Christina in China

When the Christmas season was approaching, I was afraid, really afraid that I was going to sink into a funk and have a hard time climbing out again. I’ve been really surprised that this hasn’t been the case at all.

If anything, I feel like I’ve almost been showered with blessing. With Christmas songs at church that are translations of the old favorites from home. With new ways to look at the Christmas scriptures. With a tiny Christmas tree, tinsel, a stocking, a mini-nativity scene, and a stocking inherited from previous foreign teachers. With Andrew Peterson’s Behold the Lamb of God CD that’s kind of in constant rotation at my place. With a gift of a Chinese knot from Sharry. With the hilarity of teaching a Christmas play to my freshmen students. Most of all, with good wishes from students and coworkers and friends.

I did my Christmas play with my freshmen all week. By Friday’s last class, Class 2, I had the thing pretty much down pat. I had a student write the Chinese translations of new words on the board (virgin, God, stable, manger, angel, bless) and told the students how they should act the play. And then they performed it, my play that I adapted to big classes, with 25 narrators, 7 shepherds, three different angels. I borrowed props (daoju, as Miss Liu, one of the headteachers taught me) from Eunice’s apartment: three plastic stools to be the manger, a gray blanket for swaddling cloths, a little girl doll dressed in red Chinese silk to be Jesus, three candles for the wise men’s gifts, a piece of gold tinsel for an angel halo. “Wassay!” said the students as I walked into the room.

And, in a freshman oral English at Jiangyou Normal sort of way, Class 2’s performance was wonderful. Athletic, volleyball-playing Rachel was a good Mary, acting surprised when the angel spoke to her, stroking Jesus on the head while we sang “Away in a Manger.” Soft-spoken Nikki was a wonderful Joseph, reflectively saying her line about not wanting to embarrass Mary. All three angels (creative license on my part) wore their halo, spoke loudly, and waved their arms, as the class demanded. “Fei, fei, fei! Fly, fly, fly!” said the students, laughing. The wise men came on cue. The shepherds crowded at the front of the room, and Franklin, the boy with pretty good English whom the girls secretly tell me they think is handsome, looked astonished as the angel appeared.

Most of my Chinese friends say that Christmas is the same as Spring Festival, the Chinese New Year. “Chabuduo,” I say. “Almost.” There’s no nativity for Spring Festival, but there is the element of family reunion, which they think is the most important part. That and the fact that their parents give them money.

It’s a good comparison for them, and I think that it’s what makes them dote on us foreigners during the season. I think they imagine being away from their families on Spring Festival, and the thought doesn’t appeal to them.

Dean Zhao is one of those people who likes to take care of foreigners on Christmas. It’s a Christmas tradition for Mr. Zhao to cook a huge dinner for us and invite some of the English teachers over to talk to us. This year, it was at Mr. Zhao’s house in Zhong Ba. So Eunice, Hugh, and I, along with Ms. Xiong, Ms. Xiao, Mr. Long, and Mr. Huang, all English teachers rode the school teachers’ bus to Mr. Zhao’s house near a place called Maluwan. The Canadian teacher at the middle school, Carmen; his son, Denny; and his sister, Debby, were there, too. And Mr. Zhao’s wife, Zhang Ye; his daughter; Mr. Li (the assistant head of the department); and Mr. Li’s wife. So a big crowd.

Normally, these kinds of big crowd dinners, with lots of toasting and such, make me nervous. But this was as close to an American get-up-and-mingle-party as I’ve seen in China, and maybe they did that intentionally. In any case, it was wonderful. I made jiaozi with Ms. Xiao, her putting in the meat filling with chopsticks and crimping the edges, me trying to learn, both of us talking back in forth in a strange mix of Chinese and English.

