It's a Slaughter World After All

I have a legit neck phobia. Ever since I was a little kid, I have always been convinced that I will be murdered getting pierced through the throat with a javelin. Or hung like a limp doll off a lonely bridge. Or violently choked from behind because I beat somebody at a board game. So that one time, when a stranger kissed me on the neck in the Beijing metro, I freaked out and avoided public transportation for a week.

Ever since I started dating in college, I've gotten a lot better. As in, I don't flinch as noticeably when other people's hands hover dangerously close to my vulnerable zone. And I don't end up subconsciously slapping the boy who accidentally touched my neck because he was trying to be flirtatious.

Last weekend, I decided to overcome my fear once and for all by doing something that I had always imagined being done to me. It's sort of like getting somebody who was deathly afraid of heights to jump off an air plane. I was going to slaughter an animal by slitting its throat.

A bunch of us drove out to a turkey farm in Changshu to pick out our Thanksgiving bird. My mom asked me to bring one home so I was determined to take care of the turkey myself to feed my family. I was finally shedding my city girl skin and living a rustic vision of Little House on the Prairie.

As the cityscape faded into the lush patches of oversized leafy greens, I started feeling nauseated. I hunched my shoulders and retreated into my maroon hoodie - especially picked out to camouflage the blood I would inevitably get splashed all over myself - and fingered my swiss pocket knife. Would I be able to do a clean slit and spare unnecessary pain? Would the turkey, in its full ugliness, peck at my throat in retaliation? Can swiss army knives actually cut things other than fruit?

My first mistake was looking at him straight in the eyes. They were oddly intelligent and hauntingly dignified. Second mistake? Naming him Turk.

Getting a photoshoot with Turk.

Somehow Miles still manages to look good when

 caught mid-moment holding a turkey.

Turk

The farmer weighed our turkeys and I felt oddly proud that Turk was one of the largest at nine jing (roughly 5 pounds). He stuffed Turk and his buddies into a fertilizer bag and threw them into the back of the van. We drove to the slaughterhouse, chatting with the farmer about his new plans to start an orchard and listening to the turkeys nervously shifting in the trunk.

The lady at the slaughterhouse was really tickled to see so many foreigners. She started showing off her techniques and waved over other ladies nearby to help out with the turkeys. I clutched my pocket knife more tightly, unsure when it was my/ Turk's turn. The lady laughed and flicked her long hair back. She had another woman hold a squirming turkey, and she pressed the head down and starting snipping the throbbing neck vein with a pair of scissors. The turkey did a death thrash while its little heart beat faster and faster, pumping out the rest of its life. The lady swirled her little pinkie in the tin bowl she placed underneath the turkey to fish out any feathers in the blood (to sell for blood pudding later).

Watch this video and prepare a barf bag.

One of my friends jumped up next for an opportunity to wield the scissors. She hacked away with reckless abandon and lustful determination. She later explained to me that a boy had arranged for her to kill a duck for her birthday last year so she was experienced. Another twelve year-old little boy volunteered. By that point, the pair of dull scissors was slick with blood and didn't open and close very well so he ended up just jabbing at his turkey. The poor turkey cried.

I had come expecting to overcome my fear - but instead, I now have an additional nightmare scenario to add to my repertoire of death by throat scenes. I've never considered how scary scissors were before.

Slaughter lady at her finest. 

She had to steam it first to defeather it.

RIP Turk.

I had to snap his legs off. Utterly traumatized.

Btw - terrible blog post title, I know. I was playing a board game with the younger siblings tonight and the instruction manual came with ads for other board games. One of the advertised games had a slogan "It's a Slaughter World After All" . . . they ought to pay somebody professional to come up with a better one.

Part-time model

A man with long, tied back, silky hair and strong black-rimmed glasses touched my arm and stopped me right when the cold air from the mall blasted my face. "Hey miss, have you ever considered being a part-time model?"

"Not interested."

I walked away briskly. He kept following me, saying that he's a photographer for catalogues and that he liked my sharp chin, my small waist, my accentuated cheeks, my straight posture, my . . .

"Not interested."

"Why not?"

I didn't know what to say. Because the idea of being made up and fussed over and then treated like a clothes hanger, with people stripping off your clothes for you to minimize time wasted during changing, did not sound like a great weekend plan?

Capitalizing on that moment of hesitation, he motioned me forward, always staying a step ahead on me,   turning around constantly  -- "Just a few shots first. We need your info. Our office is just around the corner. Come, come. You better work on walking in heels though."

I tried to explain that not interested was really not interested. I shook my head emphatically, dangling my weighty Tibetan coral earrings for dramatic effect. But somehow, my legs kept moving forward, narrowly tripping on the uneven sidewalk. Perhaps it's because I've always been terrible at saying no, very firmly, and I didn't want to raise my voice on the streets to make sure that he heard me.

And because  - and really not that deep down - it's just a little bit complimentary to be asked to be photographed when I've always been the nice sister of the beautiful girls.

Ten minutes later, sitting in front of the chief photographer for an interview about my previous modeling experiences, measurements, weekend schedules, blah blah blah, I finally felt it. How silly I was for being easily flattered by an offer to be objectified. How I would find it absolutely mindless to be spending my saturdays playing dress up in other people's clothes. And how the thrill of strangers complimenting you excessively for your looks really wore off quick.

So I thanked them and walked out.

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Of course, this clip from the Flight of the Concords reminded me that being invited to be a part-time model probably wasn't the best compliment either.

China doesn't breed pushovers

1 am. Doha airport. Waiting to board a flight back to Shanghai.

