China Reflection

The Discovery

On a recent trip to Handan^W, the former capital of the State of Zhao during China’s Warring States^W period, I came face to face with the Deal Maker.  My friend Simon and I had decided to travel to Handan, a dusty city in Hebei with its glory days far in the past.  This is the city where I purposely chose to spend my 30th birthday.  We had been talking about visiting for some time, always delaying the trip for some reason or another.  Now, here we were, in the proclaimed “proverb capital” of Northern China (due to the city’s ancient history, many Chinese proverbs and there stories originate in Handan).  Upon checking into a cheap hotel room, the staff turned on the television in front of our beds.  This action is synonomous with breathing–the tv must be turned on once the room is open.  As the hotel staff was pleased that our television worked properly, she gave me the remote and handed it to me with the utmost professionalism.  I was just about to turn off the television until I looked at the screen and made an uprecedented realization–I actually recognized and knew the Chinese actor on the television screen!  Although he was now dressed in a police uniform, there was no mistaking it…I was looking directly at the Deal Maker.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

A few months back when I took a whirlwind tour of the US going through Seattle, Salt Lake City, Yellowstone, Jackson Hole, Las Vegas, and LA, the Deal Maker was one of our customers on the trip.  Always with a few days growth of whiskers on his face at the time, the Deal Maker dressed casually and looked like any other shmoe, if not a little more friendly.  This trip to the US was to be a family vacation with his wife and daughter.

“Our son is American,” his wife told me while we waited to change flights in the airport in Seoul.

I do not have a television in China, and so I do not watch any Chinese tv shows or movies.  I didn’t know that the Deal Maker was in fact Jiang Wu, a famous Chinese actor who has been in such films as “To Live,” “A Beautiful World,” “Shower,” and the police television drama playing on the screen across hotel rooms in Handan, amongst others.  He just seemed like a regular guy to me.  Taken out of their environment and scope of fame, that’s all celebrities are anyway–just regular guys and girls.  As someone completely ignorant of mainstream Chinese pop and film culture, I immediately liked Jiang Wu and found him to be an engaging guy.  He was also easy to travel with, andhe had a round smile as wide as Jack from “Nightmare Before Christmas,” (apologies for the extra cinema reference).  He kept this smile with him throughout the sites we visited, including Jackson Hole.

Jackson Hole is a place that brings back personal memories for me, as I spent many summers here during my youth, bicycling on the roads looking at the jagged mountains that loomed overhead.  I remember once hiking up what seemed to be the steepest ski slope I have ever seen with my sister, Kimberly, and my younger brother, Jonny.  We were trying to get to the road above.  As the slope approached the road, the incline became steeper and steeper.  I clearly remember grabbing at grassroots to pull myself up to the dirt road that criss-crossed along the slope.  This time, we would only be in Jackson Hole for a night, and most of the time would be spent not near the wilderness, but in the quaint, but very touristy “Western” town after making the drive from Yellostone National Park.  It seemed strange and almost dreamlike to return to a place of youthful family summers, but this time with a group of 15 Chinese tourists.

All of our guests marveled in awe at the elk antler archways which have become Jackson Hole’s symbol.

“Are those fake?” one of the guests asked me, pointing to the hundreds (if not thousands) of antlers that are collected by boy scouts every year when the elk shed them naturally in the Spring.  I assured him that they were the real deal.  Near Jackson Hole is one of the largest protected areas for elk.  While the Chinese pointed at, touched, and took pictures of the antler archway, a bearded man on a motorcycle crossed the road and came over to us.

“Hey dudes!” he said.  “Where you guys from?” he asked, a grin peeking through his white whiskers.

The members of our group became excited at the local savage straddling  his motorcycle waiting for pictures and contact with the Chinese world.  One by one they stood with him to take photos.  Harley Davidson culture and 5000 years of Chinese history merged instantly under the Sun.

“Yeah,” he said while he revved his motor for effect.  “I like the ladiessss!”  He put his arm around one of my customers and I thought for a brief instant that he would whisk her off in the distant Western landscape with her wrapped in his motorcycle muscles.

My boss came out of one of the many shops around the square that sell Western art.

“Jeffrey….come in here for a minute.  Need you for something.”  This is good.  A use for me.

