Grid Locked in a Language Barrier

Taxi rides always provide the most random opportunities for interesting conversations.

I’ve met taxi drivers who are convinced all Americans are rich.

I’ve met racist taxi drivers.

I’ve met taxi drivers who wish to discuss 9/11.

Recently I was able to ride with a driver who wished to discuss the differences between Chinese and American families. I was humored by the fact that his knowledge of American families came from American movies.

I quickly became frustrated with my lack of vocabulary, as I failed to be able to express the American value of independence and the difference between an independent and interdependent culture.

But even with the language barrier, I tried to explain to the driver how important it is for parents to instill independence and give the child an opportunity to make it on their own.

He was not only confused, but also shocked.

We’re not given huge sums of money on our wedding day. The grandparents aren’t there day to day to help raise the kids. It’s not guaranteed that the parents will give you money if you need to make a large purchase, such as a car.

It took a lot of work to explain why this doesn’t make American’s heartless parents.

The driver then decided it was time to talk politics and informed us how much he had dislike Bush. Great ending to a conversation. Haha

再见, 亲爱的

"This Magnificent Edifice"

Dear Chairman Mao,

It was a pleasure to finally see your glowing face on Thursday. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to visit. I’ve heard so much about you! While I probably will not have the chance to visit you again, I can assure you I will frequently see your face and will continue to hear of your influence and power.

好运

Sara

My mom and I decided to go and take the pilgrimage to see the leader of Chinese Communism. I went in expecting hours of lines, heat exhaustion and simply have another thing to check off my bucket list and instead only waited in line for 30 minutes for one of the most typical Chinese experiences.

As we stepped up to get in line, a man holding an umbrella and a megaphone informed my mother and I that we first must go across the street, go through two security checks and a list of questions about the contents of our bags, and pay five yuan to drop off our purses. Chinese response: Mei wen ti! American response: Forget this.

My mom and I made out way back to the line, at which point we were shuffled onto the area of sidewalk inside the yellow lines painted on the ground, accompanied by a yellow rope to guide you even better. When I say we made our way back to the line, I should probably clarify and chose to instead refer to it as the river of people who happen to be headed the same direction we were. There was no sense of placement, and instead, everyone wiggled around each other, constantly cutting and then falling behind and yet constantly moving in unison towards our destination.

It was in this line that my mom and I discussed the difference between Chinese and American mentalities. In America, no one would put up with cutting in line. There’s a strong sense of personal space and placement. I’m first in line, you’re second, you’re third, and you’re standing a little too close. There was a point while standing in line, when I felt one person behind me bump up against me, and as I turned to glance back the person took advantage of the extra space and about ten people squeezed through the middle of the horde of people towards the front. Having been already thinking about the differences, I was amazed by how no one around me seemed to care. Yes, they may have to wait a moment longer somewhere along the way, but to everyone around me… we, as a group, were moving and that’s all that mattered.

After hurrying through yet another security check which included an ID check and being prodded by many a short lady’s umbrella, we finally reached Chairman Mao Memorial Hall. Flowers were sold outside to be placed in the “splendid North Hall”, not near his body, but instead in front of a marble statue of Mao. Even though everyone was “shhh”ed by the lady at the front door, there were men pushing people along and shouting at those who attempted to stop as we entered the “solemn Hall of Last Respects”.

And then, just as quickly as we had entered, we were back out in the bustling Tian An Men square searching our memory for the quick glimpse we were allowed of the wax figure plastered to a crystal coffin which hold the leaders remains.

Adventure complete. Checked off the bucket list. Experienced. Examined. Processed. And now written about. And after all this…..

…. I’m still left wondering if his remains were really in that room or not.

再见, 亲爱的

Brown haired, blue eyed Asian

I wish I had a quarter for every time someone has asked me what is different between America and China. Where do you even begin to answer a question like that? Yes, the government is different, the language is different, and the food is different; but it’s so much more than that. Even if every one of the 1.3 billion Chinese listed a difference, I’m not sure every difference would be covered.

Moving back to the States has taught me a lot about Asian culture, because I’m suddenly realizing how much it’s a part of me.

I grew up assuming I was the typical American. I looked and dressed like all other Americans. I liked the basic dishes all other Americans liked. I enjoyed a good North Fake jacket. I enjoyed going to the DVD store when a new American movie came out. I got excited when a store had Dr. Pepper. The whole works.

But now, in contrast against Americans, I suddenly feel strangely Asian. Perhaps not so much on the most obvious level – I’m not communist and I will still take a Dr. Pepper every chance I get – but then again, apparently even the way I motion with my hand for someone to come is uniquely Asian.

I think the hardest to adjust to is the way I interact with people. I grew up very other’s oriented. I look to see what the group desires and then decide what I want. I am willing to keep my opinion on the down low in order to save myself or someone else face. I’ve somehow acquired the ability to help others compromise and be the peacemaker in stressful situations, and yet I have no idea what to do when I’m in the middle of it. As an American, I’m supposed to be independent, have an opinion about everything and be able to stand up behind it. Most of the time, I really just don’t care. I also believe it’s the job of the host to figure out what I want to eat. Haha

I always assumed these things about me were just simply me. But the more they’ve come up, I’ve talked with other people, and even through school research papers… I’m learning it’s not just me. Well, it is. But it’s me having been influenced by an interdependent culture. A culture focused on how the group looks and functions and remains harmonious.

I love having to weave through people.

I love when the bus is so full you have to shove to get off.

I love eating my jiao zi with soy sauce and vinegar.

I love street food.

I love Chinese instruments.

I love Chinglish.

I love that senior citizens are still out dancing and exercising every morning.

I also love that pale instead of tan is beautiful. It works well for me.

I’m thankful China has been a part of my life and become part of who I am

再见, 亲爱的

Using God to Obtain Coffee

Yesterday, my dad and I decided to head out on an adventure.

What we knew: The coffee shop we were looking for was next to the North cathedral.

What we thought we knew: How to get to the North cathedral.

What we learned: How to get to both the North and South cathedral.

South Cathedral

(the North Cathedral was hidden by trees and closed by the time we got to it.)

Soft French music. Old wood. Soft seats.

Decent food. WiFi. Coffee.

Awesome coffee shop.

Then today, my mom and I walked over to get a blind man massage. After realizing how tall I was and how long my fingers are they became rather disappointed I don't play basketball or piano. Knowing some ballet seemed to have gained me some points back.

Now I'm off to watch The Last Station.

再见, 亲爱的