Around 80 travelers, mostly Chinese people who escaped obligatory family reunions during Chinese New Year by exporting themselves out of the affordable long-distance calling range, stood in a small glass room. There were two sliding doors, each on opposite ends. An airport bus pulled up on the right side, as if ready to pick up the people in the room and send them to their planes. The people hurried over, dragging carry on bags and crying children, determined to get in front. Competitive elbowing followed. After five minutes, the door still remained shut. The bus drove away, empty.

A few minutes later, another bus pulled up next to the door, but this time on the left side of the room. The crowd swarmed to the other side, showing even less restraint in their aggressive edging. Once again, the bus taunted the jet lagged bunch and drove away.

This scene happened four times, with the crowd rushing from one door to the other, all desperate to be the front of the line. 

4 observations:

1. There is no overt advantage in being in the front of the line. Instead, you get stuck at the back of the bus and end up being the last one to board.

2. There are enough buses to take everybody to the planes.

3. The travelers look well-educated, well-off, and well-coiffed. It is understandable to rush over to the door the first time, and maybe even the second. But the third and the fourth? Somebody must have seen the pattern of the faithless buses and hesitated. But instead, the people became more and more determined in vying for the first spot in front of the doors.

4. The first shall be last and the last shall be first. I was really hoping that the lady with the red sparkly boots would win.

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I see this behavior in China every day. People push, shove, elbow, bulldoze their way through everything. The concept of lining up is hazy at best. My friend, Andrew Woo, thinks that it's because the people, having lived through the Communist periods of scarcity, are conditioned to think that there is never enough supply. That's partly true. But that doesn't explain equally competitive scrambling in situations where the desired item is guaranteed and no advantage is conferred upon the most aggressive (i.e. Rushing to get through the gate first even when there is assigned seating on trains).

I think the people here are socialized to be pushers. Because the society maintains an ambivalent relationship with the rule of law, people are used to relying on themselves, and not an existing order, to obtain what they want. There is a subconscious lack of trust in rules and what adherence can deliver, so even if they know they should line up and that there is no self-interest in shoving, they do it, just because they see little merit in not pushing.

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Two summers ago, when I first arrived in China as an intern, my wai po moved in with me for a little while to teach me "how things were done here." In a suffocating metro station, with hundreds vying for standing room on the trains, my 78 year old, 4 ft 11 wai po pulled me towards the front of the line. I tugged at her shirt and motioned to the back of the line, shy about blatantly cutting in.

She jerked me forward once more and stared me down, "Don't be such a pushover, Sisi."

A Sink is the New Village Stream

I have been mildly obsessed with doing my laundry at 3 a.m. - in true hand washing style.

All of a sudden, all my clothes seem too delicate, too vulnerable, to be tossed carelessly into the sucking washing machine.

Scarves dry amazingly fast by the way.

Chiffon tops are a nightmare. You think you've squeezed all the water out, but yet they keep drip drip drip-ping on my bathroom floor. So deceptive.

I'm just preparing myself for my move to China. Washing machines there hold a ridiculously small amount of clothes (a little larger than my bag of rice times two). The one in my new apartment (if I even have one) will probably just sputter and die if I shove my usual two weeks worth of laundry down its throat. And I can't do the American thing and just haul my laundry back home every weekend when I visit. People would hate me when I get on the metro.*

Well, I guess this will be good practice for eventual housewife-hood too. I heard that the laundry detail is pretty intense.

* Yes, I realize that I could solve my problem by doing laundry more often. And no, I don't like that idea.

Fresh off the Boat

I had a minor case of culture disorientation {shock} today. After living in China for the last four months, so many ordinary things in America seemed alien to me.

The sky was not stained grey with smog. Weird.

I've trained myself to squeeze into packed Beijing metro stations and to weave in and out of little gaps in the moving crowds and today it showed: I became a little too competitive for space in the line at the BYU bookstore. Many people probably also thought that I was snuggling up against them when, in my reality, I was just conserving valuable living space.

Cheese also tasted funny. Was it always like that?

Flirting . . . with Chinese characteristics

A scene at the metro today. This is classic Chinese flirting, known as Sajiao 撒娇.

Girl: You don't like me at all.

Boy: What do you mean? I really like you.

Girl: Liar.

Boy pouts.

Girl slaps him on the face.

Me shocked.

Boy: Don't be like that.

Boy smiles and tries to hug her.

Girl slaps him again.

Boy tries even harder to hug her.

Girl pretends to struggle. She thumps him repeatedly on the chest.

She gives up.

They cuddle. All the way till the end of the line.

The reason why Asians are so small

It's because there are so many of them and only so many metro trains during rush hour.

People actually groan when a slightly larger person is trying to cram himself/ herself onto the train. Cruel, but true.

Just when you are pressed up against random strangers and think that there is no possible way that anyone else could fit inside, they surprise you.

Call it the survival of the masses.

Kiss and tell

A random man kissed me on the metro today.

Right on the back of my neck, where boyfriends weren't even allowed.

I would have slapped him but I couldn't move.

That's how packed the Beijing metro was during rush hour.

So I gave him the mental death glare instead.

I'm just glad that I wasn't facing him.

Kissy kissy

At first I thought it was a joke. Then I saw it again two weeks later at another metro station. The "Kiss & Ride" sign in the parking lot right outside the metro was probably just some painter's idea of fun, although I don't really know what it could have meant.




I do have a couple of ideas though:
Spicing things up on the metro: Kiss cam!
Free rides for free kisses.
Left over celebration from Valentine's day?

Eventually I looked it up. