Sunday, February 28, 2010

the sins of snootiness and sanctimony

I don't quite know what to make of Kristof's newest, "Learning from the Sin of Sodom": http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/28/opinion/28kristof.html?em

First off, in regard to US international aid organizations, I knew World Vision was big, but I didn't know it was the biggest!! I guess it's really not that surprising, as who funnels more donations than churches?

Here's the part of the article that lends it its title:

Mr. Stearns argues that evangelicals were often so focused on sexual morality and a personal relationship with God that they ignored the needy. He writes laceratingly about “a Church that had the wealth to build great sanctuaries but lacked the will to build schools, hospitals, and clinics.”

In one striking passage, Mr. Stearns quotes the prophet Ezekiel as saying that the great sin of the people of Sodom wasn’t so much that they were promiscuous or gay as that they were “arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy.” (Ezekiel 16:49.)

Hmm. Imagine if sodomy laws could be used to punish the stingy, unconcerned rich!


And here's Kristof's piece-of-cake solution... it's more idealistic and preachy than anything, but I wonder if he has a point:

A root problem is a liberal snobbishness toward faith-based organizations. Those doing the sneering typically give away far less money than evangelicals. They’re also less likely to spend vacations volunteering at, say, a school or a clinic in Rwanda.

If secular liberals can give up some of their snootiness, and if evangelicals can retire some of their sanctimony, then we all might succeed together in making greater progress against common enemies of humanity, like illiteracy, human trafficking and maternal mortality.

denial

I canNOT believe school starts tomorrow.
Luckily, I teach only one class. I got a warning from the secretary not to be late because the administration is going to be making sure all of the teachers get to class in time. Hah! Let's hope "The Book Thief" doesn't keep me up all night again so that I can get up early enough.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

another familiar stranger

Soon after I posted the last blog, I realized the title was also appropriate for yet another happy hair man story, aka the lame chronicles of a girl who doesn't know how to flirt in a language and culture not her own:


For the past week, ever since shops started to reopen, I've been trying to avoid passing the hair salon. Will the happy hair man remember me? I was afraid to find out. We ended things awkwardly, with me turning down his BBQ beef stick because of some serious stomach issues.

I was getting anxious because I inevitably have to pass there every day to get my grub on, and until today, no happy hair man appeared. Is he the same kind of migrant worker in Leslie Chang's book? The kind that switches careers and life plans (and salons?) after the holiday to signify a fresh beginning? Again, I was afraid to find out.

Today he was there! I saw my handsome happy hair man!

After spending the afternoon listening to Sashamon (making Rach a reggae mix!), I went to buy a box of chocolate milk from the store, and he was heading down the alley as I was coming up. I was busy jamming my straw into the box when I heard a loud, "HELLO!"

Who the hell says "hello" around here? This time, I wasn't afraid of the answer.

Turns out he had just gotten back to Lidu. Da buttafly on my shoulda was suddenly the butterfly in my stomach.

ohhhhh snap.

a familiar stranger

I bought my tickets to go home. I didn't expect the airlines to agree with my personal opinion that it's much more difficult to leave China than it is to come back. The only site that had tickets to Hawaii available was the gimmicky-sounding "cheapOairlines," and my airfare out of here was a good $500 more than the one coming back.

But whatever, I'll be back from July 29 to August 15, fahh real, yo.

I'm excited. Family, doggy, friends, Kam's wedding, the beach, tennis, spam musubi, toilets that flush down toilet paper, no spittle and baby shit on sidewalks...
At the same time though, I'm a little nervous.

I'm not going to belong. I won't understand the people I love. They won't understand me.
Like a 13,ooo year old Chinese migrant (see below), I'm an outsider everywhere I go.
Strangely, I don't feel lonely here, even though I'm more alone than ever (I prefer the term "independent," haha). But will the loneliness sink in once I'm in the company of a life that's no longer mine? The irony that rules my days is nodding is ugly head.

As the migrants in today's Dongguan know, losing your cell phone often means losing your friends. "The easiest thing in the world is to lose touch with someone," Leslie Change notes repeatedly in her book Factory Girls: From Village to City in a Changing China. This quote knifed me every time because it kept reminding me of how my Verizon phone doesn't work this far up the Yangtze, and also of the fact that I've verbally spoken to only 4 friends in the whole time I've been here. Damn you, Facebook, for making "keeping in touch" far too easy to be taken for granted. But anyway, I wonder if "finding" your cell phone can also mean finding your friends? Or rather, if a working phone will translate into working friendships?


