not alone anymore
i no longer wonder out loud
you are near by
a mystery too real to ignore
a flame i can't yet touch
too hot for fragile, sensitive hands like mine
i no longer look at mirrors
without the knowledge i am loved
but still i wonder.. .
this beginning to freedom
must be a revelation born of joy
never coaxed by fear
tender hands to care, not crush
warm with the fragrance of spring
a fresh breeze to sooth old sores
a quiet patience to watch the blossoms bloom
if only you were closer still
and I, a fiercer breed
could embrace the flame
burn away my worries
in return i'd offer you the peace
of a deep and tranquil ocean
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Corresponding Nanjing and Chengdu, Part I
“In Nanjing, historical emotions linger in the air like bacteria. In this scholarly city, you can feel everything that is contained in art without even looking into the themes of art; you can discover the details of art without ever thinking about its forms.” -Qi Lan
I cannot consider myself a Nanjing dweller, as my experiences in the city have always been limited to a few days at most. For three years of my life, I lived two hours west of this noble city in nearby Wuhu. Throughout those years, as much as I loved Wuhu, there was an ever present longing to understand and experience that great capital city.
I remember my first time to Nanjing, coming up over the elevated highway to view her imposing wall on my right in contrast to a quiet park on my left with miniature bridges and impressive pillars bearing the Chimera-like creature that has come to symbolize the spirit of the city. In front of me opened up China’s trademark housing projects; rows of modern apartments and business buildings. In the distance I spotted Nanjing’s TV tower by the Yangzi.
My father emailed me shortly after that visit to remind me of my grandparent’s short stay in the city after World War II. Nanjing was to be their permanent home after many war-torn years of wandering. Had it not been for the events of 1949, my father and mother might have been born there. Rumor has it my second aunt on my mother’s side was born in Nanjing. He told me that he found it interesting that I had returned to the city a generation after my grandfather left it.
One of my first peer friends in Wuhu was a child of Nanjing, and he appeared to fit all the stereotypes I’d eventually come to learn about the city. He was a young twenty-something musician and scholar, sensitive and idealistic, upright but insecure. With a long, clean face and a short, lean, sturdy build, he exuded a pre-tense of modernity while simultaneously marked by tradition. He worked started as a music teacher for Anhui Normal the same year I began teaching with hopes of improving Anhui’s musical programs as a whole. He taught and researched global music ethnocology, was into the newest fashions and trends: a spittin’ image of the new Chinese yuppie scholar with global interests and aspirations. But if you asked him where his hopes were planted, he would probably tell you he wanted a true and authentic revival of the classical Chinese spirit of music.
I had the privilege of attending this friend’s wedding where I met many of his other Nanjing townfellows. One of them, drunk no less, learned my family was from Taiwan. He put his arm around me and mumbled with pride, “You know, people in Taiwan still see Nanjing as the capital of the new China.” He paused for a second, groggily considering his next thought. “And, you know, we Nanjing people, we remember that too.”
Dare I say it, I see Nanjing as a spiritual home of mine. I fully understand that it is an idealized home, given my lack of real experience. In another time or story, I might have been one of her many poets or scholars, or the spoiled grandson of an official; Ming, KMT, or otherwise. Or even a callous farmer on the fertile lands along the long river, or an undignified fisherman. It would not matter: I imagine I would have thrived with either the scholar’s brush or the peasant's plow.
I imagine this because, though I do not know Nanjing as well as I would like, I know myself; and the many adjectives I have heard used to address the city I find resonance with, whether positive or negative. It’s historical tones, traditional posture, and reflective habits expressed through scholarship and ideals, ironed out through many cycles of destruction and reconstruction. Romantically poetic in its unrealized hopes yet staunchly realistic in its sufferings, Nanjing’s unbridled nostalgia betrays its desires for modernity, her sensitivities always lead it toward a quietness that those seeking hustle-bustle play and power cannot understand nor tolerate.
For those things, Shanghai is king. Somehow, I quickly skipped over those years of youthful abandon in favor of a more solemn spirit. I have no drive for success on the worldly level, yet I am still unsure of myself inwardly. Like my native Nanjing friend, I dabble amongst different cultural ideas and have a visible interest for things modern, but in the end I’m nostalgic and sensitive for the things of the past. Now that I am married, my wife is beginning to see that I am hopelessly backward in my desires for simplicity paradoxically paired with a convoluted drive to modernize the ancient and extract timeless principles from clearly, time bounded circumstances. My ideal of a good date is a stroll through an ancient temple coupled with a visit to a modern art gallery. History is a story I love, the present a gift to treasure, and the future a mystery to behold.
This Nanjing friend of mine often shared clean set, modern Chinese, meals with me at a coffeehouse chain (that originated in Nanjing, no less). In our conversations, we shared a generally similar spirit and perspective on things as perhaps only poet-at-heart types do. As our years of work in Wuhu continued, however, we lost touch due to our ever increasing busyness and investment in our work. By my third year, the best we could muster was a passing hello on campus on our ways to class. Despite the seeming fall out in relationship, he was adamantly present the morning of my final departure from Wuhu. Sensitive, like me, he shed a few tears as my van pulled away.
These many spaces near the Yangzi River are all a sort of home to me. Wuhan, Yangzhou, and Zhuji are the land of my grandparents. Wuhu and Nanjing, my adopted homes during some of the most impressionable years of my youth.
