I've finally surpassed the six-month mark in my contract,
and I can safely say that I am no longer experiencing culture shock!
I am, however, experiencing what Peace Corps Volunteers and
other seasoned ex-pats know as cultural fatigue.
People still push on to the subway or the elevator as people
try to get off. I know this won't
change. I'm used to it, but it still
bothers me. The logic of waiting a few
seconds for people to get out so that
it's actually easier to get in seems to be beyond anyone here.
People still ride their scooters like they have a death
wish. They go against traffic,
overloaded with passengers, water jugs, or sharp objects, texting on their cell
phones (sans helmet, of course); they ride up on the sidewalk, beeping and
swerving--or worse, not beeping at all. On my best days, I actually find this somewhat
exhilarating--what a physical challenge!
All senses on alert! It's like
reflex training camp! But when you've
got the flu, are tired, homesick, or just plain not in the mood, it's like a
needle in your spine. The most I've ever
seen cops or traffic directors do is yell at them half-heartedly. There is no enforcement; and yet, everyone
seems terrified of the police because they are part of the Communist government.
The guards that operate the metal detectors at the subway
entrance gates only make me scan my backpack half the time. Still, it's irritating when a man or woman
overloaded with shopping bags on a trolley doesn't have to lift their stuff
onto the belt. They don't even get
wanded or patted down. What, I ask you,
could be in my backpack that couldn't be in their bags? Sometimes I'm sure it's because I'm foreign;
and it's hard to be angry about this, knowing that racial profiling happens in
my own country--land of the free, supposedly.
Sometimes I pick up my backpack at the other end of the scanner, and
notice that the second guard--who's supposed to be watching the monitor--is
picking his or her nose, watching an ad on the big screen TV ten feet away,
checking his or her text messages, or speaking with someone. Why bother having me put my bag on the belt
if you're not even going to watch the scan?
After six months, I'm used to all of this. But it still bothers me. That's culture fatigue. The shock has worn off, you've gotten used to
it--but the culture you're living in doesn't change. Every "problem" you noticed during
week one is still there, and there's nothing you can do about it.
Living in Qinghai in the late 80s, and being a Returned Peace
Corps Volunteer, I'm well aware that my situation here could be much, much worse,
and, contrary to what you might think, I'm not even really complaining. I'm just tired of it.
Part of it is big city life.
With 20 million people, you must
push. You must hurry. You must fight a
little harder for a place in line, a seat on the subway, a good spot in a
crowd. After three years in New York
City, I kind of get it, and then some.
I'm not saying Shanghai is a hell hole, although sometimes,
when I can't see the buildings a block away due to the pollution (PM 2.5 over
500, anyone?), or when I can smell the garbage truck 20 floors up, it certainly
feels like one.
Okay, then, you ask, are there any good things about Shanghai? Yes! I've made more friends here in six months
than I did in six years in Spokane. I
have a job here. I'm even dating a great
guy!
I just wanted to say, before I got into the whole Chinese New
Year holiday thing, that I'm enjoying my time here as well as getting sick of
the place--and that's normal. That's life. I feel almost the same way about Spokane--the
air was clean, but I had no job. The
traffic was orderly, but there were no decent men to date. I had my family, but no buddies. I love Spokane. But I was sick of it. And that's why I came here.
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January 14th was the annual party for all the teachers and
staff at the adult centers. It was kind
of like a company Christmas party, except we were really celebrating the Year
of the Horse. It was held in Le Royal
Meridien, one of the fancier hotels in Shanghai, and everyone was dressed
up--"red carpet wear", the invite had said. The food was "just so-so", as my
students would've said. They'd attempted
to make the Chinese food more to the western palette, and the western food more
to the Chinese palette, and as a result, everything tasted a little off. The coffee and the salad were okay, and the desserts,
and far be it from me to complain too much about a free lunch! I cleaned my full plate!
Each center had prepared a performance of some kind--a song,
a play, a dance, a traditional something-or-other. Some of them were downright horrible--people
forgetting lyrics, not being able to hit notes, or dressed in way too little
and dancing way too scandalously (bordering on strip club, I'm not kidding). But some of the performances were great! Two different girls tackled popular Adele
songs, and did quite well hitting the notes.
