Samuel Wagreich, Political and Economic Development in China, Summer 2012
As my final days in China are fast approaching, I’m trying to figure out the things that are going to stay with me. I know that the explicit details of this trip will eventually evaporate into the vast cloud of my memory, leaving the vague feelings and dispositions I feel for the place.
And when I try to piece together the things that have meant the most to me, my mind keeps settling on the interactions I’ve had with the people here: with my friends from the program, with the people I’ve been introduced to, even with the random tourists or merchants who decide to strike up a conversation with me on the street.
The things that have given me that cultural high that you get when you go to another country haven’t been the buildings or scenery I’ve seen, the things I’ve bought, or the nights out I’ve shared with friends. Instead, it’s come from the interactions I’ve had with the people of China. I know I’m flirting with melodrama here, but bear with me.
The way a rural Chinese person’s eyes light up when they realize you speak and understand Chinese is almost electrifying. When a shopkeeper at one of the local tourist holes decides to treat you a little bit better, or even “give you Chinese prices” (which are actually still about 20% more than real Chinese prices) when you demonstrate that you’ve made a concerted effort to speak their language and understand their culture is really gratifying. When a little Chinese boy or girl decides to meander up to you and call you 大哥哥 (big brother) it’s really endearing in a way that’s hard to express.
I’ve tried to explain this to my dad: being a white boy with brown hair and facial hair in China leads to a lot of forced isolation. You’re a spectacle to a lot of people around you, you’re something of interests, which means that, in a sense, you’re always on—if that makes any sense. Chances are, anywhere you go, someone is going to want to interact with you in some way. But at the same time, the language barrier is a very vast one. I’ve been studying this language for about 3 years now, and It’s still difficult for me to have a more-than-small-talk conversation with someone in Chinese. So this notion of constantly being a spectacle reconciled with the language barrier again and again reminds you of how isolated from many Chinese people you are.
So the little interactions really mean a lot. Get ready for the cliche. They’re the little chinks in the armor, they’re the holes in the wall—the little glimpses into what some of these people are really like. Their sarcasm and humor shines through, their values—for just that moment—are salient, and their warmth is present.
These ephemeral moments where people let their guard down, when they tentatively feel like opening up to you, I think, is what I regard most fondly about this trip when I look back.
For example, this is a picture from one of the typical tourists market. My friend Sam, who you can see in the foreground, was trying to buy a classical musical instrument called a Guqin (hopefully…). And while we were waiting in the shop for the owner to go get his Guqin from their warehouse downtown, I picked up a guitar and started playing. The store manager (the lady in the blue dress) overheard me and asked me to teach her son how to play (the pensive-looking boy in the back). And so I gave my first lesson in Chinese, which consisted of me saying, “This, then this, then this. Good! Very good! No, this, then, that, no—not that. This!”
After a while he picked up the three-chord Spanish-style progression that what I was trying to teach him (so that he could charm the 漂亮的姑娘‘s), and Sam and I resolved to serenading his mother and her shop attendant in Chinese (we played “What I Like About You,” but with Chinese lyrics, of course). She complimented us on our Chinese, as other vendors looked on to see what all of the ruckus was about, and started asking us about ourselves.
It’s things like this that have made this trip truly special. Sure, it’s the sort of interaction that could happen in the States any old day, but their particularly special because they happen in another language, under the hospice of another country, and on the terms of another culture.
I guess I’ll leave you with this:
It’s a picture of me and my inter-Mongolian fan club, haha. These girls ran into us at the Temple of Heaven at the Summer Palace and decided that I (and my friend Haley) were white-looking enough to take a picture with. They were super sweet about it. One of them asked me if I spoke Chinese in really impressive English, and when I responded with 我会 “wo hui” (I can), their eyes widened with excitement. So they walked me over to the view, and as they were getting ready to pose for their own picture, Haley managed to snap one for me. It made this 老外‘s (slang for foreigner) day.