China Reflection

Class begins.

“Beijing’s Inner City wall has 9 gates, the Outer City wall has seven, and the Imperial City wall has four.  There are 5 major altars, eight temples, and one gigantic bell tower in the center.   This is the general outline of Beijing.” 

Old Beijing often tells me this little tidbit of information, testing to see whether or not I can recite it back to him (the entire incantation rhymes when said in Chinese).  Sometimes while playing diabolo^W he’ll suddenly stop what he’s doing, approach me, and start riffing off facts and statistics about what Beijing used to look like in times’ past.  I often jot down what bits and pieces I can comprehend, but it’s a little difficult for my Western brain to take in 5000 years of history all at once.

Like many of my Chinese friends who are in the golden years of their lives, I know Old Beijing from the diabolo grounds.  During our first few meetings, Old Beijing didn’t make a deep impression on me.  Perhaps it was because he didn’t have quite the flare of The Entertainer or Marlborough Man.  He didn’t seem as relaxed as the Smooth Scholar, either.  Additionally, it was hard for me to get a bead on his sense of humor…the kind of humor that one has to listen to carefully for fear of being knocked off of his toes.  He often refers to me as “Judas,” and enjoys making religious jokes or poking fun at things foreign.  I think he just wants to see my reaction.  I also think it’s his way of bridging the culture gap that we have.  With all that said, there’s something about Old Beijing that’s extremely warm and welcoming at the same time.  Of all the friends from the diabolo grounds, he’s the only one who has given me a ride on his motorbike and invited me to his house.  I have the feeling that, although it may be difficult to open the door to Old Beijing’s home, once the door is open, it stays open forever.

I often joke with Old Beijing about going to his house for a cooking class so that I can learn how to cook what “real” Beijingers eat at home.  In China, however, the lines between jokes and reality are often blurred, and I soon find myself on the metro heading to Old Beijing’s home for dinner.  I’m not alone on this day.  As I left work, my co-worker and I exited the building together.  Her name is Han Xiao Mei, but I call her “Xiao Han,” which means “Little Han.”  She is from Hubei, and her roommate has recently moved out, so she is often stuck eating alone.  I asked her  if she would like to join me for a meal with my friend, Old Beijing.  Being that she had no plans for the evening, she agreed to come with me.

As we arrive near Old Beijing’s home, Little Han and I first cross the street to purchase a gift for him and his wife.  It’s never a good idea to show up empty handed when invited to a local’s house.  Little Han cruises the selection of fresh fruit and settles on a box of strawberries.  I carry a box of Pu'er Tea^W which I purchased the previous night at my friend’s shop.  Bearing gifts in hand, we cross the street again and begin walking in the direction of Old Beijing’s home.  Before we even reach his apartment complex, I can see him walking towards us in the street sunflower seeds, spitting their husks out on the ground.

The Eagle and the World

As soon as we enter Old Beijing’s home, his wife opens the door to greet us.  She blasts forth an endless barrage of hospitality and “welcomes” to both of us.

“Oh, come on in.  Don’t take your shoes off.  Just make yourself at home.  Let me get you something to drink.  Can I take your coat?  It’s a little cold outside.  You should rest yourselves.  The toilet’s over there….”

We’re immediately ushered into their daughter’s room where we’ll store our coats for the evening.  Their daughter is in her late twenties, living in Jiangsu^W Province in the south of China.  She’s married with a child.  Inside of her room is a gigantic wedding photo that hangs over her bed.  This type of huge airbrushed, overly posed wedding photo is very common in Chinese households.  Besides photos of Mao Ze Dong, it was the most common type of photo I saw when I visited friends’ homes during my two years of living in Jiangxi^W Province.  After putting our coats away,  we go into the dining room.  Old Beijing’s wife immediately goes into the kitchen and begins preparing jiao zi^W for us.  After he motions for me to sit down in a chair next to him, it is then that I notice the wall behind his head.  My eyes fixate in wonder.