These days, I often tell my friends and family that I am finally sick of China, ready to be home in the United States for a few. But at the same time, I know I love this space more than I probably care to admit.
I am a long-lost child of 江南.
I cannot consider myself a Nanjing dweller, as my experiences in the city have always been limited to a few days at most. For three years of my life, I lived two hours west of this noble city in nearby Wuhu. Throughout those years, as much as I loved Wuhu, there was an ever present longing to understand and experience that great capital city.
I remember my first time to Nanjing, coming up over the elevated highway to view her imposing wall on my right in contrast to a quiet park on my left with miniature bridges and impressive pillars bearing the Chimera-like creature that has come to symbolize the spirit of the city. In front of me opened up China’s trademark housing projects; rows of modern apartments and business buildings. In the distance I spotted Nanjing’s TV tower by the Yangzi.
My father emailed me shortly after that visit to remind me of my grandparent’s short stay in the city after World War II. Nanjing was to be their permanent home after many war-torn years of wandering. Had it not been for the events of 1949, my father and mother might have been born there. Rumor has it my second aunt on my mother’s side was born in Nanjing. He told me that he found it interesting that I had returned to the city a generation after my grandfather left it.
One of my first peer friends in Wuhu was a child of Nanjing, and he appeared to fit all the stereotypes I’d eventually come to learn about the city. He was a young twenty-something musician and scholar, sensitive and idealistic, upright but insecure. With a long, clean face and a short, lean, sturdy build, he exuded a pre-tense of modernity while simultaneously marked by tradition. He worked started as a music teacher for Anhui Normal the same year I began teaching with hopes of improving Anhui’s musical programs as a whole. He taught and researched global music ethnocology, was into the newest fashions and trends: a spittin’ image of the new Chinese yuppie scholar with global interests and aspirations. But if you asked him where his hopes were planted, he would probably tell you he wanted a true and authentic revival of the classical Chinese spirit of music.
I had the privilege of attending this friend’s wedding where I met many of his other Nanjing townfellows. One of them, drunk no less, learned my family was from Taiwan. He put his arm around me and mumbled with pride, “You know, people in Taiwan still see Nanjing as the capital of the new China.” He paused for a second, groggily considering his next thought. “And, you know, we Nanjing people, we remember that too.”
Dare I say it, I see Nanjing as a spiritual home of mine. I fully understand that it is an idealized home, given my lack of real experience. In another time or story, I might have been one of her many poets or scholars, or the spoiled grandson of an official; Ming, KMT, or otherwise. Or even a callous farmer on the fertile lands along the long river, or an undignified fisherman. It would not matter: I imagine I would have thrived with either the scholar’s brush or the peasant's plow.
I imagine this because, though I do not know Nanjing as well as I would like, I know myself; and the many adjectives I have heard used to address the city I find resonance with, whether positive or negative. It’s historical tones, traditional posture, and reflective habits expressed through scholarship and ideals, ironed out through many cycles of destruction and reconstruction. Romantically poetic in its unrealized hopes yet staunchly realistic in its sufferings, Nanjing’s unbridled nostalgia betrays its desires for modernity, her sensitivities always lead it toward a quietness that those seeking hustle-bustle play and power cannot understand nor tolerate.
For those things, Shanghai is king. Somehow, I quickly skipped over those years of youthful abandon in favor of a more solemn spirit. I have no drive for success on the worldly level, yet I am still unsure of myself inwardly. Like my native Nanjing friend, I dabble amongst different cultural ideas and have a visible interest for things modern, but in the end I’m nostalgic and sensitive for the things of the past. Now that I am married, my wife is beginning to see that I am hopelessly backward in my desires for simplicity paradoxically paired with a convoluted drive to modernize the ancient and extract timeless principles from clearly, time bounded circumstances. My ideal of a good date is a stroll through an ancient temple coupled with a visit to a modern art gallery. History is a story I love, the present a gift to treasure, and the future a mystery to behold.
This Nanjing friend of mine often shared clean set, modern Chinese, meals with me at a coffeehouse chain (that originated in Nanjing, no less). In our conversations, we shared a generally similar spirit and perspective on things as perhaps only poet-at-heart types do. As our years of work in Wuhu continued, however, we lost touch due to our ever increasing busyness and investment in our work. By my third year, the best we could muster was a passing hello on campus on our ways to class. Despite the seeming fall out in relationship, he was adamantly present the morning of my final departure from Wuhu. Sensitive, like me, he shed a few tears as my van pulled away.
These many spaces near the Yangzi River are all a sort of home to me. Wuhan, Yangzhou, and Zhuji are the land of my grandparents. Wuhu and Nanjing, my adopted homes during some of the most impressionable years of my youth.
These days, I often tell my friends and family that I am finally sick of China, ready to be home in the United States for a few. But at the same time, I know I love this space more than I probably care to admit.
I am a long-lost child of 江南.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Paradox of Marriage
These are some thoughts from a newlywed.
I’ve been married for about a month or two, depending on which date you would like to adhere to. In that short time, I’ve been putting the pieces of our relationship together, the pieces from the past year or so. As I fiddle and compare, I’m hoping for a simple pattern that might help me live my marriage well.
This half year left in Chengdu, is there no more important mission or goal than the building of a strong and healthy foundation between Christine and I for the rest of our lives?
Why do I feel more lost and aimless than I ever have in my life? Is it because of the so-called quarter life crisis? Is it because of the challenge of applying ideals to reality? Here I sit, dissecting my heart to search for small clues to the little anxieties that have followed me to this relaxed, tea-sipping, urban sprawl.