Mr. Zhao’s dog, Hei Bin (which, I think, means “black ice,” but I could definitely be wrong), decided that the most fun thing was to hump my leg for like twenty minutes. To which I decided that I needed to chastise the dog in Chinese. “Haiyou liang ge laowai! (Hey, there are two other foreigners here!)” I told Hei Bin, which made everyone laugh and say that I was making progress in my Chinese. Ah, low expectations…

Mr. Zhao and Zhang Ye made hotpot, the singularly most famous Sichuan dish. There are different kinds of hotpots (Mongolian, to name one), but Sichuan hotpot is what people mean when they say huoguo around here. A big frothing pot of dark red oil and water liquid, with Sichuan lajiao floating on the top. People add the vegetables and meat, and then you fish it out with your chopsticks, dip it in your bowl of vinegar and garlic and green onion, and eat it, bite after deliciously spicy bite. Tonight, we had lamb, three kinds of mushrooms, lotus root, potato, seaweed (haidai in Chinese–literally “sea belt”), carrot, and lettuce heart. Plus, we had some delicious shrimp, which had the feelers and eyes still on it, so of course, I had to move its feelers and make it talk. “Hello,” I said, waving the feelers. “Ni hao.”

“Gosh, we can’t take you anywhere,” said Hugh, rolling his eyes.

We had crab, too, little crabs that Miss Xiao taught me how to eat. And homemade chun juar, spring rolls, with spicy vegetables in the middle. And lazi ji, chicken with lots of hot green peppers and mushrooms in it. Fruit salad.

The conversation was good–light-hearted holiday conversation with the people there. Talking about students with slightly shy Mr. Huang, who teaches English composition and Japanese. Laughing with pregnant Ms. Xiong, who wore Eunice’s red Santa hat all evening, which looked funny with her blue sweatpants and sherbet-colored Korean maternity coat. She continually filled her plate. (“I have to eat more for my baby,” she always explains.) Small talk with the Canadians. Introductions with the Chinese speakers. A lot of, “Zhege dongxi zenme shuo?” (“How do you say this in Chinese?”) on my part. Toasting, but short, good-natured toasting, with the foreigners saying, “Shengdan kuaile! Xinnian kuaile!” and the Chinese saying “Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!”

Perhaps the great triumph of the evening was having a conversation of more than two words with Mr. Zhao. Granted, some of my Chinese had to be translated into understandable Chinese, but this man has the thickest Sichuan accent ever, and just to understand complete sentences of what he’s saying is a gift. And there they were, as if the language static in my head had cleared like the pollution and fog over Jiangyou clears after a rain. Mr. Zhao talking about how Yuandan (Western New Year) and Xinnian (Chinese New Year) weren’t the same, telling me that Josh & I could go to Emei Shan, saying how the countryside often used the nongli (lunar calendar).

I may not have said much in response, and I definitely didn’t speak much beautiful Chinese, but I got to say one of the most wonderful things an American in China can say: “Wo ting dong.”

I understand.

In Chinese, I tell Ms. Zhang, Mr. Zhao’s wife, that their house is very big and beautiful and thank her for letting me come. She asks me about my Chinese name, and I tell her that it is close to my English last name.

“Tao Le,” she says. “Le tao tao.”

I consider smiling and nodding but instead ask a question. “Le tao tao…shi shenme yisi?” I ask. “What does it mean?”

She smiles. “Kai kai xin xin de yisi.” (Very very happy.)

“It’s a good name,” says Ms. Xiao in English. I nod, and three of us get into a taxi to go home. As I listen to Mr. Huang banter with the thick-accented taxi driver, certain words jump out at me, but I don’t grasp for them. I just sit there, letting them fall around me, listening to them speak, listening to the strange, raucous beauty of this language that I barely know.

* * * * *

This week, I have gotten (count ’em!) fourteen Christmas cards from students and one from Dean Zhao, my boss. Incredible. I came back tonight, and there were six more of them, slid under my door by students who had come to my house to watch a movie and found that I wasn’t home. They’re absolutely wonderful. Here are the messages (all messages as they are):

————–

Miss Turner,
Merry Christmas to you! Wish you the blessings of a beauiful Christmas season. At this Christmas season and throughout the New Year, may you be blessed with every happiness!

Yours,
Xenia

————–

Dear Christina,
It’s my pleasure of knowing you. The time we shared together is aways wonderful. We have learned anther interesting culture and custom from you. Thank you for giving us so much happyness and knowledge.
Wish you a good Christmas!
Happy everyday!