There, larger than life, perched above a large map of the world, is a majestic kite in the shape of an eagle.  There’s something both ominous and singular about the way that the the eagle and the world are juxtaposed next to one another.  The eagle has his beak wide open, hungry for morsels of flesh.  The wings are spread to their full width, dwarfing the map of the world directly below.  Its red talons are poised in the air ready to snatch their prey.  I can only wonder which one of the countries below will be within its grasp tonight.  We sit down below the eagle in the world.  Old Beijing begins to speak of history and philosphy.  Little Han and I listen.  His wife chops vegetables.  The eagle watches the world.

Of all the homes I have ever visited in China, Old Beijing’s is the only one where I’ve seen such a large map of the world on the wall.  From the moment I lay eyes on the map of the world, I know that there is something special about Old Beijing.  He’s obviously the kind of guy who is interested in things outside of Beijing, outside of China, all over the world.  It’s as if, after most of Beijing’s city walls were dismantled, the constrictions to Old Beijing’s curiousity dissipated as well.  Still, he constantly makes it clear to us that it’s essential to keep a firm grasp on the concept of the past and where we have come from. 

“Just remember that you don’t own yourself.  Everything that we have,  everything in our bodies, was handed to us by our parents.  We aren’t “I,” we are the products of our parents’ wills, and we should never forget that,” he says with conviction.

Most of Beijing’s ancient walls and structures may have disappeared in reality, but they still manage to survive in, textbooks, recollections, and oral histories.  Old Beijing wouldn’t be the man he is today if it wasn’t for his parents, his parents’ parents, and their parents’ parents’ parents.  Everything is handed down.  We have no control over where we come from.  We our products of our collective histories.  The spectre of the eagle above the world reminds Old Beijing of this fact.  Perhaps in recent years the concept of China being part of the world has come into view, but China’s eagle has soared for 5,000 years and still looms larger than the world for some.  The eagle eyes Old Beijing, monitoring his movements and words, ensuring that he’s carrying on the tradition, reminding him that he cannot let go.  For if he let’s go, it won’t be the eagle perched on the world.  It will be the world swallowing the eagle.   Throughout the evening Old Beijing lectures us on where we come from, how the Chinese got here, and what’s wrong with the world today.  We refer to the map behind us from time to time, talking about the conflict in the Middle East.  Little Han has trouble finding Israel on the map, and Old Beijing points it out to her.  Despite getting the evil eye from the eagle above, Old Beijing knows his geography well.  The eagle has no choice and cannot retaliate.  It’s difficult to ”unlearn” what you already know.   

As our “class” continues, Old Beijing’s wife brings out some of the most delicious dumplings I’ve ever eaten.  She turns on the TV, but we hardly even notice.  Old Beijing continues to talk to us about the order of the emperor’s, the dynasties, the significance of the four seasons in Chinese culture, and lists some of Confucious’ most famous quotes.  Little Han’s eyes light up with knowledge.  She writes down as much as she can in my notebook.  Everything is handed down, one way or another.

“Inner Wall, 9.  Outer wall, 7.  Imperial, 4.  5 altars.  8 temples.  One gigantic bell tower.”  5000 years of history.  A string of dynasties and emperor’s pass by.  Little Han and a foreigner have their eyes opened in front of the world.  An eagle hovers somewhere above the Arctic Circle, at peace knowing that his story will soar on.  Old Beijing’s mouth never stops moving.  His work is never done, his kind are too few, and too many are depending on him.   As the hour gets later, he tells us to go home early so we can get some sleep.  Old Beijing’s wife leads us to the door, telling us to be careful of the dangerous world outside and bundle up for fear of the cold.  The three of us walk to the metro station, exiting the time capsule from Beijing’s past to the present.  Little Han and I lead Old Beijing out the door. 

“Make sure she gets home safely, Jeffrey.  The world’s not as safe as you think.  We’ve got to watch out for each other.  Especially nice young girls like Little Han.”  I tell him that I’ll walk Little Han home, and he seems satisfied with my answer.   Old Beijing turns to go back to his home, finally having a chance to give his mouth and brain the recess they have both earned on this night.  Class ends as Beijing’s night sky swallows up the world.