An obsession with productivity multiplied by gender defined expectation to provide for my family. I define productivity as something done to benefit and serve others. This definition does not include myself. This is a problem. I’ve always ignored myself in favor of projects and relationships that would be more “productive.” Here, I’ve been challenged to take a good look at myself, just me.
For my first half year, instead of facing up to this challenge of facing myself, I’ve frantically distributed myself all over the city in an attempt to be productive. I’ve given a few lectures, done amateur graphic and video design for Mercy Corps, taught English to snobby elementary school students, arranged a disorganized short term trips, researched Hua Mei’s structure and influence for a inconclusive research paper, familiarized myself with the state of the 3-self in Sichuan, gotten a fly-by view of Chinese philosophy and development, finished my Wheaton Intercultural Masters (for what its worth?).
Not bad, but not good. I’m a bit disappointed in myself. The time could have been spent better, though it certainly wasn’t wasted. Ironically, the time could probably have been better spent being less “productive” and more on myself.
Above all those little things, of course, is marriage. In the last half year, I got ready and got married to the love of my life in two weddings filled with surprises, drama, and joy.
And she is the reason I’m here, more than any job, project, or experience that I can find, muster, or hope for. It’s the first time, ever in my life, I’ve made such a drastic, last-minute, choice in relation to another with so little direction or preparation of my own. I came to Sichuan, first and foremost, for her. And by being here first, for her, I suppose it makes sense that I’ve had trouble with finding something for myself.
In the past, I’ve always been independent. I’ve been my own person who makes my own decisions for my own ideas. I got to go where I wanted for reasons I selected. No longer will this ever be true again. Marriage changes the very foundation of how life is to be lived. Coming to Sichuan has been a physical embodiment of that commitment.
Since getting here I’ve been trying to figure out what else to do.
But in the final analysis, that’s not such a bad reason to show off. I’m here in Chengdu, Sichuan for the year to support and love my wife. I’m pretty proud of that.
This is my first lesson. It shall never be a waste of time to drop everything else to love and serve your wife.
I love my wife. I’m learning to love her more and more.
And.. . I think Christine is right, God put me here to get my eyes off everything else and to put them on myself, unashamedly and for the first time in many, many years.
There is a great deal of irony in all this. I came to Chengdu for her, but also for me in a way I never would have thought of myself. It is so interesting that the latter has become far more difficult than the first. I have no problem supporting her in her being here, it’s supporting myself away from the trappings of productivity that have been my trouble.
Marriage is like that. We get a lot more in our giving than we would have thought, though the receiving is not always as easy or pleasant as we would have liked to imagine.
I may have been “independent” before meeting Christine, but my life was filled with goals and projects of an “external” nature, responding forever to the needs that were set before me, instead of listening to my heart.
Now, since meeting Christine and giving her my heart and commitment, I’ve ended up in a new place void of commitments to anything else. It’s been uncomfortable as hell, leading to my first half year of hodge-podge activities. I needed the external to give me a sense of worth and value.
I don’t know if any of this is making sense, but in my heart it is.
Following her here to Sichuan has been an opportunity to stop and become more of who I am, in relation to my life partner, and my God alone without any external trappings to distract me.
In serving my wife, God has given me an unparalleled chance to take care of myself: a real sabbatical. Unfortunately, I came up with the distractions myself because life was so uncomfortable without them.
I hope to make better use of my time this early 2009.
On another note... something on intimacy.
I’ve always had trouble with this. Whether it’s been inappropriate disclosure or walled up feelings, I’ve never had a good time of it. In these first few weeks of married life, I’ve had the challenge of revealing my heart to her.
I am doing it in a way I always have. Little pieces here and there, and waiting to see what kind of response I get. If it’s a safe, positive response, I’m encouraged to open up more. If it’s critical or harsh, I clam up a little more.
A good marriage is built on intimacy more than any other concept for out of it flows honesty, trust, humility, and interdependence.
Let me conquer my fears and let her into my heart, whatever the outcome may be. Let there be honesty in my words instead of worry. Let there be trust in her love instead of fear of her wrath. Let there be humility to listen instead of defensiveness. Let us grow to depend on one another in such a way we could never really be apart.
Scary... but the pay off is heaven itself, revealed in the tense space between our love and dependence for and in one another.
Dearest Lord, let us love and support one another the way we ought to under the example you have set before us in word and deed. In doing so, let us shine the light of your love in its truest and purest form. The love between a man and woman as love between God and Humanity, Heaven and Earth.
I’ve been married for about a month or two, depending on which date you would like to adhere to. In that short time, I’ve been putting the pieces of our relationship together, the pieces from the past year or so. As I fiddle and compare, I’m hoping for a simple pattern that might help me live my marriage well.
This half year left in Chengdu, is there no more important mission or goal than the building of a strong and healthy foundation between Christine and I for the rest of our lives?
Why do I feel more lost and aimless than I ever have in my life? Is it because of the so-called quarter life crisis? Is it because of the challenge of applying ideals to reality? Here I sit, dissecting my heart to search for small clues to the little anxieties that have followed me to this relaxed, tea-sipping, urban sprawl.
An obsession with productivity multiplied by gender defined expectation to provide for my family. I define productivity as something done to benefit and serve others. This definition does not include myself. This is a problem. I’ve always ignored myself in favor of projects and relationships that would be more “productive.” Here, I’ve been challenged to take a good look at myself, just me.