I walked into one of the store that Zhao Jing walked out of.  The interior was filled with carpets made of animal skins, chandelier lights made of elk antlers, handmade wooden furniture, and what appeared to be antique revolvers.  Jiang Wu, his wife, and their daughter stood with one of the salesgirls in the store.  She was a young girl with a European accent who I later found out was from Romania.  They stood in front of a beautifully hand-carved rocking chair made of buckeye.

“Jeffrey, we want to buy this chair, but I don’t know what the girl is saying to me…”  Jiang Wu’s wife turned to me.

I learned from the Romanian girl that the chair in the shop was not for sale as it had already been sold to another customer.  When I relayed the information to Jiang Wu and his wife, they asked if the shop had any other chairs like this one.  I could only imagine at the staggering price they would have to pay just to ship the chair back to China.  But I’m not the Deal Maker, and I don’t have the salary of a Chinese movie star to back up my deals.

Just then the owner of the shop, a Mr. John Bickner walked in the door with the stepping stride of  a young John Wayne.  He was a large man–not fat, but with an American build as thick as the oak tree handshake that he gave me.  He introduced himself to me, enveloping my hands into his gigantic fingers.  John Bickner was a man proud of his work.  He talked about the chair, and the wood and tree it came from, how he polished it himself, how long it took to get to this point.  He showed us some other wooden tables in the shop and told us about their wood.

“This one was a fine piece of buckeye…if you look over here at this redwood, you can see….I finished this piece about two years ago….” etc.

Jiang Wu, being the Deal Maker, pressed the point.  His wife as well.  Although John Bickner’s work was finessed and skilled, we didn’t have much time to look at all of it.  The Deal Maker wanted the chair.  John Bickner took his oak tree hand and put rubbed his granite jaw.  This chair had already been sold.  How to solve this issue?

“You know…”  John Bickner started slowly.  “I have some other chairs that aren’t exactly like this one, as well as some other works that you could have a look at if you’re interested…Come and meet me at my warehouse just outside of the square.  Did you guys drive a car here?”

I told him we did, and pointed to the 8-10 passenger van that we came in (we drove 2).  John Bickner then gave directions of how to get to his warehouse, drawing a crude map on the back of a napkin. 

“Meet you there in about 5 minutes,” he said as he glided out of the door with us following.

Deal Maker in the Warehouse

The drive to the warehouse was not far.  Jackson Hole is a small town, and it only took us a couple of minutes to get out of the “city center.”  The warehouse itself is at the end of a lovely dead-end street.  We parked the van at the end of the street and exit, and crossed over a small bridge which lead us across a crystal clear stream.  Needles from a nearby tree fell into the stream.  John Bickner was there waiting for us next to the warehouse.  There were tree stumps strewn about, as well oddly-shaped sections of trees which appear to be in the beginning stages of re-shaping and morphed into works of art.  I noticed 4 tractor trailors next to the warehouse, pointed to them and inquired as to their purpose.

“Oh…those.  Those are full of elk antlers.  Let me show you.”  He hopped up on the trailer and opened the doors.  Sure enough the inside was filled with elk antlers.

“Every year they grow to their full length and then the elk shed them naturally.  In the Spring time, the boyscouts go out and collect the antlers.  We have a big auction to buy them.  Those antlers in there are actually going to be shipped to South Korea and China so they can be used for medicine.”

Standing there in front of these trailors full of elk antlers, it never occured to me that the beginning part of the journey of certain types of Chinese medicine could be in a place as beautiful and far away from China as Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  And here was the start…right beside John Bickner’s residence and furniture warehouse.  The Deal Maker’s wife turned to me and tugged on my shoulder.

“Are these real or fake,” she said in a whisper.  I was about to translate the question when she stopped me.  “Don’t tell him I asked that question,” she said.

John Bickner pulled out one of the racks of antlers so that Jiang Wu and his wife could have a closer look.

“Jeffrey…do you think if we buy some of his furniture he would give us one of these racks of antlers?”  Jiang Wu’s wife looked at me through her sunglasses.

“No problem,” said John Bickner, cowboy hero of the West.  There was a pause before Jiang Wu’s wife asked once more.

“Do you think we could have 2 sets of elk antlers?”

I hesitated to ask this question, thinking I might have already pushed the button too much.  But these were my customers.  I had to do my duty.  I asked the question.  John Bickner also hesitated.  What could he have been thinking?  Who do these Chinese people think they are?  Are they going to buy anything, or just take elk antlers for free?  Of course, if I give away a couple of racks, maybe they’d be more willing to buy more….

