understatement. She held out her hand furiously, asking for the money to complete the transaction. I continued pointing to the card and spoke in useless English that I needed that card and was not leaving. She roller her eyes, tapped the counter, and yelled at me in Chinese. I yelled back in English with my wallet clasped firmly to my chest. She may be pissed, but I’d be dammed if I left that store without being able to check this one thing off of my “to do’s” with my trip fast approaching.
She called the manager, or some other person, pointing her finger at me and the card and screaming. (Mind you, there was no line behind me. Not a single person was waiting for this woman.) The other worker took the card and I presume went to find another.
Then it as back to me and her, staring, growling, not backing down.
In what felt like cneturies but was probrably more like minutes, Kelly returned with the card.
She grabbed it and rang it up, whispering the price so low that I had no way of hearing it. I held out 100 RMB bill, and Kelly leaned over and saw it was 71.
I held out a 1, which is customary here. (People can’t stand having or giving 1 yuan bills, so they’ll always ask if you have 1 to make it a 5.) She took my hand and firmly pushed it towards me before handing me the change with four 1 yuan bills. In China, this is like being slapped in the face.
I’m not going to lie, I may have abused the privilege of speaking another language by muttering some obscenities under my breath. My blood boiled, but then I realized what had happened. She was pissed, because I had WON.
She didn’t want to ring up that card, and yet she DID. That’s right. I left the store with exactly what I wanted to leave with.
Victory is mine!
Ok..I realize in typing this that it doesn't translate so well into an overseas account of victory, but I assure you, it is. Sometimes I feel like I'm not interacting with anyone or learning enough because I don't have the language. It's nice for me to realize that I am learning things about living in this city, like the disrespect of not taking 1 kuai.
Friday, January 21, 2011
January = Farmer's Market
At my school, we have a progressive curriculum. Part of this is having a social studies unit that integrates all of the different subject areas. In second grade, we study "food, shelter, and clothing", and mapping. My kids have been studying food since the beginning of the year.
I was pretty nervous to lead a unit on food, since I have absolutely no idea about the food in Beijing. Where does it come from? What types of food is it? How is it made?
These are the questions that I was supposed to be facilitating the answers to. Riiiight.
Somehow, though, I got through it. We studied the canteen. I brought my kids back when they were cooking and cleaning. They interviewed the workers and thought about their lives without them.
We also studied Farmer's Markets. We took lots of trips there to sketch, talk to workers, and do research. Kelly had them make a model Farmer's Market in my room, which was so adorable I can't even explain.
Today, my students finished our study of food by running a real Farmer's Market out of our classroom. They designed the classroom and their stalls, made signs and maps in art (Also, thanks to Kelly!) and ran the whole thing themselves.
Overall, I ended up buying over $100 USD of fresh fruit, including 200 oranges, 120 bananas, 50 peppers, 80 carrots, 80 apples and 97 bags of sunflower seeds. All of the students and teachers in the school came by to support us, and we sold it all about about 20 oranges.
Most of their parents came in the morning, and seemed really into it. They were haggling with them and trying to get the prices down or to be convinced it was worth it. I think that it really helped with their own understanding of progressive ed.
It was great to see them writing receipts and trying to convince people to buy their "fresh" "juicy" fruits and vegetables. So adorable!
I was pretty nervous to lead a unit on food, since I have absolutely no idea about the food in Beijing. Where does it come from? What types of food is it? How is it made?
These are the questions that I was supposed to be facilitating the answers to. Riiiight.
Somehow, though, I got through it. We studied the canteen. I brought my kids back when they were cooking and cleaning. They interviewed the workers and thought about their lives without them.
We also studied Farmer's Markets. We took lots of trips there to sketch, talk to workers, and do research. Kelly had them make a model Farmer's Market in my room, which was so adorable I can't even explain.
Today, my students finished our study of food by running a real Farmer's Market out of our classroom. They designed the classroom and their stalls, made signs and maps in art (Also, thanks to Kelly!) and ran the whole thing themselves.