For my first half year, instead of facing up to this challenge of facing myself, I’ve frantically distributed myself all over the city in an attempt to be productive. I’ve given a few lectures, done amateur graphic and video design for Mercy Corps, taught English to snobby elementary school students, arranged a disorganized short term trips, researched Hua Mei’s structure and influence for a inconclusive research paper, familiarized myself with the state of the 3-self in Sichuan, gotten a fly-by view of Chinese philosophy and development, finished my Wheaton Intercultural Masters (for what its worth?).
Not bad, but not good. I’m a bit disappointed in myself. The time could have been spent better, though it certainly wasn’t wasted. Ironically, the time could probably have been better spent being less “productive” and more on myself.
Above all those little things, of course, is marriage. In the last half year, I got ready and got married to the love of my life in two weddings filled with surprises, drama, and joy.
And she is the reason I’m here, more than any job, project, or experience that I can find, muster, or hope for. It’s the first time, ever in my life, I’ve made such a drastic, last-minute, choice in relation to another with so little direction or preparation of my own. I came to Sichuan, first and foremost, for her. And by being here first, for her, I suppose it makes sense that I’ve had trouble with finding something for myself.
In the past, I’ve always been independent. I’ve been my own person who makes my own decisions for my own ideas. I got to go where I wanted for reasons I selected. No longer will this ever be true again. Marriage changes the very foundation of how life is to be lived. Coming to Sichuan has been a physical embodiment of that commitment.
Since getting here I’ve been trying to figure out what else to do.
But in the final analysis, that’s not such a bad reason to show off. I’m here in Chengdu, Sichuan for the year to support and love my wife. I’m pretty proud of that.
This is my first lesson. It shall never be a waste of time to drop everything else to love and serve your wife.
I love my wife. I’m learning to love her more and more.
And.. . I think Christine is right, God put me here to get my eyes off everything else and to put them on myself, unashamedly and for the first time in many, many years.
There is a great deal of irony in all this. I came to Chengdu for her, but also for me in a way I never would have thought of myself. It is so interesting that the latter has become far more difficult than the first. I have no problem supporting her in her being here, it’s supporting myself away from the trappings of productivity that have been my trouble.
Marriage is like that. We get a lot more in our giving than we would have thought, though the receiving is not always as easy or pleasant as we would have liked to imagine.
I may have been “independent” before meeting Christine, but my life was filled with goals and projects of an “external” nature, responding forever to the needs that were set before me, instead of listening to my heart.
Now, since meeting Christine and giving her my heart and commitment, I’ve ended up in a new place void of commitments to anything else. It’s been uncomfortable as hell, leading to my first half year of hodge-podge activities. I needed the external to give me a sense of worth and value.
I don’t know if any of this is making sense, but in my heart it is.
Following her here to Sichuan has been an opportunity to stop and become more of who I am, in relation to my life partner, and my God alone without any external trappings to distract me.
In serving my wife, God has given me an unparalleled chance to take care of myself: a real sabbatical. Unfortunately, I came up with the distractions myself because life was so uncomfortable without them.
I hope to make better use of my time this early 2009.
On another note... something on intimacy.
I’ve always had trouble with this. Whether it’s been inappropriate disclosure or walled up feelings, I’ve never had a good time of it. In these first few weeks of married life, I’ve had the challenge of revealing my heart to her.
I am doing it in a way I always have. Little pieces here and there, and waiting to see what kind of response I get. If it’s a safe, positive response, I’m encouraged to open up more. If it’s critical or harsh, I clam up a little more.
A good marriage is built on intimacy more than any other concept for out of it flows honesty, trust, humility, and interdependence.
Let me conquer my fears and let her into my heart, whatever the outcome may be. Let there be honesty in my words instead of worry. Let there be trust in her love instead of fear of her wrath. Let there be humility to listen instead of defensiveness. Let us grow to depend on one another in such a way we could never really be apart.
Scary... but the pay off is heaven itself, revealed in the tense space between our love and dependence for and in one another.
Dearest Lord, let us love and support one another the way we ought to under the example you have set before us in word and deed. In doing so, let us shine the light of your love in its truest and purest form. The love between a man and woman as love between God and Humanity, Heaven and Earth.
Monday, February 9, 2009
prejudice.. .
I'm an avid supporter of taking the bus. Not so much for environmental reasons as I like feeling a part of the city, a part of the everyday. Second to riding a bike, nothing in China exhibits a feeling of belonging for a foreigner so much as taking public transportation (at least when you can blend in like me, so nobody is staring at you).
But yes, it's also good for the environment. Get on the bus, or ride a bike. But wear a helmet... even if nobody else is.
Chengdu, being a major urban center, is filled with a variety of peoples, especially with its proximity to Western China's many minorities. Prime amongst these minorities are Tibetans. I'm not very experienced with Tibetans, but perhaps more so than you're average U.S. citizen. I taught an English class of eight Tibetans once and they were very engaging, kind, and courteous students. They're Tibetan accents actually help them pronounce English sounds better than Han Chinese do. They have a reputation for being great dancers and singers... like every minority group does in China.
Background explained: this story involves a bus and a family of Tibetans.