“Yeah…sure thing.  I can do that,” he said.  The Deal Maker was pleased.

John Bickner dismounted his trailor and closed the door.  Maybe weeks later the contents would be shipped off towards Asia.  They would be sliced into pieces and put into packages, ready to be sold in a large wholesale Chinese medicine market in some city, maybe Guangzhou^W in the South.  Men with poor circulation would come in looking to by the antlers, sold and measured by the gram.  At this time, however, they would remain in John Bickner’s backyard, resting for thier future journey. 

For the following half hour, we were led about the warehouse and workshop.  John Bickner was proud of his work, and rightfully so.  He seemed to know each piece and tree as one would know old friends.  This was an exciting venture for me, as I find workshops and “works in progress” fascinating.  However, what we really wanted to find was “the chair” and it wasn’t there.  Not all hope was lost, however.  Jiang Wu and his wife stood in the warehouse admiring a long slab of Redwood tree.

“Jeffrey,” said Jiang Wu’s wife, “I love this tree.  Ask him if he could make a table out of this that could seat 12 people.  Also, we’d need 12 chairs made for the table of course.”

I translated to John Bickner.  He answered, “Sure.  That can be done.  It’s going to take some time, though.”  This was great.  Here it was, the deal.  And here I was helping to make the deal, supporting a local artisan as well as giving our customers what they wanted. 

We never found a chair that was to the liking of Jiang Wu or his wife.  John Bickner said he could have one done in about 6 to 8 weeks.  After that time, it would be shipped out to China.  He had quite a bit of work to do, preparing an awesome rocking chair, a redwood table for 12 people, along with 12 chairs to go along with the table.  The Deal Maker was happy, John Bickner was happy, a smile spread across my face.  In the span of those 15 to 20 minutes we were in John Bickner’s warehouse, I had done my part to support local business as well as international commerce and relations between China and the U.S.A.  The deal was done.  The chair has yet to arrive…the Deal Maker is waiting patiently even as you read this sentence…

The clouds drifting in the sky also have dreams.  The longest road in life is the return home.  The infinite cloudless day, is like the passing of years.  I hink of a distand place, and remember your sweet smile.

In the words of my grandmother, Louise Oppenheimer Levin, the opening lyrics of “Hope,” when translated into English would be considered, “Corn, pure corn.”  It’s true, that they are extremely over the top and sentimental…too sentimental for any singer from the West to put his or her name to the song nowadays.  Still, when I first heard the song I couldn’t understand the lyrics at all.  It was just the melody I liked.  And now…here I am in a recording studio trying to sing the song over and over again.

We’ve been in the studio for a couple of hours now, and we keep having to do double-takes, as I cannot remember the lyrics, or I sing them off key, or not in time.  The lyrics that I downloaded and practiced for this recording session were from an alternate version of “Hope,” so all of my preparations were in vain.  In the room, there are a few young hipsters who work for the Anhui TV station.  The guy with the longest hair coaches me through singing the lyrics as I re-enter the studio after they have taken a 10 minute pizza break.  Watching them scarf down the pizza during the interim, I’m reminded of my college days at Indiana University when my housemates and I would order a “Big 10″ pizza which came equipped with 10 fattening breadsticks and ranch dipping sauce.  I can’t imagine eating this stuff anymore, I’m so conditioned on Chinese food now.

“Let’s try it again,” says the long-haired stud.  I’m not sure why I’m recording my voice singing this song.  It’s my understanding that they are going to use my recording at a later date.  In addition to singing the song, they also have me read a self introduction in Chinese that roughly translates to the following:

“Hello.  My name is Jeffrey, just an ordinary volunteer.  When I volunteer and teach English to my blind students, I’m filled with hope.  This is why I chose this song to sing.  Their hope is my hope.  I hope in the future, we can all have more hope.”  Perfect…the selfless hero.  Except I’m not.

I push through the lyrics of the song, thinking that my job is done, that this is the last time that I’ll have to put on this masquerade as the volunteer I’m not.  But I learn, it’s only just beginning.  After the recording is finished, the long-haired stud turns to me and tells me of the next plan.