Your sincerely,
Dale

————–

To Christina:
At Christmas and forever, may peace and love fill your heart beauty fill your world; and contentment and joy fill your days.
I hope you hear my wispers for blessing and happiness with Santa Claus fall down and surround you forever.
Forget to ask you: are you well and healthy? My greeting is knocking your beautiful door now just for this Christmas Eve, regardless of Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter, and regardless of cloudy, sunny, windy and rainy day…!

Yours,
Zola

————–

Christina:
Merry Christmas!
Happy New Year!
We wish you become more and more beautiful! And everything goes on very well! Thank you for your teaching!

Yours,
Joelle, Elaine, Barara, Olivia

————-

Christina:
Bless Christmas! I wish silver chorus in church strikes your beautiful skirt lightly and you can feel my quiet and peaceful love in it!

From: Candy

————

To my best teacher, Christina

Merry Christmas!
Happy New Year!

From: Virginia and Rachel

————

Dear Christina:
China is a beautiful country.
I hope you like it and like me.
I’m happy to make friends with you!
I hope you have good days in China!
I hope you are more and more beautiful!
I wish you: Happy everyday!
Happy New Year!
Merry Christmas!

Your student:
Tessa

———–

To Christina:
I hope everything goes well and Merry Christmas! My English is not well. May I ask a favor of you?

Your student:
Amanda

———–

To Christina:
Wish you merry Christmas!

from yours:
Christine

———–

Dear Christina,
Thank you for giving me classes. I like you speaking English very much. You are a kind teacher and friend for us. Best wishes to you.
Merry Christmas!
Happy New Year!
Happy Every Day!

yours student & friend,
Rain

———–

To Christina:
I hope you are happy everyday! Merry Christmas to you!

Veronica

———-

Dear Christina,
Wishing you and those around you a very merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year. Thank you for your hard working and devotion.

Mianyang Elementary Education College
12.23.2005

———-

Tao Le:
Christina,
Merry Christmas! (Shengdan kuaile!)
Happy New Year! (Xinnian kuaile!)
Smile Everyday! (Weixiao mei yi tian!)
I wish you will become more and more beautiful!
You are really a good teacher, I love you with my heart! I’m very lucky to be your student and friend.

From Cherfin

———-

To Christina:
Merry Christmas!
Happy Everyday!
It’s my privilege of knowing you, also it’s a beautiful surprise. I can feel you kind-hearted and pretty from your sweet smile. How wonderful this time was! We went to your warm house to watch film, chat, eat sun-seeds and sweets. Way to go!
That you see the card at the second time may be in America. In any way, I’ll rember you for ever. So will you, ok?

From your sincerely,
Tanya

———

I have to say that the last two made me cry almost. I’m sure that when I’m back in the U.S. and am reading them someday, I probably will cry, remembering these girls and the effort they took to write a note in their second language to me. I used to wonder how I would make it through Christmas and the whole adjusting to China bit without constantly wishing I could go home.

And now I find myself wondering how I’m going to be able to leave.

It’s odd how I, a lover of people, sometimes feel scared of them here. I rely on people so much, for my energy, inspiration, and laughter. But somehow it feels threatening and fascinating all at once: hundreds of people chatting in a language I don’t know much of, in a dialect that would be hard to understand even if I spoke good Mandarin, good putonghua. Mandarin Chinese already has an astonishing number of what I (and the Lonely Planet) would call homophones, distinguished only by a different tone or sometimes only a different character.

Here, they call the dialect Sichuanhua, the language of Sichuan, where the “zh” sound becomes “z,” the “ch” sound becomes “c,” the “n” sometimes becomes an “l,” and the second tone or third tone (I can’t remember which) becomes the quick, falling fourth tone. I’ve heard someone say that Sichuan people often sound angry even when they’re not at all because of the sharp fourth tone and the way they speak furiously fast.