As most people may be able to guess, Chinese buses can get pretty damn crowded. Passengers are suppose to enter from the front, pay the fee, and exit the back. Sometimes, this procedure is not feasible given the sheer volume of the people coming on and off. In such cases, people jump on from the back exit when space in the front isn't available. Once boarded, passengers will pass their fare money up the bus to the front. It is common knowledge and courtesy to do so, and I've been impressed with how consistently it is done. Sometimes huge fistfuls of 1 yuan bills will be passed forward. The bus driver doesn't even have to ask, and mostly trusts what is passed up as the right and proper due.
Today, while taking the bus to work, the bus was quite full, as usual. At one stop, a Tibetan lady and her two children rushed to the back gate and hopped on. The bus continued and a few minutes passed. The lady looked comfortable, but did take out any money. Looking about, the faces of the other passengers seemed uneasy. It was clear people were wondering if this little family was hoping for a free ride...
Tibetans have certain reputations, but dishonest is not one of them. If anything, they are a little too honest. My wife says that's why they do so poorly at business. There's no point in haggling prices with Tibetans, they just tell you what they're willing to sell it for and that's that. At the same time, however, Tibetans have the stereotype of also being lazy (or relaxed and slow... depending on how you look at it).
I won't lie, as the bus moved along, I started running down my list of Tibetan generalizations as to process why the Tibetan mother of two would not pay her fare after hoping on the back of the bus. Was she ignorant of bus fares? Was she actually hoping to just ignore the fare? As I was thinking, however, an old lady reminded the lady to pay. The Tibetan woman responded in Tibetan, in which none of us could understand. At this point I joined in and gestured with my hand the universal rubbing of fingers: meaning money, and said there was a fare to be paid up front. More Tibetan was given in reply. The old lady sighed, "I don't understand," but tried to tell the lady again to pay the fare. The other passengers were quietly watching, starting to feel tense.
After a few more awkward moments, a Tibetan man from the front of the bus pushed through the crowds. When he arrived, he said he had paid for them all up front in barely intelligible Mandarin Chinese. The old lady smiled at me and them, a little bit embarrassed. I was as well. It would appear to be another incident of Han Chinese looking down on Tibetan minorities. In a gesture of good will the old lady smiled at the children and said, "be careful, it's really tight in here." The younger daughter seemed to snap back in Tibetan with a little bit of a dirty look. Had they felt offended? I wouldn't have been surprised if they were.
In any case, this was a clear misunderstanding. I trust I, or this old lady, would have reminded any passenger, Han Chinese or otherwise, to pay the fare after boarding from the back if they had not. But the fact that this family was not Han Chinese, but a minority, makes the whole ordeal just a little bit more sensitive.
This incident reminds me of another story in the U.S. concerning prejudice and buses...
About a year or two ago, I was waiting to board the Chinatown bus from New York to Boston. All the passengers were lined up waiting for the bus to arrive around 9 pm or so. A few persons back, a person was looking around nervously. This didn't bother me of course. What did catch my attention was when he left the line and turned the corner, leaving his baggage behind. That bothersome feeling increased when the man didn't return for (what seemed like) five minutes.
Now, years of hanging around airports since the "war on terror" began have taught me to be suspicious of nervous or overly confident looking people leaving their luggage behind in crowded spaces. They announce that it shouldn't happen every 5 to 10 minutes. I wasn't in an airport however, and honestly, not that much time could have passed. I was nervous all the same and just prayed nothing explosive was in the bags. After a few more minutes the man returned to the line. Relieved, I boarded the bus and was off to Boston with no other concerns.
The disturbing element concerning this event is this: the man looked to be of Arab descent. There is no doubt in my mind that my sensitivities toward his actions were heightened because of his ethnicity. I'd racially profiled the man based on common media perceptions. If the man were of Asian, Anglo, or even African decent, I don't believe my worries would have been as high. (though I'd like to imagine I'd still be alarmed... right?) I recognized this immediately as I felt it, and hence tried to ignore it, but the feeling remained.
I admit it, I have prejudices. I have prejudices because I make generalizations, informed or not. Sometimes they prove insightfully helpful, other times they make me ashamed. I am working all the time to re-calibrate my heart and mind to critique and understand each circumstance and person I meet with wisdom, compassion, and justice.
We operate from generalizations all the time, and when it comes to differences, the simplest mistake or assumption could communicate, or miscommunicate, far more than we'd like. We're all prejudiced, because we operate toward difference based on whatever information or experience we have (correct or not.)
The only answer to this problem, in my eyes, is the fostering of a real intentional relationship between the differences at hand. But that's a dream answer that falls short in reality... right?
I'm still a bit of an idealist...
but can I become a more active one?
Isn't it interesting how these incidents on buses can often lead to so much more?
But yes, it's also good for the environment. Get on the bus, or ride a bike. But wear a helmet... even if nobody else is.
Chengdu, being a major urban center, is filled with a variety of peoples, especially with its proximity to Western China's many minorities. Prime amongst these minorities are Tibetans. I'm not very experienced with Tibetans, but perhaps more so than you're average U.S. citizen. I taught an English class of eight Tibetans once and they were very engaging, kind, and courteous students. They're Tibetan accents actually help them pronounce English sounds better than Han Chinese do. They have a reputation for being great dancers and singers... like every minority group does in China.
Background explained: this story involves a bus and a family of Tibetans.