The hairs in my nostrils are frozen and hard.  Once again I’m on my way to the diabolo grounds^W.  It’s a Friday, so I don’t have to work in the afternoon.  When I took my job with the travel service that I work with I asked my boss if I could have Friday afternoons off in order to practice the accordian and play diabolo.  He had no problem with this condition.  Needless to say, he is a very flexible man and I’m ever grateful to him for this flexibility. 

The wind is blowing hard today, daring me not to go outside.  As I make my way to the metro station I wonder if I should return home and snuggle up in my tiny hole of a room.  No, I don’t want to let those guys down, I think to myself.  They’re probably all there expecting me:  The Entertainer, Marlborough Man, the Smooth Scholar, etc.  The diabolo circus waits for no one, especially not in the dead of Winter.  I look up at the sky.  The blue is slightly tinted with yellow, evidence of some residue from the sands of Mongolia being blown into Beijing.  Every year the desert and sand get closer and closer to Beijing.  Despite the government’s attempts to barricade Beijing with a wall of trees in Inner Mongolia^W, each year the city is pelted with sand and dust from the Northwest.  If I spend too much time outdoors on days like this one, I can expect sore throats the next morning.  It’s been nearly 100 days since the city has seen any precipitation;  not one drop.

I take the metro to the park, exit the station, and head towards the diabolo grounds, my ears expecting to hear the buzzing and humming sound that the diabolo makes as it spins round and round.  The only sound I hear on this frigid, gusty day is the sound of the wind and dust swirling.  Winter has had another joke on me today.  In order to make the most out of my trip here, I decide to take a walk in the park.  At least I can get a little exercise while I’m here.  I walk the path for about ten minutes heading East, and then I turn back around heading back to the metro station.  I arrived a little bit early today, so perhaps some of my diabolo friends are there now. 

As I near the diabolo grounds, my heart lifts at the sight of The Entertainer.  His back is turned to me, and so he doesn’t see me yet.  He is just turning to leave the grounds, as he is the only one there.  He is outside of earshot, but I yell at him as loud as I can, hoping that his 74 year old ears can hear my voice.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!” I yell at him at the top of my lungs.  He mounts his bicycle and rides it slowly in the other direction, not turning around once to look in my direction.  He must be wearing earmuffs, I think to myself.  Or maybe it’s his age.  I don’t know.  He pedals his bicycle away from me ever so slowly, but still at a swifter speed than I am walking.  I think to myself, if I don’t at least talk with him, then I’ve wasted an entire trip out here.  I”ve got to get him.

I’m not wearing exercise shoes on this day, and my toes are freezing.  The previous night I discovered that my shoes I wear everyday had two large holes in their soles.  I was standing in my bathroom after taking a shower, and there was a shallow pool of water on the floor.  I noticed that the water was seeping into my shoes from the bottom up.  Jesus…I just bought these things 3 months ago.  Cursing the inferior Chinese quality of my exercise shoes, I grab my briefcase in both hands, and begin to chase The Entertainer as he pedals away.

The Entertainer has gained some distance on me, and I find running in this wind more difficult than I thought it would be.  He rounds the bend that leads to an exit from the park.  As the exit of the park is on a slight downhill, he gains even more speed and distance.  He’s going to lose me.  I’m going to go home with nothing for this outing.  I huff and puff my way up the small hill and then down the slope, exiting the park.  He’s in my sights again, as he slows down a bit to make a right turn.  His speed slows down as he nears a traffic light.  Within earshot once more, I decide to yell out after him again.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!  Over here!”  No luck.  Those earmuffs must be cutting off all sound.

I pour on the speed, inching closer and closer towards him.  When he’s within an arm’s reach, he finally turns his head.  Sure enough he’s wearing army colored earmuffs.  His eyes light up, and his mouth spreads into the smile that I know so well.

“Hey!  What the heck are you doing here?  It’s so cold!  Let’s talk for a couple of minutes.”  He gets off his bicycle and immediately gives me a big bear hug, laughing as he does so.