Or maybe it just seems furiously fast. During my first weekend in Jiangyou, I had dinner with Eunice and two of her friends and former students, whose English names are Janet and Anna. Janet is apparently very intelligent, at the top of her class, and recently got a job teaching in nearby Mianyang because she could teach an entire language in English. Anna is extremely bright, too, Eunice tells me, with very good English. We sat at the table after dinner, as Janet tried to eat her muffin with chopsticks (kuaizi). Eunice, Janet, and Anna switched back and forth between Chinese and English, almost like it was a secret language, sometimes saying three English words, then two Chinese words, then three English words again.

Anna wears blue-tinged glasses and has a longer, more angular face than many Chinese. She was recently baptized in the Christian church and has been a Christian for about six months. That night at dinner, she was talking about the creation account, an interpretation that ranged from the orthodox to the quirky and weird–like how ever since the Fall, women have never been able to resist eating. This, according to laughing Anna, was why pregnant women eat so much and eat so much junk food.

Halfway through her explanation, I stopped trying to pick out words that I know, as I normally do when listening to people speak Chinese. I just watched her, saw how her dark eyes flashed, listened to her foreign speech, observed her lips moving faster than I think I’ve ever seen lips move before. As Eunice and Janet nodded, I couldn’t help but think how odd and amazing language is: that a people can choose a set of sounds and somehow, over time, build up a system that conveys such complex meanings. Arbitrary and conventional (with an obligatory nod to Mr. Saussure). I’ve never given much thought to how much of a uniting or dividing factor language is. The simplest tasks suddenly seem daunting.

It’s a nice place to be, very good for my humility and for my spirit. I thank God for helping me buy apples, helping me pay the check at a restaurant, helping me ask the price at the internet bar, helping me have a short conversation in Chinese with some students who don’t speak much English, all of which I’ve done in the past weeks. There have been bad moments–one Chinese class I was put into, where the teacher spoke impossibly quick and then fired questions at me, which made me upset, so I sat there crying and, even better, trying to disguise the fact that I was crying. But then there have been little triumphs–when I successfully tell the yogurt man that I don’t want to buy yogurt; I want to get the refund for bringing my bottles back. Or when I ask someone’s name, order at a restaurant, pay for something, make some small talk, or tell a waitress that the food is delicious. Even when, at Jiuzhaigou, the national park, I make a friend and hang around with her for two days, using only very poor Chinese. (More later.)

But there are hilarious moments, too, usually seeing the English that’s on signs (even official-looking signs) and products for sale. The other day, I was at the supermarket looking for a towel. I am now the proud owner of one that has the phrase “INNOCENT CATS IN BOSTON” written on it, complete with a little semicoherent poem, two or three marching soldiers, a green and tan Union Jack, and, of course, the two innocent cats. The students here call the funny, sometimes nonsensical English “Chinglish.” I get a kick out of it, while at the same time realizing that the Chinese on signs in English-speaking countries is probably equally hilarious and awful.

It all reminds me of the story of the tower of Babel in Genesis, the story way back in chapter 11, even before Abraham sets off for the Promised Land, far back where history and myth and religion and our collective unconscious, if there is such a thing, all seem to intermingle. “Now the whole world had one language and a common speech,” the verses read. The people have an idea and say to each other, “Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves and not be scattered over the face of the whole earth.”

In the beginning, the Scripture says, God created the heavens and the earth, saying, “Come, let us,” just as the people at Babel say. Their language is the same. And language is powerful–God knows this. He scatters them throughout the earth, and the place is called Babel–“because there the Lord confused the language of the whole world.”

It is humbling to be deaf and mute and illiterate in a different language, I think as I sit at my ancient computer, with Chinese characters labeling all the buttons and programs, with students in the dormitory behind my building laughing and shrieking and babbling in Chinese. Sometimes I feel like, with my pronunciation exercises and dialogues and role plays and English corners, that I’m helping to build the tower of Babel again. But I am not in Hong Kong, not in Shanghai, not in Beijing, not even in Chengdu. I am in Jiangyou, a town with only six foreigners and little English spoken. God scattered the people at Babel. And he scatters us still.