“Alright.  Now that we’ve got it down, you’ll be ready to perform it on stage with He Jie (the 3rd place finisher in China’s “Supergirls,” kind of a Chinese version of American idol).  We’ll just use the voice that you recorded today during the performance. ”

It Comes Together

Two weeks later.  I wait outside the metro stop near Yong He Lama temple.  The long-haired stud told me that he should be arriving in a few minutes.  I wonder what kind of car he’ll be driving?  I stand out of the Sun as it shines down, so as to keep out of the heat.  I’m wearing shorts, a collared shirt, and sandals.  I decided to wear the collared shirt in order to make the tiniest effor at dressing up.  I remember that they told me to look “semi-nice” for this performance, so hopefully my half-hearted attempt will suffice.  I imagine that today’s “performance” will only be a replica of last time.  Maybe we’ll be filmed from the waist up lip-synching the song, “Hope.”  Maybe.

I get a call.  The long-haired stud has arrived.  There’s a bus at the end of the street where I see him waving me on.  As I hop on the bus, I look around and notice that it’s mostly full.  Apparently I’m not the only volunteer today.  Sitting in front of me is a robust, young, man who took an all night train from Sichuan to Beijing.  He does volunteer work with pandas.  Beside me is a girl from Hebei Province who works at Beijing Institute for Disabilities as a sign language interpreter and teacher.  Two rows in front of me is a young man who is missing both of his arms.  Sitting beside him is his young girlfriend with dyed blond hair.  Behind me is a young deaf couple.  The guy’s name is Zhang Long, and he is from Tianjin, not far from Beijing.  I don’t know it at the time, but after today we will become friends.

I’m sitting on the bus, unsure of where are destination is.  All I’m told is that we are going to a recording studio on the outskirts of Beijing and that dinner will be provided.  I take the lyrics of “Hope” out of my pocket to look them over.  I want to be prepared for the “performance” whenever it happens.  Still, it doesn’t matter how many times I look over the lyrics; I can’t remember the song in it’s entirety.  I’m not that worried, though.  If this “performance” is anything like the last recording, there will be plenty of double-takes to correct my mistakes.

We take the bus for about an hour, going through the Beijing suburbian traffic.  The cityscape changes to flat fields and smaller buildings.  When we arrive at the studio, we pull into a parking lot filled with cars and news crews.  After deboarding the bus, a young man wearing horn-rimmed blackframe glasses from Anhui TV station comes out to greet us.  He takes one look at the flip-flops I am wearing and frowns.

“Hey man….don’t do that.”  He points down at my feet.  Now I know that today is not going to be a simple studio recording.  This is going to be a full on camera, live TV audience type deal.  My whole body, including my feet will be shown somewhere in China at some point in the future.   It’s all beginning to dawn on me, and I feel duped.  I also feel like a deceiver–the modern day white male version of Lin Miaoke^W.

“So, let’s show you guys where the performance will be,” Blackframe Glasses says to us.  He and another girl from Changsha^W accompany us into the studio.  We’re lead into a dark auditorium with a large stage set up at the front.  Facing the stage of rows of bleachers.  In a couple of hours, the stage will be embellished with lights and bubbles, and the bleachers will be filled with teeny-boppers getting ready to see their favorite stars lip-synch their one-hit wonders.  It’s all coming together in my mind.  I am just a ligament the skeleton of a “Volunteer and Superstar Variety Show” that Anhui TV has set up.  Each of the volunteers has his/her own speciality.  The Panda guy will sing a song about loving nature, Zhang Long will use sign language to a sort of interpretive dance to a popular Chinese song, the guy without any arms will incredibly and unbelievably play a piano song with his feet!  And I will lip-synch to the song, “Hope.”  I am an impostor.  In a way I think it’s appropriate that I wear no shoes…I shouldn’t even be wearing shorts or underwear.  I should just strip naked to the audience to show them what a fake I am.

Over the Top

We go back to the “green room,” a classroom on the 3rd floor, to prepare for our “performances.”  I pull out the crumpled lyrics to “Hope” and begin to study them a little frantically.  The room is a little cold and intense.  It feels like we’re all getting ready for the guillotine or a big interview.  The audience will begin arriving soon, waiting to see which superstars are paired with which volunteers.  After 4 years in China I am still just as unfamiliar with modern pop and movie stars as before.  I don’t have a tv, and I rarely watch movies; instead, spending most of my time trying to learn about obscure historical figures like Fang Xiao Ru^W (read about him!) and places like Handan^W (will have to write an upcoming post about this place).  I have no time for pop culture; yet, now I find myself being plunked right down in the middle of it. 

