22 Jan 2014

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.

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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.

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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?

Temples

One of the difficult things about my work schedule is the absence of "normal" weekends, and therefore the absence of a regular church time.

 In 1988 in Ge'ermu, religion was something eyed with suspicion or ridicule--at least that's what it felt like.  There were no signs of Christianity out there; there were a sprinkling of Buddhists and a few Muslims.  That was it.

I was hopeful about the idea of Catholic churches being in Shanghai.  However, my schedule in Shanghai is such that I work Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings--there are no English masses at other times that I can find, and I'm not even sure there is mass in Chinese any other day of the week.  My days off have changed three times in about six weeks, so mostly I'm just trying to get used to that!

I have had time to visit some of the local Buddhist temples, though.  Because they are tourist attractions, they're open all the time.  I'd like to share a little of that with you.

I thought Jing'an Temple (across from the park I mentioned in an earlier post) would be a total tourist trap.  The temple was almost smack on top of the line 2 and line 7 metro hub, and located near my employer's main offices.  The area was chock full of large modern buildings hosting Burberry, Michael Kors, Hugo Boss, and other luxury brands.  There were American restaurants, French patisseries, and a general sense of wealth and fashion. 

It was a surprise when I paid the entrance fee and stepped into the main square.  I was the only white person, and although everyone was dressed in modern clothes--shorts, sneakers, etc.--the main thing I noticed was the seriousness with which people were praying. 

To do this, a person made a donation to obtain sticks of incense, and lit them at a sort of oil barrel sink.  It was like a grease fire, with hot orange flames licking the breeze and trying to chase our hands away.  Once lit, people held the incense in their hands, palm to palm in front of their chest, bowing, chanting, eyes closed.  I prayed too, thinking about my grandparents and wondering what others prayed for.  In the center of this main square was a huge black tower.  Bells banged about in the breeze and people tried to toss jiao coins into the tower's cutout holes for luck.   

After prayer, I strolled around.  There was a peaceful courtyard with two trees and a couple of guys eating bowl Ramen and drinking green tea out of plastic Tupperware containers.

The main attraction at Jing'an Temple, of course, was the huge silver buddha statue.  He was a bit tarnished in this climate, as you might expect, but was simple and peaceful, as you'd expect a buddha to be.  There was a 50-gallon bowl in the same room.  People approached this bowl with reverence, touching their palms and the backs of their hands to it, then touching their faces.  Their touch was firm, as if the bowl belonged to them.  I learned later that this bowl was possibly the copper Hongwu Bell from the Ming Dynasty, weighing 3.5 tons.  I am still unsure why the bell is treated with such respect.

One of my favorite parts, though, was the Guanyin Bodhisattva.  Do you know the difference between a buddha and a bodhisattva?  My basic understanding is that a buddha achieves enlightenment and melts into Nirvana, while a bodhisattva achieves enlightenment but chooses to remain on Earth, helping others to do the same.  The closest thing we have in Christianity are guardian angels, perhaps.

I have a special feeling for the compassionate goddess--I sometimes wear a jade carving of her around my neck (a gift from my parents, the jade coming from Qinghai where we lived), and when I worked at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, I always enjoyed working in the Asia exhibit, where I could feast my eyes on Buddhist sculptures and architecture.

The Guanyin Bodhisattva at Jing'an Temple is carved of light-colored camphor wood from Myanmar (a.k.a. Burma), shined to glowing.  Her expression was one of bliss and compassion.  A slightly mentholated tinge to the air seemed to purify my lungs as I took a few deep breaths.  There were plenty of red pillows to kowtow at; however, since I am not Buddhist, I refrained.

Temple architecture and traditional Chinese housing are almost the complete opposite of American suburban living--our lawns and yards surround our houses, while traditionally, the courtyards of Chinese structures are inside.  There is a serenity that comes from this type of design; noise reduction plays a part, as does security--a mother telling her children to play outside knows the walls of the house keep them safe.  The interior is enriched and beautified, not the outside. 

Even with the absence of Catholic mass in my regular schedule, I know that my interior spiritual life is something that can continue to grow and develop.

 

St. Ignatius (Jesuit) / Xujiahui Catholic Church 7 July 2013

St. Ignatius (Jesuit) / Xujiahui Catholic Church                                                      7 July 2013

It was further than I'd thought.   It had looked like the church was one or one and a half miles from Rayfont Hotel where I was staying in Shanghai.  But after scaling the Yan'an Road overpass and following the elevated highway for about a mile, I came to another large overpass. 

These overpasses are like crosswalks making an "air square" about two flights of stairs above the hustling traffic of the street.  9:45 am on a Sunday in Spokane is sleepy and slow, but Shanghai looked like a regular Monday morning rush hour.  Bicycles, scooters, cars, buses--all zoomed by, weaving in and out of traffic and pedestrians.  I was all too aware, even after only a few days, that fearless scooter pilots often rode on the sidewalk right behind people on foot, scarcely avoiding contact (and possible hospital visits).

At this second overpass, I went to a map of the main roads of the city.  This map was about three feet by three feet.  Of course, the city was massive, and the map was mostly in Mandarin, but they did have pinyin for the main roads (north-south and east-west) that broke the map into quadrants.  Ditching my trek toward the east, I turned south toward Xujiahui.  It shouldn't be long now, I reckoned.  However, walking another 10 minutes or so didn't put me in a better mood.

