No Japanese Allowed

For a client lunch recently, I was led to a themed restaurant in a chic part of downtown Shen Zhen. The restaurant Da Lang Wo (Big Wolf Lair) was a confusing mix of neanderthal caves with animal wall etchings, displays of super-nationalism, and the occasional nod to wolves.

Outside the cave entrance hung, non-apologetically, a bold sign that read "No Japanese allowed." I was caught between feeling offended for the entire Japanese race, appalled at the blatant discrimination, ashamed at such exclusive nationalism, secretly relieved that I was welcome, and anxious that they were going to kick me out because many Chinese people thought I looked Japanese. 

I kept up a constant stream of Mandarin monologue in front of the waitress to prove that I was somehow more Chinese than I came across. I threw out as many slangs as I knew, but not too many so that I stuck out like a conspicuous Chinese-learner. 

Cave drawings and stick monuments.

"Our store does not use Japanese goods."

"No Japanese allowed."

Handwritten notices and newspapers reminding customers

of the Rape of Nanjing, when Japanese soldiers committed

an unspeakable number of crimes during a three month 

occupation of a Chinese city.

While the round moon (baked naan bread) and the wolves' prey pot (lamb stew) tasted delicious, it definitely felt weird eating at a place where others were not allowed simply because of their race or national history. It smacked of the civil rights era that I had read about in high school textbooks, where African Americans were routinely denied entrance into certain public areas. It felt wrong, but yet others around me laughed about it, took photos of it with their bejeweled Japanese phones, and pumped their fists in the air proclaiming their sudden bursts of China pride. And while I didn't join in, I certainly tried to fit in. And that's really what bothered me the most. 

Contortions

"So what's the difference between Thai and Khmer (Cambodian) massage?" Pausing every two words in her pieced together English, the girl explained to me that Thai massage is strong strong, while Khmer is soft soft. I nodded, eager to see how Chinese massages compared.

I followed the girl up the creaking back stairs, past the storefront posters of ecstatic foreigners in their massage catharsis. She led me to a dimly lit room, with old mattresses lining the peeling walls and tired fans whirling above. It provided the perfect backdrop for my crazy imagination to scream THIS IS HOW TRAFFICKING HAPPENS.

I didn't get a photo of our shop, but it's similar.

Regardless, I dutifully laid face down. Rub. Rub. Rub. I definitely got the Thai right around the lower back region, but grit my teeth and prayed for more Khmer. I felt like those Japanese cows that got rub downs and beers before being sent to the slaughterhouse.

I also never realized how self-conscious I would feel when a stranger giggled and chattered in another language while touching my body. As a passive aggressive response, I mentally recorded the number of acupuncture pressure points that she did not hit. Chinese massage snobbery? Absolutely.

Then she cooed Thai time missy. She put her weight on the back of my thighs with her knees, gathered my arms straight in her hands and leaned back. My torso was hoisted up, chest puffed out, thighs pinned down, arms pulled straight back, forming an unholy triangle like the sail on a wind surf. She sent me around the world by driving my sail far right, down front, up left.

She seemed confused. No crack yet?

So she motioned for me to sit cross-legged and put my palms on the back of my head, in the standard I-just-got-arrested posture. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my bewildered eyes, I saw one of her legs shoot forward, anchoring her foot under my bowed legs, and without warning, threading her arms between mine, jerked me sharp left.

I just died and did not go to heaven. Other maneuvers followed; my back cracked for her beautifully.

On a positive note, I was glad that she did not end up standing on my back like those Thai masseuse do in the movies. I was nervous when I saw bars near the ceiling.

Definitely learned some moves I'll whip out on J the next time he asks for a massage. Can't wait to see his face when I give him the windsurf special.

Raising My Eyebrows, I Will Draw My Sword

One of the guys on my team, Sam, is a Communist Party member in excellent standing. So excellent that we've already had to give him three days off this month to receive an award for being an outstanding Communist youth and to attend a rally. He had apparently joined the Party back in college because it aligned with his "search for the moral, respect for the scientific, and love for the people."He even saved two separate strangers from drowning in a nearby lake on the same night, within 30 feet of each other. Of course, it also helps that he often pays more Party dues than required.

So today is the rally. We haven't heard from him what the distinguished Party has instructed yet, but we have received an enlightening "hand out."

Here's a closer look. I'll try to make it poetic.

Car is made in Japan;

Heart is made in China.

Support the Party;

Recover the Diaoyu Islands;

Rather be a headless ghost,

Than be a spineless man;

If war comes for China and Japan,

I will give up my own life;

My drops of blood will honor the martyrs;

Raising my eyebrows, I will draw the sword.

In case you are not aware, the Diaoyu Islands (or Senkaku Islands in Japanese) are two square miles of land that China and Japan both claim and dispute over. Patriots from both countries periodically sail near the islands and try to challenge the other's presence. The Japanese government has recently agreed to buy three small islands in the Diaoyu Island group from their Japanese owners in an attempt to block the Tokyo governor from buying them to expand nationalistic claims. So while the Japanese gov probably has good intentions, the Chinese objects furiously, saying that Japan has no right to transfer property rights on Chinese soil. The Chinese normally like the Japanese fine, but they are very sensitive to what they imagine to be slights that the Japanese "purposely commit". 