Overall, I ended up buying over $100 USD of fresh fruit, including 200 oranges, 120 bananas, 50 peppers, 80 carrots, 80 apples and 97 bags of sunflower seeds. All of the students and teachers in the school came by to support us, and we sold it all about about 20 oranges.
Most of their parents came in the morning, and seemed really into it. They were haggling with them and trying to get the prices down or to be convinced it was worth it. I think that it really helped with their own understanding of progressive ed.
It was great to see them writing receipts and trying to convince people to buy their "fresh" "juicy" fruits and vegetables. So adorable!
I Do Have a Voice
I mentioned earlier that my bike is in poor condition. The latest development is that the bell has fallen, unreachably, to the center of my handlebars. I discovered this in a tricky spot of traffic when I went to alert the bike next to me with my bell and instead swiped my thumb in the mid-air of where my bell used to be.
In my time riding here, I’ve noticed a difference between the way that Americans and Chinese people use their horns. It seems to me that most Americans use their horns as an extension of their road rage, a louder version of the curses that they’re saying from behind the steering wheel. I always laugh when I walk by a traffic jam in NY, where the streets are ringing mercilessly, as if that will make any difference in the situation, other than making it even more unpleasant.
That is not to say, by any means, that the streets of China are a quieter version of that scenario. In fact, the incessant honking is one of the “rumors” about China that has proven true for me, along with the polluted air. The difference, it seems, is that, while Chinese people may use their horns more than Americans, they also use them more purposefully.
Every “beep” and “honk” is directed at someone in particular, and it can be translated: “I’m here.” “Move faster.” “Don’t back up.” “I’m coming up on your right.”
The past few months I’ve been part of these swarms of traffic, and able to communicate on their level. It’s been a welcome change from the rest of my illiterate and disadvantaged life in China.
Cut to me, bell-less, in the midst of the herd. At first I just swerved around and played extra cautious, seeing as I was once again at a disadvantage. Then I remembered, as I so often have to do, that even though I can’t communicate, I still have a voice.
It’s been 5 days sans bell, which for me now means 5 days of, “Hey!!!”
I’ve tried “Ni hao” which means hello in china, but I find that I get a sharper head turn with a quick blast of “hey!”
Side note about English in China: Because they’re the most common “English” that Chinese-speaking people know. I am getting used to overusing, “Hello”, “Bye-bye”, and “ok.” That’s one more tick I’ll have to grow out of when I’m back in America.
Hopefully I won’t come back slowly enunciating, “bye-bye” and screaming “Hey!” instead of ringing my bell.
In my time riding here, I’ve noticed a difference between the way that Americans and Chinese people use their horns. It seems to me that most Americans use their horns as an extension of their road rage, a louder version of the curses that they’re saying from behind the steering wheel. I always laugh when I walk by a traffic jam in NY, where the streets are ringing mercilessly, as if that will make any difference in the situation, other than making it even more unpleasant.
That is not to say, by any means, that the streets of China are a quieter version of that scenario. In fact, the incessant honking is one of the “rumors” about China that has proven true for me, along with the polluted air. The difference, it seems, is that, while Chinese people may use their horns more than Americans, they also use them more purposefully.
Every “beep” and “honk” is directed at someone in particular, and it can be translated: “I’m here.” “Move faster.” “Don’t back up.” “I’m coming up on your right.”
The past few months I’ve been part of these swarms of traffic, and able to communicate on their level. It’s been a welcome change from the rest of my illiterate and disadvantaged life in China.
Cut to me, bell-less, in the midst of the herd. At first I just swerved around and played extra cautious, seeing as I was once again at a disadvantage. Then I remembered, as I so often have to do, that even though I can’t communicate, I still have a voice.
It’s been 5 days sans bell, which for me now means 5 days of, “Hey!!!”
I’ve tried “Ni hao” which means hello in china, but I find that I get a sharper head turn with a quick blast of “hey!”
Side note about English in China: Because they’re the most common “English” that Chinese-speaking people know. I am getting used to overusing, “Hello”, “Bye-bye”, and “ok.” That’s one more tick I’ll have to grow out of when I’m back in America.
Hopefully I won’t come back slowly enunciating, “bye-bye” and screaming “Hey!” instead of ringing my bell.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Winter Vendors
The fruit and vegetable venders still sell their food on carts outside in January. Lucky for me, because their prices are amazing, and they’re conveniently located right on my street. This makes the extra time standing outside with my gloves off, handling food and money, a worthy endeavor.
Most of the fruit is hard enough to withstand the cold. The apples, oranges, and soursop are out on the stands as in any other month. Some of the more delicate fruit, like papya, are kept in boxes, with just one on “display” on the cart. I tried to buy this, and it took some serious miming for me to understand this winter procedure. (Miming, and being brought to the box of papays at the back of the cart, stowed under a pile of jackets.)
While I was paying a man backed up his card and ran into my parked bicycle, knocking it to the street. Then he got out, looked at his trunk, and looked at me as if to say, “Look what your bike did!” Ok, I could not tell at all if he meant that, or if he was sorry that he hit my bike, but he was obviously upset, and his car did have a small scratch. I picked my bike up, put my hands down up and waved them as if to say, “no problem” and continued shopping. He grumbled, kept looking at me for a while, and then eventually got in his car and drove away. … my bad?
If I didn’t know where the vegetable stands were in good weather, I’d be in rough shape trying to find them now. All of the vegetables are kept wrapped up in heavy blankets. This made my interaction with the vendor considerably more difficult than in warm weather. What was once a procedure of: hold this up, give to her, look on scale for price: became me looking and poking under tightly wrapped blankets, trying to find the vegetables of my choice.
It was the first time in this situation that I really wished I could communicate with words. I really wanted an eggplant. When she held up a white raddish, I wanted to say, “That same shape but purple.” Of course, what I said was, “pu yeo” which means roughly “don’t want” or “no need”, and kept searching. I wasn’t able to find it without ripping up everything, so I left with the groceries that I could dig up.
On a whim, I decided to get some eggs. I’m used to eggs not being in the refrigerator now, (something I’ll have to remember to forget when I’m back in America) but I am not quite used to them not being sold in egg crates. At the big, real grocery stores, they will package 30 eggs with cardboard in something like a carton, but not quite the box of security I’m used to. At the deli in my complex they sell 6 eggs on a plastic tray wrapped in saran wrap. From the vendor I walked away with four eggs in a small plastic bag.
I’m not known for my careful biking, but there is nothing to make you slow for speed bumps like four nearly loose eggs in your misshapen bike basket. For a minute I was reminded of the “baby-think-it-over” program in school, where you were given an egg to protect as if it were a child. I imagined the disappointment on Ms. V’s face if she could see me now.
Most of the fruit is hard enough to withstand the cold. The apples, oranges, and soursop are out on the stands as in any other month. Some of the more delicate fruit, like papya, are kept in boxes, with just one on “display” on the cart. I tried to buy this, and it took some serious miming for me to understand this winter procedure. (Miming, and being brought to the box of papays at the back of the cart, stowed under a pile of jackets.)
While I was paying a man backed up his card and ran into my parked bicycle, knocking it to the street. Then he got out, looked at his trunk, and looked at me as if to say, “Look what your bike did!” Ok, I could not tell at all if he meant that, or if he was sorry that he hit my bike, but he was obviously upset, and his car did have a small scratch. I picked my bike up, put my hands down up and waved them as if to say, “no problem” and continued shopping. He grumbled, kept looking at me for a while, and then eventually got in his car and drove away. … my bad?
If I didn’t know where the vegetable stands were in good weather, I’d be in rough shape trying to find them now. All of the vegetables are kept wrapped up in heavy blankets. This made my interaction with the vendor considerably more difficult than in warm weather. What was once a procedure of: hold this up, give to her, look on scale for price: became me looking and poking under tightly wrapped blankets, trying to find the vegetables of my choice.
It was the first time in this situation that I really wished I could communicate with words. I really wanted an eggplant. When she held up a white raddish, I wanted to say, “That same shape but purple.” Of course, what I said was, “pu yeo” which means roughly “don’t want” or “no need”, and kept searching. I wasn’t able to find it without ripping up everything, so I left with the groceries that I could dig up.
On a whim, I decided to get some eggs. I’m used to eggs not being in the refrigerator now, (something I’ll have to remember to forget when I’m back in America) but I am not quite used to them not being sold in egg crates. At the big, real grocery stores, they will package 30 eggs with cardboard in something like a carton, but not quite the box of security I’m used to. At the deli in my complex they sell 6 eggs on a plastic tray wrapped in saran wrap. From the vendor I walked away with four eggs in a small plastic bag.
I’m not known for my careful biking, but there is nothing to make you slow for speed bumps like four nearly loose eggs in your misshapen bike basket. For a minute I was reminded of the “baby-think-it-over” program in school, where you were given an egg to protect as if it were a child. I imagined the disappointment on Ms. V’s face if she could see me now.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Numb to Understanding
Getting used to: No TP
Not used to yet: -10 degrees Celsius in the bathroom
There is never any toilet paper in the bathrooms here. I’ve become accustomed to carrying packets of tissues everywhere I go. This is an especially easy habit to keep in winter, when I have a perpetual cold.
At my school bathroom there are dispensers in the stalls (which were taken away, and then rigorously fought for and reinstated by my director.) At 3 p.m. on the dot, however, these are always empty. This is true even though we have a gaggle of only Chinese-speaking janitorial staff whose “office” as far as I can tell is the space on the side of the bathroom.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about these women. I appreciate that they keep my classroom clean and help me out even though all I can say to them is “xier xier” (thank you) and eyebrows up and hand palm up to signal “take one of these chocolates.” Nevertheless, I am curious about their cleaning practices.
I don’t know if I’ll ever adjust to their insistence on opening the window in the bathroom. It is literally freezing outside, and every morning when I go into the bathroom there is a giant window that’s been left open. I feel like I’m camping when I have to go in the morning.
The Chinese have a belief in changing the air. Even in the colder days of fall and early winter, my assistant said that she will open her windows when she leaves the house to “clean the air” in the apartment. In that season I could humor that, if not fully understand. In the dead of winter, it is simply too cold to understand.
Not used to yet: -10 degrees Celsius in the bathroom
There is never any toilet paper in the bathrooms here. I’ve become accustomed to carrying packets of tissues everywhere I go. This is an especially easy habit to keep in winter, when I have a perpetual cold.
At my school bathroom there are dispensers in the stalls (which were taken away, and then rigorously fought for and reinstated by my director.) At 3 p.m. on the dot, however, these are always empty. This is true even though we have a gaggle of only Chinese-speaking janitorial staff whose “office” as far as I can tell is the space on the side of the bathroom.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about these women. I appreciate that they keep my classroom clean and help me out even though all I can say to them is “xier xier” (thank you) and eyebrows up and hand palm up to signal “take one of these chocolates.” Nevertheless, I am curious about their cleaning practices.
I don’t know if I’ll ever adjust to their insistence on opening the window in the bathroom. It is literally freezing outside, and every morning when I go into the bathroom there is a giant window that’s been left open. I feel like I’m camping when I have to go in the morning.
The Chinese have a belief in changing the air. Even in the colder days of fall and early winter, my assistant said that she will open her windows when she leaves the house to “clean the air” in the apartment. In that season I could humor that, if not fully understand. In the dead of winter, it is simply too cold to understand.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Perspective
I have been meaning to write up about a conversation that I had with my kids just before winter break. In lieu of a costume for their holiday performance (where they sang an adorable rendition of “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth”), the class voted on wearing all white shirts. The holiday performance was from 5-9 on the Thursday before winter break. The kids stayed with us after school, we fed them dinner, and then sat with us until the end of the show. Aka, it was the longest school day of my life, and now I had a room full of children in shirts that had to stay white through two meals. (Let it never be said that teachers don’t earn their vacation time.)
When we were waiting to go into the auditorium, a group of my kids came up to me and, giggling, said, “Rebecca, you’re not wearing white.” It was true, I had opted out of matching my class, and trying to keep my own shirt unstained for a 13.5 hour work day. Then they added, “And you skin’s not even white!”
I hadn’t expected that. I smiled and nodded, as if, of course, I knew this was true. (Those of you who know me know that I don’t identify as “white”, but I am used to others perceiving this. Especially in China I’ve gotten used to exclamations of, “Oh really? You’re father is Chinese?? You don’t look it at all, at allllll.”)
After waiting the obligatory seconds pass, I asked my kids, “What color is my skin?” They looked at me, squinted and tilting their heads to the side.
“Peach,” one boy decided, and the others nodded in agreement.
“Oh yes,” I nodded. “What color is your skin?”
They all looked right at me, very serious. “White,” a few of them said in unison.
I was so interested in this response. What does one say in this situation, when you are half way around the world, where little Chinese children think that they are white and I am peach? I have to say, their descriptions are much more logical.
Is it my job to say, well, when you grow up and go to college in America, Caucasians will think they are white and that you are yellow? I’m guessing not, but I couldn’t help but think that one day each of these kids will grow up and find that out one day, and how strange it will feel. I remember when I first moved to New York at 18, and was considered white for the first time in my life. How strange it felt that everyone around me seemed to be on the same page, even though I was clueless.
I said nothing else that day, mostly because it was the longest work day ever and I was caught so off guard. The conversation has stuck with me, though, and serves as another reminder: I’m not in NY anymore…
When we were waiting to go into the auditorium, a group of my kids came up to me and, giggling, said, “Rebecca, you’re not wearing white.” It was true, I had opted out of matching my class, and trying to keep my own shirt unstained for a 13.5 hour work day. Then they added, “And you skin’s not even white!”
I hadn’t expected that. I smiled and nodded, as if, of course, I knew this was true. (Those of you who know me know that I don’t identify as “white”, but I am used to others perceiving this. Especially in China I’ve gotten used to exclamations of, “Oh really? You’re father is Chinese?? You don’t look it at all, at allllll.”)
After waiting the obligatory seconds pass, I asked my kids, “What color is my skin?” They looked at me, squinted and tilting their heads to the side.
“Peach,” one boy decided, and the others nodded in agreement.
“Oh yes,” I nodded. “What color is your skin?”
They all looked right at me, very serious. “White,” a few of them said in unison.
I was so interested in this response. What does one say in this situation, when you are half way around the world, where little Chinese children think that they are white and I am peach? I have to say, their descriptions are much more logical.
Is it my job to say, well, when you grow up and go to college in America, Caucasians will think they are white and that you are yellow? I’m guessing not, but I couldn’t help but think that one day each of these kids will grow up and find that out one day, and how strange it will feel. I remember when I first moved to New York at 18, and was considered white for the first time in my life. How strange it felt that everyone around me seemed to be on the same page, even though I was clueless.
I said nothing else that day, mostly because it was the longest work day ever and I was caught so off guard. The conversation has stuck with me, though, and serves as another reminder: I’m not in NY anymore…
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
January Updates
It’s January! Here are some updates about my current state in Beijing.
What I wear before I leave the house for the bike to work:
Tights, leggings, jeans, two thin pairs of socks, one thick pair of socks, boots. T-shirt, work shirt, fingerless gloves to my elbow, scarf, long downy winter coat, fleece-lined mittens. fleece hat, knit hat, SARS mask.
With this gear, I can make it through the 20 min. bike ride, but I can’t say I’m not still cold.
(Ok, I was resistant to the face mask at first. Aside from the obvious aesthetics, it seemed difficult to breathe under that thing. Thanks to the pollution in Beijing, which has been officially termed “crazy bad” – not even a joke- it’s really dangerous to breathe through your mouth. Thanks to the unbelievable cold, my nose is a faucet the moment I step outside. Enter, SARS mask, the solution to my problems. It doesn’t hurt, either, that I found a really soft cloth one that’s pink and
flowery.)
Christmas lights: still up.
Getting used to: drinking tea more than coffee
More used to than American: money.
In the airport I changed some RMB to USD, because China no longer carries Pesos (they must be pissed at the Philippines for some reason). Holding the dark green bills, all the same size, was a really strange feeling for me, which, as an American, was a really strange feeling for me.
Worst part of January: the wind.
It’s so strong that when it blows right at me I actually can’t go forward. I call it treadmill biking. (Those of you who know how much I love the gym can guess how fun this really is for me.) Every morning I have to dig poor Finding Flying Pigeon out of a mountain of bikes 20 feet from where I left her. Her front wire basket has been officially molded into a triangle, with a number of holes on the bottom.
Work update: Farmer’s Market
I’m really loving my job these days. I’m down to 11 kids now, with another one leaving at the end of January. I hear that it’s common for classes to change in International school, because the parents are changing countries. One kid switched to a closer school because he was commuting 1.5 hours from the center of the city. I miss him, but he’s too young for that commute. My girl leaving at the end of the month is going to America to live with her father. I am sad to see her go, but I’m happy for her. I’ll keep the blog posted if my plan to sneak myself into her suitcase is a success.
We’re finishing our study of food by running a Farmer’s Market from our classroom. It’s our reading, writing, math, social studies, art…it’s everything. It’s great to be a part of this project, even though I have no idea what I’m doing. A lot of times, even in progressive ed, teachers pretend to take student input and shape it to how it’s supposed to be done. Over here, I really don’t know what fruits and veggies we should sell, or how best to advertise to our customers, so my kids are really running it themselves!
What I wear before I leave the house for the bike to work:
Tights, leggings, jeans, two thin pairs of socks, one thick pair of socks, boots. T-shirt, work shirt, fingerless gloves to my elbow, scarf, long downy winter coat, fleece-lined mittens. fleece hat, knit hat, SARS mask.
With this gear, I can make it through the 20 min. bike ride, but I can’t say I’m not still cold.
(Ok, I was resistant to the face mask at first. Aside from the obvious aesthetics, it seemed difficult to breathe under that thing. Thanks to the pollution in Beijing, which has been officially termed “crazy bad” – not even a joke- it’s really dangerous to breathe through your mouth. Thanks to the unbelievable cold, my nose is a faucet the moment I step outside. Enter, SARS mask, the solution to my problems. It doesn’t hurt, either, that I found a really soft cloth one that’s pink and
flowery.)
Christmas lights: still up.
Getting used to: drinking tea more than coffee
More used to than American: money.
In the airport I changed some RMB to USD, because China no longer carries Pesos (they must be pissed at the Philippines for some reason). Holding the dark green bills, all the same size, was a really strange feeling for me, which, as an American, was a really strange feeling for me.
Worst part of January: the wind.
It’s so strong that when it blows right at me I actually can’t go forward. I call it treadmill biking. (Those of you who know how much I love the gym can guess how fun this really is for me.) Every morning I have to dig poor Finding Flying Pigeon out of a mountain of bikes 20 feet from where I left her. Her front wire basket has been officially molded into a triangle, with a number of holes on the bottom.
Work update: Farmer’s Market
I’m really loving my job these days. I’m down to 11 kids now, with another one leaving at the end of January. I hear that it’s common for classes to change in International school, because the parents are changing countries. One kid switched to a closer school because he was commuting 1.5 hours from the center of the city. I miss him, but he’s too young for that commute. My girl leaving at the end of the month is going to America to live with her father. I am sad to see her go, but I’m happy for her. I’ll keep the blog posted if my plan to sneak myself into her suitcase is a success.
We’re finishing our study of food by running a Farmer’s Market from our classroom. It’s our reading, writing, math, social studies, art…it’s everything. It’s great to be a part of this project, even though I have no idea what I’m doing. A lot of times, even in progressive ed, teachers pretend to take student input and shape it to how it’s supposed to be done. Over here, I really don’t know what fruits and veggies we should sell, or how best to advertise to our customers, so my kids are really running it themselves!
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