“Eh? Hello? Is anyone there?” a voice from outside asks.
I sit in Chinareflection’s office on a small brown stool. My accordian is on my lap, and I’ve been practicing for the past hour. In front of me is my music book with the notes for “William Tell,” a piece that I was just starting to get the hang of. The book sits on the two person couch in the office. Behind the couch are pictures of past English corners, my diabolo friends, my parents’ visit to China, practicing the nunchakus, hiking on the Great Wall…all of our attempts to spruce up the small box of an office that we have moved into in order to give it character, personality, and warmth. Anything to cover up those lifeless walls.
Damn! Why can’t I just practice my accordian in peace? When I practice a musical instrument I don’t do it for other people to hear and enjoy, usually. I’m a little selfish this way. Plus, I get self conscious when other people stare at me while I play. Practicing musical instruments is my own way of “tuning out” and relaxing, like reading a book. No one wants to be disturbed when they are reading or writing.
I sigh to myself and decide to be polite and say “hello” to the visitor at the door. It’s Lu Yao (English name “Chloe”) a 19 year old girl from LiaoningW Province. She lives in a small dorm room in the courtyard where our office is located. I invite her inside the tiny office to sit down, reluctantly putting my accordian behind a couple of stools in the corner. At first I do not sit down, possibly trying to send the message that I want her to go? She smiles and looks in my direction. Her eyes, constantly twitch back and forth, never focusing directly on me due to her partial blindness.
“I’m sorry, you want to go home?” she asks innocently. I realize that I am still standing, as if ready to leave.
“No. It’s alright. Have a seat.” A change begins to come over me. I feel more relaxed and less rushed and decide to take my time with Lu Yao. She is so sweet and genuinely polite–one of the most well-mannered 19 year olds I have ever met, and this includes 19 year olds of any nationality. She practically bows down to a person when she greets them, something I almost never see in China. She sits down on the soft couch, hugging one of the green pillows to her lap and I decide to relax and focus solely on her and the conversation that ensues. Outside the night is black. The room is white under the fluorescent lights. No one else disturbs us and we’re free to let the conversation flow.
The Neighborhood
Our new office at #79 Gulou West Street sits directly opposite the old office at #118 Gulou West Street. Although the 2 locations are so close in proximity to one another, the difference in feeling and atmosphere seems worlds apart. When we moved from #118 to #79 I felt a slight tinge of sentimentality for leaving the place that had served as Chinareflection’s home for almost one year. The feeling didn’t last for long. As we moved out, the new renters came by to watch and asked me how much we paid in rent, so as to make sure the landlord hadn’t cheated them. When Lynn and I first found CR’s original office we thought it a brilliant location for our endeavors. Upon first inspection, the streetside location seemed ideal, especially with the fact that it was located directly next to a bus stop. The space itself was extremely dirty and left abandoned by its previous tenants who had operated a brothel/hairdresser there. With musty curtains dripping off the walls and hair on the floor, upon first inspection the inside of the shop seemed more like the set of a recent fire or horror picture. We would transform the interior into something functional, comfortable, even liveable. Behind our office we could look into Mr. and Mrs. Niu’s (our neighbors) small house. Sometimes if I came at just the right time, I could even look into Mr. Niu’s kitchen as he was cooking his lunch. We would be separated by two screen windows at the back wall of our office, and a passageway wide enough for one person to pass through. If the windows were open the smells of his homecooked dumplings wafted into our space, their fragrances curling under our chins and hooking our noses, pulling us forward out of or seats. I drooled because of those smells. Sometimes, they would make dinner for us, knocking on the window and opening it up, handing us plates full of dumplings through the curtans.
On one occasion when I was exploring the neighborhood around #118 Gulou West Street, I stumbled upon the courtyard across the street at #79 quite by accident. I decided to wander in and see what was inside the courtyard and was surprised by what I found. For one thing, the space was enormous by Beijing’s standards. Behind the small gate was one large courtyard surrounded by low level grey buildings on four sides. Some of these offices were empty, others were in use. There was one small training school that specialized in teaching Mongolian script. Beside it was the main office for a technological training school. They had a large classroom that dominated the first courtyard. Behind the first courtyard was a second courtyard, also surrounded on four sides by small buildings, all of them quiet. In one office there were some people playing Scrabble. It turned out they were the only active Scrabble club in Beijing. The whole purpose of their business was to promote and organize scrabble tournaments. The most interesting independent office was back in the first courtyard, however. There was a small sign that read, “Heart’s Eye Theater” in Chinese. I later learned that this theater belonged to a nonprofit organization called “Hong Dan Dan,” an organization that scheduled outings and activities for members of the blind community, including showing movies for the blind. Movies for the blind? This was something different. This was something new. This courtyard was like a pocket universe. This was our neighborhood. Innovation.
As months passed, it was too much to hope for the world in our neighborhood to stop evolving. The courtyard changed its faced, some businesses leaving, others staying, and new ones arriving. The scrabble people are nowhere to be seen now. The school for Mongolian script has disappeared. In their places, new business have taken over, like flowers growing over tombstones. Directly next to our new office at #79 is a young man working for a nonprofit that’s primary function is to disseminate AIDS education information in rural areas. In the second courtyard there is a small classroom that teaches art and sculpture classes. There’s also a photography studio as well. The technological school has stayed in its place, as has Hong Dan Dan, the “Mind’s Eye Theater.” Every Saturday morning they show movies to a roomful of blind people. One person with normal vision sits next to the screen with a microphone and explains what is happening in the film. The room is always packed and all seats are taken.