Right after our company got the photo of the handout, the discount development guy muttered three little condemning numbers: jiu yao ba, or 918.

It turned into a low rumble across the office, 9 - 1- 8!  9 - 1 - 8 ! How dare they do this right before September 18th - the shameful day in 1931 when the Japanese military occupied one of their first cities in China with the excuse that the Chinese bombed their railway?

All of a sudden, we're reliving the Japanese occupation of China and gnashing our teeth for the pain our grandparents went through. 

By the end of the working day, my colleagues are calling out for a boycott against Japanese goods. Some wonder out loud if China can single handedly collapse the Japanese economy by not buying any Honda or Sony. Another customer service rep whimpers that she will try not to get any more Hello Kitty in the next month.

I will try to demonstrate sympathetic solidarity and sneakily eat my favorite Hi Chew Japanese candy in the hallway.

Gosh, we should all get awards for being good Chinese at least.

Lost in Translation

Today, somebody told me,

"I ling long you."

I was oddly flattered.

Don't know what I'm talking about?

Watch this and then listen to this.

It definitely tops my personal list of the best (worst) Asian comments I've heard from my white friends.

----

On a slightly separate Asian note -

I've had two fortune cookies this week. (I love snacking on them because I've never seen them before in China)

My fortunes are:

#1 "Go to South Africa."

#2 "75,000 Asians die of Hepetitis B virus every year"

 So . . .  Go to South Africa and then die of Hepetitis B? Now I'm definitely stereotyping.

A Wanderer

 Tap. Tap. Tap. Five. Seven. Five.

I've never liked haikus. Perhaps all those seventh grade composition assignments just drained it out of me. But recently in my creative writing class, our professor asked us to keep a haiku journal. And so I did. And I fell in love.

With Basho.

The magic is you have to cover it up and read it slowly, savoring every last delicious imagery. Let it surprise you.

Here are a few of my favorites:

Don't Imitate Me

Don't imitate me;

It's as boring 

as the two halves of a melon.  

I'm a Wanderer

I'm a wanderer

so let that be my name -

the first winter rain.

Ungraciously

Ungraciously, under

a great soldier's empty helmet,

a cricket sings.

分手是需要练习的

谈起关于你的话题 终于可以不用缺席
甚至还 表现得不再关心
从前你是伤的痕迹 现在不过是场回忆
忽远 忽近

我怕的是低潮来袭 这城市哪里够隐密
藏住我 突然想哭的情绪
宁愿失去斗志勇气 好过和你冷战推挤
这样 谁输得起

原来分手是需要练习的
等时间久了会变勇敢的
你慢慢出走 我渐渐放手
这不就是我们要的自由

原来分手是需要练习的
等伤口好了会变轻松的
海阔天空 不残留一点痛
回头看 怕懦弱 往前走 怕坠落
但我一定能学会
在想你的时候 不难过

每当我一下课，第一时间就是到图书馆去，今天也不例外。手刚要伸出去拉开图书馆的大门时，一个瘦小的男生突然插到我的前面，二话没说就把门拉开一点，从门缝里钻进去了。 看着他走进图书馆大厅的那一刹那，我心里百般不满地在想那个男生多么没有绅士风度。

顿时，我楞住了。令我意外的不是那个男生的无礼， 而是自己的第一反应。 从小在香港长大，对满街爱理不理的陌生人早就习惯了，永远都不会希望有人给我开门。初次来到犹他州时，每当有男生客气地为我开门时，我都会觉得不好意思。刚开始，我一直逞强，坚持为自己开门、拿东西，并告诉跟我约会的男生，我是一个新时代女性，不需要男人的呵护。但不知不觉中，我却慢慢地适应了大部分犹他州男生的绅士风度。现在，这个男生只不过是没有替我开门，我就潜意识地断定他不够“男人”。这时我才意识到，这两年来自己真的变了。

在去中文課的路上

我每次在去中文課的路上都會碰到他。每當我們擦肩而過時，我都會裝一副滿不在乎的樣子跟他打招呼。那一秒鐘的相遇常常令我感慨萬千。一大堆我沒有勇氣問的問題在腦海裡迴轉。你還好吧？快樂嗎？會偶然想我嗎？我猜，愛情小說裡最豪爽的女主人公若碰到以前的未婚父可能也只能像我那樣望而興嘆吧。但我提醒自己，決不能像上學期那樣縱容自己不停地回想往事和質疑取消婚禮的決定。過了半響，才記得我從這挫折中學到最寶貴的一課就是無論怎樣，一旦做了決定，就要堅決地笑著繼續走。

每當想到這一點，我就能舒暢地推開課室的門，無憂無慮地上課。