I am one of the first people who will perform, so my stage death will end soon enough.  As I prepare, Blackframe Glasses comes into the green room to talk with me.

“Jeffrey, after you sing your song with He Jie, the MC is going to ask you a couple of questions.  They’ll ask you a question about which student made the deepest impression on you during your time with Hong Dan Dan.  MAKE SURE to tell them about Lu Yao, the student who gave you the drawing (see previous post titled “Voice in the Dark” for reference).  Remember, this is very important to talk about this story.”

“Ok. Sure.”

“Oh…and put my shoes on, man.  You can’t go on stage with He Jie wearing sandals!  Come on.  Don’t do that.”  He takes off his shoes and I squeeze into them just barely.  A little more respectful.  After the shoe switch he leaves the room.  15 minutes until I’m on stage.

The girl from Changsha comes into the green room to fetch me.

“Jeffrey.  Let’s go.  You should meet He Jie before you two ‘perform’ together.”

Changsha girl takes me by the hand and leads me out of the green room.  The air chills. 

SLAM!

I turn behind me.  The door of the green room has been slammed shut.  In its place is a whirling darkness that leads into a void.  There’s no going back there.  Changsha girl’s hand turns icy cold in my grip.  I turn around to look at her once more and am horrified to find that the skin has peeled off her face.  Muscles and tendons melt and drip down to the floor in a sticky glob.  Her once tight-fitting (and attractive) jeans and snug shirt have been replaced by a black robe.  She floats down the hall and pulls me with her, a scythe of impending death resting in her left hand.  The bony joints of her left hand pull me towards the door of the film studio.  I can hear the crowd inside. 

“Walk in through the door.  We’ll go to the left side of the stage.  He Jie is waiting to meet you,”  the Spirit of Death says to me.  The doors open.  Inside the live studio audience of teeny-boppers is waiting to greet the next act.  No one sees me enter as all eyes are currently on the superstar on stage. 

He Jie is indeed a beautiful girl.  She has sparkles on her face, and a lovely smile.  I turn to look for the spirit of death, but Changsha girl has returned.  Time to face reality.

“Let’s take a picture together, so 10 years later when our children ask us about how we met, we can show them this photo,” I say to He Jie.

She complies with my request and we snap one photo together.  Changsha girl gives me instructions of how I’m to walk on stage.  She takes me behind centerstage.

“So, when the instrumental music starts, you’ll just walk through the stage.  It’s going to split open, and you walk out there and just start lip-synching.  Remember to open your mouth so that it looks like you are singing,” she reminds me.

I sit down behind the stage and pull out my lyrics to study them one last time.  It doesn’t matter.  Everything will look perfect or horrible on tv.  And I will never watch this farce for as long as I live.  My feet feel uncomfortably squished at this point.  It’s as I’m amidst studying the lyrics that I notice my own voice piping in the loudspeakers…

“Hello.  My name is Jeffrey, just an ordinary volunteer.  When I volunteer and teach English to my blind students….”

It’s the same recording I did in the studio.  The moment is coming.  The music starts.  I stuff the lyrics into my shorts and stand up.  God splits the stage in two, it opens up, the lights hit my face, and I walk out to the loving people.  He Jie is there in her splendored and glitzy shortness, awaiting her prince.  As soon as the lyrics begin, my mind draws a complete blank.  I completely forget how to even say, “hello” in Chinese….but….I remember to open and close my mouth as the words of my own voice magically come out of the loudspeakers.  I must look just like a marionette puppet throughout the song, my mouth dropping and raising just like a dummy.  It doesn’t matter.  The audience is mostly looking at He Jie.  She must be thinking, this idiot foreigner….how did I get hooked up with him.  God, I’ve fallen!

As soon as the song finishes, the crowd of TV teeny-bopper zombies bursts into applause.  The music changes to a piano melody that drips like sap from a pine tree.  An MC who looks like a price is right contestant with slicked back hair comes out to “interview” me in front of the audience.  He asks the usual questions about how long I’ve been in China, where I’ve learned my chinese, how long I’ve “volunteered” at Hong Dan Dan.  Then he asks me the question I was prepped for:

“So, Jeffrey,” the music gets quiet, “tell us…is there a blind student that you can tell us about?  Maybe one who left a lasting impression on you?”