We talk for a couple of minutes, and he asks me to give a phone call to another member of the diabolo gang, one of the few women who usually comes to the park to join in with the men.  Like a giddy schoolboy, he gives me her phone number and dances around from foot to foot to keep warm as the phone rings.

“Don’t tell her I gave you her number,” he says, “if she asks, just tell her she gave it to you before, but forgot….hee hee hee!”

After a few rings, she answers the phone.

“Hello, auntie?” I say. (It’s polite to call an older woman “auntie” in China).

“Jeffrey?  What are you doing outside on this day?  Your mother would be angry with you.  It’s too cold!  You’ll get carried away from the wind.  We all decided yesterday that we wouldn’t come today because of the weather.  Get back home!  Put some clothes on!  Drink some soup!”  The Entertainer is dancing around with a big smile on his face like a little old leprechaun doing a jig.  He indicates silently to me that I’m not to disclose the fact that he’s here.

After talking with the auntie for a few minutes, The Entertainer and I have a little chat.  In the middle of the chat, he hugs me again, picking me up off the ground as some young Chinese pass by.  Sometimes I cannot believe that he’s 74 years old.

“You know we have a new president now, Obama?” I tell him.  I’m not sure if he watches the news or not.  I myself watched the inauguration in a bar that was televising the event.  The bar was filled with foreigners and Chinese.  I talked with a Canadian girl of my age during that evening.  She expressed to me that she wanted to hug me just for “being American.”  I thought to myself, I haven’t changed…I’m still the same Jeffrey that I was when we had that other guy in office.  Still, if people want to hug now, all the better.

The Entertainer nods and says he knows about Obama.  He tells me he saw that Obama signed the order for the closure of Guantanamo and other overseas prisons.  He tells me that we all “want peace.”  This wish is something that I hear from him often.  We talk about Obama and our hopes for him.  I reflect on the fact that it was only a little more than 200 years before that we had slaves in America, and how it’s a big breakthrough to have our first black president.

“You know, there used to be slaves in Tibet before Mao Ze Dong freed them.  People used to have to bow down to the Llama.  But Mao set them free.  The thing about Mao is that he didn’t believe in any God, or any devil.  At that time we just believed in Marxism,” he says.  The Entertainer has a real respect for Mao.  He continues and tells me that there didn’t used to be so much corruption in China during Mao’s time.  “We were all poor then, ” he says, “it was all equal.”  According to him, things started to go awry after Deng Xiao Ping opened up China’s economy in the 1980s.  “That’s when the big noses started coming into China,” he says with a wink (he ofen jokingly refers to me as a “big nose”).  I just nod my head, laugh, and listen to his view of history and the world.  We don’t usually talk about politics, but today is a different sort of day.  Our topics change with the wind.  He tells me a bit about his family.  His son used to live in Romania (something I never knew), but now only makes 1000 RMB per month (less than 200 dollars), with a wife and child to take care of.   He asks me about my family and says he wants to meet my parents when they come to China. 

When our feet get too cold to stand there anymore, we begin to say our farewells.  He hugs me once more (good things always come in threes).  It occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve really had such an indepth conversation with The Entertainer.  Usually we just joke around and play with diabolos and whips.  These things take time and concentration.  Good conversations usually just take time.  I feel inspired by his curiousity and innocence.  Never shy to ask questions, I’m always happy to answer whatever he wants to know:

“Do ‘thumbs up’ mean the same thing in America?  What about laughing…do you also say ‘hee hee hee,’ or does it sound different?  Why do people in the Middle East fight so much?” 

As we wind down our conversation, he sits on his bicycle and I head to the station.  I run towards the metro in order to heat up my toes.  My feet sting as they pound the pavement.  I know I made the right decision in coming here today.  Before I plunge into the metro,  I take  one more look back at my friend as he pedals effortlessly in the other direction.   The wind pushes me down the staircase towards the metro.  Sometimes all that it takes to make life worth living is a good conversation.