A vital wound made by Factory Girls:

"It is not a new story. The ache of the traveler returning home is a classic theme in Chinese literature. One of the first poem a school child learns, from the eighth century, is about a man who goes back to his village after a lifetime away, to find that he no longer belongs.

I left home as a youth, and as an old man returned,
My accent unchanged but my temples turned gray.
The children see me but don't know who I am,
Laughing, they ask where the stranger is from."



Shoot, if any little kid laughs and asks where I'm from, I will cry.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Humbled by Hessler

Peter Hessler is the pride and joy of Fuling, at least as far as my site mate and I are concerned. After reading his book, River Town, and comparing his experiences with my own, I couldn't help but wonder if such big disparities exist not so much because times have transformed this town, but that he and I just see the world entirely differently.

I tend to think books can change the world, that words set change into motion. But should change be the purpose of writing? After half a year of Peace Corps service, a humbling experience in and of itself, I can't say that I entirely disagree with Peter Hessler's opinion on this matter:

taken from http://urbanatomy.com/index.php/arts/why-i-write/2770-why-i-write-peter-hessler


Does writing change anything?
To be honest, I don’t care, not in the strictest sense. I’ve never been a political person; I tend to get bored when people talk about policy and big-picture things. I suppose that my time in the Peace Corps made me more realistic about a person’s impact, and more cynical about a certain type of idealism.

But Americans are attached to this idea, especially with regard to the developing world. You look at the books that sell well in the States, the best-selling books about poor places, and they tend to be about a foreigner who is trying to save people. You have Three Cups of Tea or Mountains Beyond Mountains. Individually these books can be great, and they tell important stories, but it concerns me a little that this approach tends to dominate the bestseller readership with regard to the developing world. The other main option is books about atrocities – child soldiers, or sex slaves, or things like that.

I wonder about the impact of these books, and I wonder about the vision they promote of the developing world. Americans seem to read these books and conclude: Thank God I was born in the good old U.S. of A. instead of in some crazy country like this. Or they think, We really need to fix these places. They conclude that if you’re going to live overseas, you need to be either a saint or insane. There’s no sense of normal life in a developing country – no sense that you might live in one of these places and have an enjoyable life, and make friends you respect and like. Obviously, there are some countries where it’s just not possible to live a normal life, because things are so troubled – but these places tend to dominate our perception of the world; they are represented disproportionately.

As a result there’s no real connection with the people, not in terms of understanding them and being able to put yourself in their shoes. These books don’t come out of a deep anthropological instinct. The basic interest is more along the lines of changing the world than understanding the world. But this has always been the classic American weakness beyond its borders. People want to get involved, and they want to change the world, but they don’t want to be patient. And they aren’t inclined to grant others the dignity of figuring out their own path.

One thing I liked about being in China was that I couldn’t over-estimate my significance, either as a teacher or as a writer. When I arrived with the Peace Corps, the country was clearly going its own way, and that’s still the case. Foreigners have some impact, but they aren’t guiding the country, and it’s not a playground for NGOs like so many parts of the world. The state-level stuff is of questionable value. When a head of state like Obama goes to Beijing, he’s performing certain rituals that are part of big-picture politics, but he’s not making a lot of earth-shattering decisions that will change China. In a sense, he has a lot less leeway than a migrant going to Dongguan looking for a factory job. So as a writer you’re best off sticking with that migrant or somebody like him; you should try to understand Chinese people. You try to figure out their stories and their motivations, and you try to write in an artful way. As far as I’m concerned, that’s enough. Good writing should enlighten and entertain, and it should have some quality of art. But it doesn’t have to change policy or raise funds for a cause. Plenty of other people are trying to change the world, often in heavy-handed ways that do as much harm as good.



But perhaps Jung Chang, author of the fantastic Wild Swans, gave the best answer:

Does writing change anything?
Yes, my life.


Wednesday, February 24, 2010

huo mai le (buried alive)

The HSK will be the end of me.
I500 MORE words to learn before November.
I thought I knew a lot more than I actually do, but after an assessment I realized that the characters I do know just pop up frequently. Bastard.

All this anticipated effort makes me wonder how much I'd really like to stay an additional year to study. Am I just afraid of going back? Already I dread Skype conferences because nobody understands me. I guess I didn't realize that the PC was going to make me a permanent misfit on both sides of the dateline.

But on the other hand, I'd like to stay because I'm determined to fit here. This is home now. Buried alive.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010