Like a robot, I tell them the story of Lu Yao, of how she participated in one of our English corners and drew a picture for me.  I remember her face being mere millimeters from the picture she drew as she labored away on her artwork.  It’s really the only story I have about a particular “student” or longterm member of Hong Dan Dan.  The MC looks at me; it’s a look of anticipation.

“Well, Jeffrey, we’re sorry that Lu Yao couldn’t be here today….but…” he gestures to someone offstage, “….she was able to prepare a special gift from her home in Liaoning^W province.  We hope that you enjoy.”  One young staff member of the TV station comes on stage carrying a framed pencil sketch of my likeness playing the banjo.  It’s been autographed by none other than Lu Yao.  At this moment, my mind freezes.

How the hell could Lu Yao draw this in such a short amount of time?  And how did they get it here from Liaoning?  There’s no way that she drew this.

Just like Lin Miaoke, I put on a pretty smile as I’m handed this gift, the origins of which are still ambiguous to me.  I try to act as if I am genuinely touched by this presentation, and yet I feel perplexed and almost fooled instead.  I take my gift and exit the stage, leaving the ruse behind me.  The next act is up.  It’s the Panda guy from Sichuan.  I watch him enter the stage, and the audience goes wild as he is accompanied by another one of China’s teeny-bopper hearthrobs.  They execute their songs perfectly.  The Sichuan guy gives a 5 minute speech about the love he feels for the pandas, followed by professing his love to his girlfriend, who amazingly the TV station has managed to contact via video phone.  It is a perfect performance, pulling the audience’s heartstrings.  Teeny-boppers bat their eyelashes at the superstar on stage and shed tears over the young man from Sichuan letting his soul open to the world on national television.  It’s a perfect TV story with a happy ending for all.  I’m just happy I don’t have a tv and can let it live on in memory.

Lin Miaoke is my idol.  With pigtails hanging down from her cute little 9 year old head, she wowed the world during the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics as she flawlessly performed on stage during a version of “Ode to the Motherland.”  It was a perfect, clean-cut lip-synching debut.   It didn’t matter that the voice that the world was hearing wasn’t that of Lin Miaoke.  She looked so damn adorable–the perfect cookie-cut-out child giving it up to the masses in China’s unzipping it’s fly to the world.  The only mistake was that the world discovered and knew Lin Miaoke was lip-synching the whole time.  This news became a big deal in the West…another story of another fake.  Another finger we can point at the Chinese for producing a pretty copy of the real thing.  But it doesn’t matter to me.  Lin Miaoke is still my idol.  I am Lin Miaoke.

A call from Heart’s Eye

On my way back from Ningxia^W and Inner Mongolia^W I received a phone call from Mrs. Zheng, the leader of the Heart’s Eye movie theater for the blind.  This theater is located in the same courtyard where our office is currently located, and I’ve mentioned it in previous posts.  Every Saturday morning members of Beijing’s blind community come from near and far to “watch” a movie.  Someone with regular vision sits at the front of the theater with a microphone and narrates those portions of the movie that the listeners cannot see and need narration for.  In addition to these movie features, the Heart’s Eye Theater (also called “Hong Dan Dan”) organizes other activities and outings for Beijing’s blind community.  Hong Dan Dan has a small staff of regular employees, and Mrs. Zheng and her husband are constantly busy trying to organize and improve the activities.  Besides the blind community itself, however, the other major players who take the major role in all of the activities are the volunteers who come every week to assist.  I, myself, have not personally been a volunteer for the theater.  Once we organized a dumpling making activity and Lu Yao, one of the blind students who used to live in the dormitory next to the theater joined us.  From time to time when we host events at our center, some of the members of Hong Dan Dan join in.  It’s mostly a friendly and neighborly relationship.  Or so I thought it was, before I received the call from Mrs. Zheng.

Mrs. Zheng:  Jeffrey, I’ve got something important to talk with you about.

(The noise of the train is so loud, I have to talk at the top of my voice, while sticking my finger in my left ear to block out the background noise).

Me:  What’s up?  Is something wrong?

Mrs. Zheng:  Anhui TV Station is doing a program on volunteers, and they want to include Hong Dan Dan in their program.

Me (sensing that I will be asked a favor):  Yeah?  That’s great!

Mrs. Zheng:  They need a white, western, male, who has been a volunteer for us and was born after 1980.  Do you think that you could do it?  I was going to ask the English girl who teaches them choir, but they specifically requested a white male.

Me:  Well…I’d be fine with it.  But a couple of things.  I was born in 1979…December 26, 1979…almost 1980.  Also, I’ve never volnteered with you guys before.  This could be a problem.  (I’m trying to say no, but the words won’t come out…part of me wants to see where this goes).

Mrs. Zheng:  That’s not that important.  We can talk about it more when you get back.  I’ll go ahead and tell them it’s ok with you.  Alright?

Me:  Alright (I guess).

A Song of Times’ Past

Besides checking in with Mrs. Zheng about the Anhui TV station activity, I don’t worry much about the activity.  We decide that maybe it would be best if I were to actually go in and volunteer at least once before the activity so that I can talk about what it is like to be a volunteer.  I tell her that I don’t think I’m ready to narrate a movie, but I’ll come in and tell a story instead.  I mostly busy myself with office work, etc.  Then one day in the office, an unknown number calls my mobile phone and I answer.

Me:  Hello? Who’s this?

Other:  Hi, is this Jeffrey?  I’m with Anhui TV station.  Mrs. Zheng told you we would call?

Me:  That’s right.

Anhui:  Anyway, so maybe we can ask you some questions about the blind students you have been teaching sometime.  We can find a place and time to meet.

Me:  Oh, that would be fine.  But I think you should know…I don’t have any blind students.  I haven’t really volunteered there.  I just know some of them and Mrs. Zheng.  I go there often.  My friends and I organize activities near there.

(Silence)

Anhui:  Well.  That’s alright.  Can you tell me your favorite Chinese song?

Me:  Uh….”Camel Bell?”

Anhui:…..any others?  that one is kind of old…

Me:  the “Chinese Kung-fu” song is cool, too.

Anhui:….no, no…not right.  Anymore?

I think back to one of the first songs that I heard when I came to China:

I arrive in Jiangxi^W hearing the song over and over again.  It is the theme song to a Korean soap opera, but it really has quite a sentimental melody to it.  At one point there is a chorus of children in the background.  The chorus of children doesn’t feel cheesy to me.  It feels appropriate.  When I first hear it, I have no idea what the words are saying, but I like the melody.  It gives me goosebumps to think about it now.  It is all around me.  When I walk down the street in Yichun I can hear the theme song of the tv show blaring out from the stores that I pass by…there is a store that sells metalworks and pipes, there’s another store that sells solar water heaters, a restaurant owner sits lazily at a table with no customers.  A fly swatter dangles from his fingertips as he rests his head in the crook of his right elbow.  The song is a wistful first impression of culture shock and part of my introduction to my 800 students in Yichun.  I hear it and think of a certain crisp autumn day in Yichun^W, Jiangxi Province.  The sky is blue, and the rustle of the rattling of the swirling leaves on the ground fill the air.  I am going to a lunch for my South African colleague’s child’s 100 days of life celebration, a watermark event in a baby’s life in China.  We’ll eat plate after plate of food.  Outside, the wind will continue to swirl as leaves are gently pulled off the tree branches lining the town’s streets.  I see another day where I hike up Bright Moon Mountain, about a half an hour drive from Yichun.  I go there with my student, Nancy.  The weather is cold, the sky is blue again–always with this song, the sky is blue.  Waterfalls on the mountain are either frozen or trickling.  I can see Nancy’s breath as she pushes the air out.  The mountain is sleeping.  She puts her face close to my camera as I take a close-up.  She is in Shanghai now.  I’m in Beijing.  I miss these days.  The song is always missing, hoping.

Me:  “Hope.”  From that tv show.

Anhui:  Good….good.  That’s a good song.  Can you learn that song?  You may be performing it with Sister He (pronounced “Huh”) from the “Supergirls” show (China’s version of “American Idol”).

Me:  I can try to learn it…but I’m not a very good singer.

Anhui:  It doesn’t matter.  As long as you try.  Anyway, talk with you later Jeffrey.

I look up the lyrics to “Hope” in the evening when I get home.  I have no idea what “performance” the guy on the other end was talking about, but I have a feeling that I will find out soon enough, in a very intimate way.  In the evening, I return home and say a little prayer of hope to Lin Miaoke, knowing that her spirit of guidance is the only force able to pull me through the next chapter of this particular Chinese saga in my life’s story.