As most people may be able to guess, Chinese buses can get pretty damn crowded. Passengers are suppose to enter from the front, pay the fee, and exit the back. Sometimes, this procedure is not feasible given the sheer volume of the people coming on and off. In such cases, people jump on from the back exit when space in the front isn't available. Once boarded, passengers will pass their fare money up the bus to the front. It is common knowledge and courtesy to do so, and I've been impressed with how consistently it is done. Sometimes huge fistfuls of 1 yuan bills will be passed forward. The bus driver doesn't even have to ask, and mostly trusts what is passed up as the right and proper due.
Today, while taking the bus to work, the bus was quite full, as usual. At one stop, a Tibetan lady and her two children rushed to the back gate and hopped on. The bus continued and a few minutes passed. The lady looked comfortable, but did take out any money. Looking about, the faces of the other passengers seemed uneasy. It was clear people were wondering if this little family was hoping for a free ride...
Tibetans have certain reputations, but dishonest is not one of them. If anything, they are a little too honest. My wife says that's why they do so poorly at business. There's no point in haggling prices with Tibetans, they just tell you what they're willing to sell it for and that's that. At the same time, however, Tibetans have the stereotype of also being lazy (or relaxed and slow... depending on how you look at it).
I won't lie, as the bus moved along, I started running down my list of Tibetan generalizations as to process why the Tibetan mother of two would not pay her fare after hoping on the back of the bus. Was she ignorant of bus fares? Was she actually hoping to just ignore the fare? As I was thinking, however, an old lady reminded the lady to pay. The Tibetan woman responded in Tibetan, in which none of us could understand. At this point I joined in and gestured with my hand the universal rubbing of fingers: meaning money, and said there was a fare to be paid up front. More Tibetan was given in reply. The old lady sighed, "I don't understand," but tried to tell the lady again to pay the fare. The other passengers were quietly watching, starting to feel tense.
After a few more awkward moments, a Tibetan man from the front of the bus pushed through the crowds. When he arrived, he said he had paid for them all up front in barely intelligible Mandarin Chinese. The old lady smiled at me and them, a little bit embarrassed. I was as well. It would appear to be another incident of Han Chinese looking down on Tibetan minorities. In a gesture of good will the old lady smiled at the children and said, "be careful, it's really tight in here." The younger daughter seemed to snap back in Tibetan with a little bit of a dirty look. Had they felt offended? I wouldn't have been surprised if they were.
In any case, this was a clear misunderstanding. I trust I, or this old lady, would have reminded any passenger, Han Chinese or otherwise, to pay the fare after boarding from the back if they had not. But the fact that this family was not Han Chinese, but a minority, makes the whole ordeal just a little bit more sensitive.
This incident reminds me of another story in the U.S. concerning prejudice and buses...
About a year or two ago, I was waiting to board the Chinatown bus from New York to Boston. All the passengers were lined up waiting for the bus to arrive around 9 pm or so. A few persons back, a person was looking around nervously. This didn't bother me of course. What did catch my attention was when he left the line and turned the corner, leaving his baggage behind. That bothersome feeling increased when the man didn't return for (what seemed like) five minutes.
Now, years of hanging around airports since the "war on terror" began have taught me to be suspicious of nervous or overly confident looking people leaving their luggage behind in crowded spaces. They announce that it shouldn't happen every 5 to 10 minutes. I wasn't in an airport however, and honestly, not that much time could have passed. I was nervous all the same and just prayed nothing explosive was in the bags. After a few more minutes the man returned to the line. Relieved, I boarded the bus and was off to Boston with no other concerns.
The disturbing element concerning this event is this: the man looked to be of Arab descent. There is no doubt in my mind that my sensitivities toward his actions were heightened because of his ethnicity. I'd racially profiled the man based on common media perceptions. If the man were of Asian, Anglo, or even African decent, I don't believe my worries would have been as high. (though I'd like to imagine I'd still be alarmed... right?) I recognized this immediately as I felt it, and hence tried to ignore it, but the feeling remained.
I admit it, I have prejudices. I have prejudices because I make generalizations, informed or not. Sometimes they prove insightfully helpful, other times they make me ashamed. I am working all the time to re-calibrate my heart and mind to critique and understand each circumstance and person I meet with wisdom, compassion, and justice.
We operate from generalizations all the time, and when it comes to differences, the simplest mistake or assumption could communicate, or miscommunicate, far more than we'd like. We're all prejudiced, because we operate toward difference based on whatever information or experience we have (correct or not.)
The only answer to this problem, in my eyes, is the fostering of a real intentional relationship between the differences at hand. But that's a dream answer that falls short in reality... right?
I'm still a bit of an idealist...
but can I become a more active one?
Isn't it interesting how these incidents on buses can often lead to so much more?
Sunday, February 8, 2009
the Ideal and the Reality: oh, how we striiiive.. .
Writing...
just to write...
Christine says I should write a book. Whatever about? I haven’t yet the discipline, vision, or talent to take on a book. But smaller things are worthwhile. Personal newsletters are a beginning. Next i would like to take on a revamp of my “So What?” document for distribution with a little more academic backing. It would serve to be my first pamphlet of possible use beyond personal interest or amusement.
I’m currently reading several books at once... another display of my inability to focus. I am a child of TV, DVD, and ADD. Nonetheless, I find the cross referencing of many of these texts enjoyable. Like a fruit punch or a fine port (is that the type of wine that gets mixed?), the literary personalities, thoughts, and experiences mix together in my mind.