It was only about 10:15 am but it was in the mid-80s, sunny, and the air was stickier and more polluted than New York City in August.  Imagine being misted with warm, slightly oily water in 90 degree heat while walking.  The skin on my arms and hands was as smooth as an infant's.  Sweat/condensation was rolling from my hair, my back, and my armpits all the way to the waistband of my shorts, soaking the material.  I was alone, and in spite of constant horns and bicycle bells all around, I could hear the blood rushing in my head.  I broke out my first water bottle and finished it, my head quieting a bit.

I slogged a little farther, and then, miraculously, I spotted a sign for a metro station.  The 1 line went straight to Xujiahui, two stops from where I was.

I'd already experienced the metro the day before.  The fact that the cars were all air conditioned, with stops announced in both Mandarin and English, sealed the deal:  I put my backpack went through the metal detector.  Then, I swiped my transportation card (good for buses and cabs, too).  One swiped again on the way out--two to four stops deducted three yuan (about 50 cents).

Exiting from the Xujiahui station, I walked less than a block before noticing two tall buildings with crosses--I'd found it!

The crickets in the trees were protesting the heat as loudly as I was feeling it, waves of sound flowing as heavily as jackhammers, ebbing into brief silences.  They were giving cicadas a run for their money in terms of volume.  The day before, a group of us (EF teachers new in Shanghai) had passed a man selling pet crickets in small individual cages--balls of woven reeds.  The crickets had seemed to call to us.  These were no quiet American country crickets.

Along the concrete block pathway was a flower garden and lawn, where two or three Chinese couples were having wedding photos taken.  One girl was in a heavy gown, not a drop of sweat on her face.  Her makeup and hair were impeccably pristine.  I couldn't believe it--I was a hot mess.

I found a Costa Coffee and ducked inside for a medium iced latte.  The cafe's A/C was supersonic, and I got feverish chills for about five minutes while my body adjusted.  I ended up having to leave the cafe about ten minutes later.

I was violating the church dress code on two counts:  my knees and shoulders were bare.  At least I was wearing sneakers (flip-flops were another no-no).  They still let me in, though, after I sucked down the rest of my (now no longer iced) drink.  I don't think super-touristy places can survive without letting some people break the rules.

The church had a vaulted ceiling, and ceiling fans dangled down like spiders on web thread, beating uselessly at the soggy air.  A few of the stained glass windows had bamboo motifs.  There were a few TV screens hanging purposelessly from columns, and oscillating fans doing their best to make the air bearable.  Under each wooden plaque signifying a Station of the Cross was a tiny room, each with a kneeler, a small altar, and a statue or painting--14 in all.  There were one or two people in nearly every cubbyhole, and I had been touched to see some older Chinese women praying reverently at a statue of the Virgin Mary just outside the church.  It seemed hard to believe that such loyal devotion to this foreign religion existed in the same country where, 25 years ago, we hadn't even been able to attend any kind of Christian service.  Xujiahui had been here a long time, however.

The lightweight, dark wood pews were scuffed and lacquered within an inch of their lives, but they were filled.  The congregation looked to be mostly Chinese and Filipino, with a few Americans, Europeans, and Africans tossed in for spice.  It was easy to spot the European men, as most carried shoulder bags.

The Chinese priest sprinkled holy water on us and burned incense throughout.  A strong, citronella-like odor filled the air.  I had thought that water-sprinkling and incense-burning were suspended during Ordinary Time, but perhaps I was wrong.

The choir was about 15 people; all looked to be under 50.  They were accompanied only by a piano, and even sang a few familiar songs:  "City of God" and "Here I Am, Lord", along with "Take and Receive", a pretty song with Mandarin characters printed on the other side of the hymnal page.

The offertory was led by a dozen toddlers of all races, each led by a parent.  In their little fingers were three roses apiece.  This seemed par for the course, and I thought this little procession should be added to every mass everywhere.  For communion, one woman sang a gorgeous version of "Amazing Grace" that raised the hair on my arms.

I did not envy the priest in his heavy robes as he spoke:  "The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few."  I was sitting down, unmoving in my shorts and ruffled tank top, and sweat was still rolling down my back.  I thought it was appropriate that a Chinese priest would talk about laborers in a Communist country, and I thought about the millions of people in this country--the "harvest" abundant, indeed--and how many of them were Christian--"few".  The priest emphasized we needed to follow Jesus, not in the ways of the world:  "We are the lamb of God."

Hailing all Micro 68s, 69s, and 70s!

I applied to be a Peace Corps Volunteer back in March of 2001, I think.  A fat stack of paper work and several medical exams later, September 11^th happened.  I had been nominated for a position in Africa, but my recruiter and everyone else was freaking out.  PCVs were pulled out of countries deemed unstable, including Africa, and shuffled around.  It was Christmas Eve when I got the letter.  Micro-what, now?  I had to bust out the world map.  Oh, the former Caroline Islands.  I remember looking at them on the globe in like second grade, thinking, they’re so small, people really live there?  I remember standing on the bridge on Dartford Drive with Mom, the letter in my hand.  It was snowy.  A local artist had recently welded beautiful salmon-shaped pieces of metal to the bars on the bridge, and they seemed to be leaping and twisting in the sunlight.  The Little Spokane was running under our feet.  The evergreens were bent under the weight of the snow, some branches sighing and casting off the white stuff into the river.  I could hear the wind through the pine needles, and I’ve never felt as strongly as I did then that there were, indeed, voices on the wind and spirits in the trees (kind of anti-Catholic, I know, but it’s true).  Go.  Go.  Go.  They were all telling me what I already knew in my heart.  I would go.