It was on one of these Saturday mornings when I first met Lu Yao. She lives in the Hong Dan Dan headquarters, right next to the kitchen. She works as a radio broadcaster, and studies English in her spare time, even translating an English textbook into braille. When she was a child Lu Yao developed a brain tumor that has since affected her sight. She says that when she looks at me, she can see my general outline if it’s bright outside, but she cannot see any definition. According to her, it’s as if she is looking through about 30 sheets of cellophane.
Trust
“Lu Yao, when you meet someone for the first time, do you usually trust 
them?” I think back to the previous weekend’s English corner. Pinno, a valued member of the Chinareflection family prepared a survey asking all those who participated various questions concerning trusting others.
Lu Yao’s eyes continue to dart back and forth as she thinks about the answer. “Yes. Most of the time, I think I trust people. It’s like a mirror,” she holds her hand up to her face. “If you smile at a person, they’ll smile at you. If you aren’t happy, or don’t trust them, maybe they won’t trust you,” she pauses. “But sometimes, things are different then our imagination…we are good to someone and they are not to us. Maybe I don’t know the society well enough.”
Something about Lu Yao’s answer brings out the teacher instinct in me. “That thing you said about the mirror. It’s like anything, really. Being a teacher, too. When I was teaching I would always hear teachers say, ‘oh, my students are so bad. They never listen.’ But I seldom ever heard them ask, ‘why? Why don’t they listen?’ Students should respect their teachers, but it can’t be automatic. A teacher should respect his students, too. If you’re good to your students, most of the time, they’ll be good to you, too. But a teacher needs to take responsibility and time to put the work into it.”
Lu Yao cuts in, shaking her head, “This is why Chinese education is so bad sometimes. We are too traditional. We must not question the teacher no matter what….” she pauses. “How do you say, ‘do you understand?’ in English?”
I tell her, but then I add, “I never ask people that question. I always ask, ‘is that clear?’ If I ask, ‘do you understand?’ it means that the problem is with the student or the listener to understand. If I ask, ‘is that clear?’ it means the problem is with the person talking or asking the question. Some people might feel stupid if they say, ‘I don’t understand.’ I never say this sentence in Chinese….Is that clear?”
She laughs. We continue talking for a few minutes, switching subjects to talk about travel.
“I want to…recommend….our ‘bei’. How do you say ‘bei?” she asks.
“North,” I say.
“Norss….Norss….Noooorrth.” She repeats the word again and again after me. Excellent student.
“And ‘nan?’” she asks.
“South.” I say.
We repeat this pattern through the four directions until she gets all four down in her memory. Then she continues with her recommendation.
“I want to recommend our North. In the South there was the snow storm…”
“The blizzard, yes.” I cut in.
“Blii….Bli…ah…too hard. Yes. The snow. Last year, a big snow. Then there was also the earthquake in Sichuan. Next to the sea there are big storms in the South. And in the mountains there are floods. In Liaoning in the North, where I am from, it is very dry. We don’t have any of these bad things. Also, the seasons are like they are supposed to be. In the Summer it’s hot, in the Spring the flowers come out, the Winter is cold, and Fall is beautiful. I think it’s a wonderful place. Do you underst…..Is that clear?” she asks me, laughing as she corrects herself.
“Clear,” I respond. The silence of a finished conversation begins to creep up behind me. I turn around and notice that the pitcher we used at an English corner a few weeks prior is still filled with water and wilting flower tea leaves. Disgusting, I need to wash that.
“I guess you will go home,” she says, standing up, almost reading my mind.
“Yes, first I’ll wash this pitcher. Can I use your kitchen?”
“No problem,” she says. She leads me out into the dark, and I direct her around a large puddle that she cannot see. I want to protect her at this moment, help her if I can. I feel like she is my student for some reason. Such a nice girl. Feeling her way along the wall towards the kitchen, she locates the light switch and turns it on for me. I begin to wash the pitcher, pouring its flowers into the sink. A putrid smell comes out as I pour. Lu Yao goes into her room while I wash. Some of the flower petals stick to the sides of the pitcher, and I have to use my fingernails to scratch them off. Lu Yao comes back in to get something from the kitchen.
“In your country what do people think about saving water? There is less and less of it now.” She listens to the water in the sink run as I, now self consciously, continue to wash.
“We know we should save it, but most people just talk about it and don’t actually do it. We teach kids about saving energy and water at school, and then we go home, turn on the air conditioner, the TV, the dishwasher, and all the lights in the house. But…at least we know, right?” The pitcher is clean now. I feel like I’m drawing out this evening as long as it can go at this point. What started out as being disturbed amidst my practice has turned into a worthwhile conversation, and I almost feel bad for being annoyed at the beginning.
We turn out the lights in the kitchen and I walk Lu Yao to her dorm room 2 feet away. Standing there for a second, I want to say something intelligent. Or maybe I just want her to know that it was nice talking with her. I want her to know that it’ll be alright, that it’s okay to keep trusting people, and I do trust her. She’s a good person. She helps give me a sense of responsibility for what I’m doing here in China.
“See you next time,” she says with a smile.
I smile back, “Next time. Sweet dreams.”