The single, most concentrated voice is the one that followed me back from my honeymoon in India: Mahatma Gandhi’s auto-biography, or as he likes to state: his “experiments with Truth.” Auto-biography’s are not necessarily the most accurate portrayal of a person’s life, but they are always the most intimate. To hear Gandhi tell his own story of his development in law and public advocacy is a good story to know. I’ve finished half the book already and his musings on religion, family, and diet play as dominant a role in his thinking as his career as a lawyer or community organizer in South Africa. There is still little to no mention of a desire to be modern India’s prime mover for independence. All this goes to show that great men do not always expect themselves great. At least in his own words, Gandhi simply sought integrity of life. Like MLK Jr., his first passion was for his first community of Indian expats struggling as indentured servants or small businessmen hundreds of miles away from Indian soil, in South Africa.
How Gandhi’s search for faith and his life of public service come together appear to be the tale he is aiming to weave in his writing. I suppose when they finally come together sometime in the latter half of the book, the issue of India’s breaking from the British will have become a very important matter. By the time of his famed salt walk, was it the nation of India, the plight of the poor, or the calling of God his hallmark motive? I suppose it should be all three...
In other news, Jon Meacham is lecturing me on his scholarly perspective toward the great controversial narrative that is America’s faith. As a nation, how did the founding fathers play out God and State? Surely, separation of institutions necessary and desirable, but influence? Under Meacham’s exposition, from Adams to Washington, everyone had something to contribute to the building of the nation via their faith by word or deed. What was their personal faith influenced their actions, even if those actions were always, by and large, of a secular nature: in the interests of the people of America. The God of Public Religion is alive and well today, and Obama has invoked His name in word, and recently in deed. Will his new faith-based policies and advisory board lead to a reconciliation of the bitter and wasteful culture wars?
Honestly, it’s a matter not worth delving too deeply into, not until the economy can get fixed. What’s going on with the stimulus again? Every time I glance at the Washington Post there is something about how the plan has changed, who’s willing to support it or not, and everyone’s general ignorance. This includes myself. I need to get a book on basic economics and understand what’s going on a bit more deeply.
China got started on their own big stimulus plan. If the State Media is accurate (of course it is,) it’s all going nicely and China still has confidence in its ability to bounce back. In other news, hundreds of migrant workers are laid off and going home. The rebuilding process since the quake is no longer the big news as the nation’s very economic stability is at stake. Here in Chengdu even, rebuilding and reinvestment have equal footing based on the billboards I see.
In my past months of reading, other leaders of China have had their chance to lay impressions on my thinking. A wide history of thinkers and actors from Confucius to Mao, my studies have revealed the odds and ends of faith and policy yet again. Whether it is a faith in the Way of Heaven or the Revolution of the (Peasant) Proletariat, the striving to make our realities fit our ideals remains the same. Whether it is exhibited in the life of Indian saints or American heroes, in our inner lives or public actions, the challenge to make our surroundings a model of our dreams is ever present.
And that’s where I am today. The quarter life crisis of making these ends meet. I’ve been out of college three and a half years now, twiddling away my time in China teaching, serving, and dreaming. In college I formulated some pretty idealistic values of community, reconciliation, and change that I’ve never been able to incarnate fully. In honesty, I’m disappointed in myself. I haven’t pushed my actions to meet my ideas.
I’m an externally oriented person, and I’ve let the externals of the needs set before me push me along. I do what I see around me, I don’t do what is in my heart. I’m afraid of doing that, of taking on that great challenge. If I fail at something given to me by circumstance, I don’t feel so bad. I have done my best and I will try again in another situation, another need elsewhere. But if I fail at what I desire to define myself as, than who am I? Am I not a failure in the deepest sense? No external credibility given, I’d feel small. So very small.
Such a fear, a lie, is truly paralyzing, and most certainly of the devil. I’m not the type to be particularly in touch with my own feelings anyway. If I keep bustling around whatever is set before me, I’ll inevitably lose track of any real convictions.
Will that pattern of life and living continue this next half year in Sichuan? How will it play out in August when Christine and I are back in America; I doing any number of possible things from work to seminary.
It should not, and can not if I want to live a life of integrity.
I compromise too much.
So, as far as new year’s resolutions are concerned (Chinese new year’s resolution, mind you), I need to listen to my heart and move. I’ve been dared to move.
Get on your boots! Get on your boots!
Today, this Sabbath Sunday, I began a theological document on the charismatic theology of St. Luke. Although it is heady as hell, it is also a welcome addition to my eclectic pile of texts. Why? Because in all my readings on history, faith, and governance amongst so many different people of different cultures, the role of the Holy Spirit of God (as we Christians understand it) is, supposedly, quite active in some way shape or form. As a believer, should He not be all the more active at the very center of my heart?
If Luke’s Gospel and Acts are to be taken on his own terms apart from Pauline lenses, then what I’m seeking out is that elusive, much contested, phenomenon known as the “filling of the Holy Spirit.” I’m not talkin’ bout tongues or election, but something simpler yet no less profound. I’m looking for God to bring my heart into a conviction and passion for something He wants done that I cannot help but serve, move and be about it.
Move me.
just to write...
Christine says I should write a book. Whatever about? I haven’t yet the discipline, vision, or talent to take on a book. But smaller things are worthwhile. Personal newsletters are a beginning. Next i would like to take on a revamp of my “So What?” document for distribution with a little more academic backing. It would serve to be my first pamphlet of possible use beyond personal interest or amusement.
