South Mountain with my 'mom' .
Written July 11, 2009, soon after I returned from a month in China. Ironically, I didn't talk to my mom from the exchange described below until just last week. The day after I returned from China, riots rocked NW China resulting in internet and phone lines being restricted. It was only within this summer that full service was restored. I spoke with my 'mom' briefly last week. It was the same as always. When are you getting married? Are you eating well? Don't get fat! Come back to China!
I had some interesting visits with my adopted 'mom'. On the day I arrived back in China, she greeted me at her door with tears in her eyes. "you've come", she said with her hands on my cheeks. That moment is burned in my memory. Yet, our interactions was a bit different this time. My Chinese has definitely suffered from ill-use. I'm 32, unmarried, and not very far along in a 'career'. Every time I offered to help cook, sweep the floor, or peel vegetables at her restaurant, I was met with a swift refusal. "You don't know how", she would respond. And she would go on about how I don't really know anything. To her, if you think about it, I am a 32 year old goof off. Here I am, on a month long leave of absence, hanging out with friends and taking side trips to other cities, and sipping coffee in a cafe'. (Though my visit had great meaning in my mind). When we tried to talk about deeper subjects, my Chinese quickly came up lacking. "Study Chinese well and then try to tell me", she would say. My pride swelled. At home I am a capable, responsible (mostly), and culturally aware man; able to move in my own culture with ease and comfort. Yet to her, I was a bumbling 'xiao wawa' (little boy), who didn't even know how to sweep a floor or peel a potato 'correctly'.
My last week there, she kept telling me that on Thursday she would treat me to kabobs. I LOVE kabobs and so was happy to accept her invitation. On the appointed day, the day before my departure, I showed up at the appointed time. It was my 'mom', her husband, and another Uyghur gentleman I didn't know. We finally set out from her restaurant, though her husband and the other gentleman in the opposite direction. "Where are we going to eat kabob?', I asked expecting the name of a local restaurant to come tumbling out. Instead the answer dropped like a lead brick. "South Mountain", was her reply. SOUTH MOUNTAIN! Suddenly, everything came into focus. The discussion I had just heard I only vaguely understood. The pieces I did comprehend came together in a flash like the pieces of a puzzle; the picture clearly snapping into perspective. South Mountain was a mountain 45 minutes by bus outside the city. One doesn't just RUN OUT to South Mountain. You take a city bus to a long distance bus station, wait, and then take 45 minute ride. However, in our case, she had found a friend (the unidentified Uyghur gentleman) to drive us in his car.
Now, I had plans. I was to be at a friend's house in just a few hours. I was leaving the next day and wanted to say goodbye to friends. "Mom, I can't go to South Mountain!", I blurted out. She paused, gave me a 'tsk tsk' and plowed ahead down the street. "I told you I was treating you to kabobs. Everything's arranged." And that was the end of it. I was going. There was no discussion. I had no recourse. She had pulled strings to get us a car. She was buying meat and veggies for the meal. To cancel now would have caused her to lose face. The driver picked us up at a near by corner. Before I knew it, we were off. My plans. My time. MY LIFE! had been infringed upon. My pride continued to swell. And like salt on a wound, she nonchalantly called me a 'xiao wawa' again, due to my obvious misunderstanding of her plans.
I was stuck. I was helpless. I had no control. I was going to South Mountain to eat kabobs. Being an independent, free thinking, able minded man, it is an interesting feeling to be in a completely uncontrollable and helpless situation. "I have to be back by six", I said. At the suggestion of a friend, I carefully added a culturally appropriate, "Don't put me in a hard place." (meaning my being late would cause ME to lose face). We arrived at a friends home, and a flurry of cooking and grilling commenced. I was shoved into a room, by myself, with tea and cookies and waited while the meal was prepared. Soon dishes of vegetables, lamb, and fresh hand-made noodles appeared, along with mountains of spicy lamb kabobs. I began to eat. Alone. "This is hospitality?", I thought to myself.
In the end and to my amazement, I did make it back in time for dinner. My 'mom' flagged down a car of someone she knew, bustled me into the car, and off I went. I found myself in the car with a fat Hui man, and three migrant workers from Henan; their Chinese spoken in the strange sounds of their local dialect. We talked about family, marriage, Bush, Obama, and finding me a local wife. Before I knew it we arrived in Urumqi. As I reflected on the whirlwind I had just come through, I thought of Jesus' words; 'unless you become like a little child.' Hmm. Is that what he meant? The process of moving to another country, learning new languages, new culture, and new customs does require a certain laying aside of one's pride and self reliance. You literally do become a child saying, "I go bed." or "Me like food." or "dumplings run ugly on sundays" as you stumble through this seemingly unending process, sometimes making sense....and sometimes not so much. For a long time, there will be a certain sense where people you meet just don't take you seriously, where you don't make sense, verbally or socially, and where you stumble along like a 1st grader, exclaiming with glee because you finally recognize that the sign on the door says, 'bathroom'. I'm honestly glad to be back where I am master of my domain, where I can order coffee w/out bumbling around like a doofus, and I can read any sign I want on the street. Do I want to go back to being a 1st grader? I'm asking these questions as I consider future plans.