One center had taken "The Twelve Days of Christmas" and turned
it into "The Twelve Days of EF", and I was nearly in tears of
hilarity by the end--they pretty much said exactly what I'd been feeling,
especially when they shouted "NO CHRIST-MAS BREAK!" at the "five
golden rings" part on the final verse.
However, another center had decided to retell the story of
the birth of Christ, using both foreign and Chinese actors. One of the actors, a Brit playing a
bare-chested Joseph, kept interrupting his own lines to tell us, "It's not
blasphemous!" when it clearly was.
I mean, Mary in a pink skirt that barely covered her ass and in
three-inch heels? The Angel of the Lord
worse than Tinkerbell, yelling at the characters and bopping them on the head
with her magic wand? Mary pregnant before the Angel's visit? And, finally, Mary giving birth to Santa Claus? A Catholic buddy and I met up after, shaking
our heads. The baby Santa thing had been
pretty bad. Some people in the audience had
actually walked out of the performance; an American co-worker of mine had
laughed until he was in tears. To top it
all, the entire performance looked as though they'd written it the night before
and hadn't rehearsed--they repeated lines, missed cues, missed whole scenes,
and then interrupted other scenes to explain what they'd missed.
I wondered if the performances would've been better or worse
if alcohol had been served.
Speaking of, rather than doing a lucky draw, as was
tradition, the higher-ups had decided to purchase a bottle of "Celebration
Wine", a red from Down Under, for each one of us. With its screw-off top, I was sure it was
going to be horrible, but the Aussies didn't disappoint. It wasn't the best wine I'd ever had, but it
certainly wasn't the worst.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The mall where my center is located has seen increased
activity since about two weeks ago. You
could equate it to the last-minute Christmas rush at home.
I sometimes feel as though pieces of my culture are being
pilfered here: fake pine boughs dripping
with red and gold ornaments, clearly Christmas decor, being used for Chinese
New Year; "Oh my darlin' Clementine" becoming the melody for
"Happy New Year, Happy New Year, Happy New Year, everyone!"; Handel's
"Hallelujah" being used in commercials (I know it is at home, too,
tongue in cheek; but here, where no one believes in Christ by government decree,
it makes me mad). There are Nordic
patterns on sweaters, and Christmas lights decorating the chilly tropical
plants in front of my apartment building.
I then have to remind myself of the bodhisattva incense
burner I have at home, my Tibetan singing bowl, the times I've studied yoga or
hung Tibetan prayer flags over my door. The
chopsticks and soy sauce in the kitchen.
The red and silver Asian-looking earrings I sometimes wear. I don't think of myself as stealing anything
then; I think of myself as exploring, appreciating. Is that what China is doing with
Christmas--adding it into their Chinese New Year celebration--appreciating? I'm not sure, but I have to be careful how
harshly I judge because I don't have enough information to really know. And it's not like every Christian in America
takes Christmas as seriously as they should.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I feel bad for my students.
Some of them live far away and are planning to travel over the new year
break--but then they admit they don't have their tickets yet. Tickets are notoriously difficult to come by
this time of year. Some may wait days at
the train station without being able to get on a train--my sister and I watched
a documentary about it on PBS. There is
a sense of deep obligation to return home for the new year; and an equal sense of
guilt, I'd imagine, if the person isn't able to make it. Some of my students, I can tell, aren't
especially looking forward to the holiday; some see it the way Americans might
see Thanksgiving or Christmas--a time of forced imprisonment with dysfunctional
relatives with the obligatory smile pasted across your face because this is
supposed to be a happy time, after
all. Hurried preparations, exhausting
shopping trips, and shoving crowds out of your way more than usual.
A lot of my students are working overtime right now so that
they can earn an extra day off. Working
overtime and then spending Saturdays in their three or four--or five--English
classes. Their dedication still amazes
me. It is humbling, inspiring,
exhausting, and sad to watch. When I see
a class of twenty having entire conversations in English, it feels like a
miracle, and sometimes I just watch with a smile on my face instead of
scribbling down notes to use later for feedback. I can tell you right now, if I worked
overtime during the week, I would not be spending my Saturdays learning another
language! At least not for five
hours. Maybe one hour. For fun.
That's the difference between my students and I. They are willing to sacrifice their free time
because of the benefits knowing English will give them--promotions, a higher
salary, a more important title. My free
time, I have to admit, is quite valuable to me.
Even knowing I could make more money makes me reluctant to let it go. Maybe if I had a family to support, I'd feel
differently? Who knows?
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