I’m currently reading several books at once... another display of my inability to focus. I am a child of TV, DVD, and ADD. Nonetheless, I find the cross referencing of many of these texts enjoyable. Like a fruit punch or a fine port (is that the type of wine that gets mixed?), the literary personalities, thoughts, and experiences mix together in my mind.
The single, most concentrated voice is the one that followed me back from my honeymoon in India: Mahatma Gandhi’s auto-biography, or as he likes to state: his “experiments with Truth.” Auto-biography’s are not necessarily the most accurate portrayal of a person’s life, but they are always the most intimate. To hear Gandhi tell his own story of his development in law and public advocacy is a good story to know. I’ve finished half the book already and his musings on religion, family, and diet play as dominant a role in his thinking as his career as a lawyer or community organizer in South Africa. There is still little to no mention of a desire to be modern India’s prime mover for independence. All this goes to show that great men do not always expect themselves great. At least in his own words, Gandhi simply sought integrity of life. Like MLK Jr., his first passion was for his first community of Indian expats struggling as indentured servants or small businessmen hundreds of miles away from Indian soil, in South Africa.
How Gandhi’s search for faith and his life of public service come together appear to be the tale he is aiming to weave in his writing. I suppose when they finally come together sometime in the latter half of the book, the issue of India’s breaking from the British will have become a very important matter. By the time of his famed salt walk, was it the nation of India, the plight of the poor, or the calling of God his hallmark motive? I suppose it should be all three...
In other news, Jon Meacham is lecturing me on his scholarly perspective toward the great controversial narrative that is America’s faith. As a nation, how did the founding fathers play out God and State? Surely, separation of institutions necessary and desirable, but influence? Under Meacham’s exposition, from Adams to Washington, everyone had something to contribute to the building of the nation via their faith by word or deed. What was their personal faith influenced their actions, even if those actions were always, by and large, of a secular nature: in the interests of the people of America. The God of Public Religion is alive and well today, and Obama has invoked His name in word, and recently in deed. Will his new faith-based policies and advisory board lead to a reconciliation of the bitter and wasteful culture wars?
Honestly, it’s a matter not worth delving too deeply into, not until the economy can get fixed. What’s going on with the stimulus again? Every time I glance at the Washington Post there is something about how the plan has changed, who’s willing to support it or not, and everyone’s general ignorance. This includes myself. I need to get a book on basic economics and understand what’s going on a bit more deeply.
China got started on their own big stimulus plan. If the State Media is accurate (of course it is,) it’s all going nicely and China still has confidence in its ability to bounce back. In other news, hundreds of migrant workers are laid off and going home. The rebuilding process since the quake is no longer the big news as the nation’s very economic stability is at stake. Here in Chengdu even, rebuilding and reinvestment have equal footing based on the billboards I see.
In my past months of reading, other leaders of China have had their chance to lay impressions on my thinking. A wide history of thinkers and actors from Confucius to Mao, my studies have revealed the odds and ends of faith and policy yet again. Whether it is a faith in the Way of Heaven or the Revolution of the (Peasant) Proletariat, the striving to make our realities fit our ideals remains the same. Whether it is exhibited in the life of Indian saints or American heroes, in our inner lives or public actions, the challenge to make our surroundings a model of our dreams is ever present.
And that’s where I am today. The quarter life crisis of making these ends meet. I’ve been out of college three and a half years now, twiddling away my time in China teaching, serving, and dreaming. In college I formulated some pretty idealistic values of community, reconciliation, and change that I’ve never been able to incarnate fully. In honesty, I’m disappointed in myself. I haven’t pushed my actions to meet my ideas.
I’m an externally oriented person, and I’ve let the externals of the needs set before me push me along. I do what I see around me, I don’t do what is in my heart. I’m afraid of doing that, of taking on that great challenge. If I fail at something given to me by circumstance, I don’t feel so bad. I have done my best and I will try again in another situation, another need elsewhere. But if I fail at what I desire to define myself as, than who am I? Am I not a failure in the deepest sense? No external credibility given, I’d feel small. So very small.
Such a fear, a lie, is truly paralyzing, and most certainly of the devil. I’m not the type to be particularly in touch with my own feelings anyway. If I keep bustling around whatever is set before me, I’ll inevitably lose track of any real convictions.
Will that pattern of life and living continue this next half year in Sichuan? How will it play out in August when Christine and I are back in America; I doing any number of possible things from work to seminary.
It should not, and can not if I want to live a life of integrity.
I compromise too much.
So, as far as new year’s resolutions are concerned (Chinese new year’s resolution, mind you), I need to listen to my heart and move. I’ve been dared to move.
Get on your boots! Get on your boots!
Today, this Sabbath Sunday, I began a theological document on the charismatic theology of St. Luke. Although it is heady as hell, it is also a welcome addition to my eclectic pile of texts. Why? Because in all my readings on history, faith, and governance amongst so many different people of different cultures, the role of the Holy Spirit of God (as we Christians understand it) is, supposedly, quite active in some way shape or form. As a believer, should He not be all the more active at the very center of my heart?
If Luke’s Gospel and Acts are to be taken on his own terms apart from Pauline lenses, then what I’m seeking out is that elusive, much contested, phenomenon known as the “filling of the Holy Spirit.” I’m not talkin’ bout tongues or election, but something simpler yet no less profound. I’m looking for God to bring my heart into a conviction and passion for something He wants done that I cannot help but serve, move and be about it.
Move me.
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