I had some interesting visits with my adopted 'mom'. On the day I arrived back in China, she greeted me at her door with tears in her eyes. "you've come", she said with her hands on my cheeks. That moment is burned in my memory. Yet, our interactions was a bit different this time. My Chinese has definitely suffered from ill-use. I'm 32, unmarried, and not very far along in a 'career'. Every time I offered to help cook, sweep the floor, or peel vegetables at her restaurant, I was met with a swift refusal. "You don't know how", she would respond. And she would go on about how I don't really know anything. To her, if you think about it, I am a 32 year old goof off. Here I am, on a month long leave of absence, hanging out with friends and taking side trips to other cities, and sipping coffee in a cafe'. (Though my visit had great meaning in my mind). When we tried to talk about deeper subjects, my Chinese quickly came up lacking. "Study Chinese well and then try to tell me", she would say. My pride swelled. At home I am a capable, responsible (mostly), and culturally aware man; able to move in my own culture with ease and comfort. Yet to her, I was a bumbling 'xiao wawa' (little boy), who didn't even know how to sweep a floor or peel a potato 'correctly'.
My last week there, she kept telling me that on Thursday she would treat me to kabobs. I LOVE kabobs and so was happy to accept her invitation. On the appointed day, the day before my departure, I showed up at the appointed time. It was my 'mom', her husband, and another Uyghur gentleman I didn't know. We finally set out from her restaurant, though her husband and the other gentleman in the opposite direction. "Where are we going to eat kabob?', I asked expecting the name of a local restaurant to come tumbling out. Instead the answer dropped like a lead brick. "South Mountain", was her reply. SOUTH MOUNTAIN! Suddenly, everything came into focus. The discussion I had just heard I only vaguely understood. The pieces I did comprehend came together in a flash like the pieces of a puzzle; the picture clearly snapping into perspective. South Mountain was a mountain 45 minutes by bus outside the city. One doesn't just RUN OUT to South Mountain. You take a city bus to a long distance bus station, wait, and then take 45 minute ride. However, in our case, she had found a friend (the unidentified Uyghur gentleman) to drive us in his car.
Now, I had plans. I was to be at a friend's house in just a few hours. I was leaving the next day and wanted to say goodbye to friends. "Mom, I can't go to South Mountain!", I blurted out. She paused, gave me a 'tsk tsk' and plowed ahead down the street. "I told you I was treating you to kabobs. Everything's arranged." And that was the end of it. I was going. There was no discussion. I had no recourse. She had pulled strings to get us a car. She was buying meat and veggies for the meal. To cancel now would have caused her to lose face. The driver picked us up at a near by corner. Before I knew it, we were off. My plans. My time. MY LIFE! had been infringed upon. My pride continued to swell. And like salt on a wound, she nonchalantly called me a 'xiao wawa' again, due to my obvious misunderstanding of her plans.
I was stuck. I was helpless. I had no control. I was going to South Mountain to eat kabobs. Being an independent, free thinking, able minded man, it is an interesting feeling to be in a completely uncontrollable and helpless situation. "I have to be back by six", I said. At the suggestion of a friend, I carefully added a culturally appropriate, "Don't put me in a hard place." (meaning my being late would cause ME to lose face). We arrived at a friends home, and a flurry of cooking and grilling commenced. I was shoved into a room, by myself, with tea and cookies and waited while the meal was prepared. Soon dishes of vegetables, lamb, and fresh hand-made noodles appeared, along with mountains of spicy lamb kabobs. I began to eat. Alone. "This is hospitality?", I thought to myself.
In the end and to my amazement, I did make it back in time for dinner. My 'mom' flagged down a car of someone she knew, bustled me into the car, and off I went. I found myself in the car with a fat Hui man, and three migrant workers from Henan; their Chinese spoken in the strange sounds of their local dialect. We talked about family, marriage, Bush, Obama, and finding me a local wife. Before I knew it we arrived in Urumqi. As I reflected on the whirlwind I had just come through, I thought of Jesus' words; 'unless you become like a little child.' Hmm. Is that what he meant? The process of moving to another country, learning new languages, new culture, and new customs does require a certain laying aside of one's pride and self reliance. You literally do become a child saying, "I go bed." or "Me like food." or "dumplings run ugly on sundays" as you stumble through this seemingly unending process, sometimes making sense....and sometimes not so much. For a long time, there will be a certain sense where people you meet just don't take you seriously, where you don't make sense, verbally or socially, and where you stumble along like a 1st grader, exclaiming with glee because you finally recognize that the sign on the door says, 'bathroom'. I'm honestly glad to be back where I am master of my domain, where I can order coffee w/out bumbling around like a doofus, and I can read any sign I want on the street. Do I want to go back to being a 1st grader? I'm asking these questions as I consider future plans.
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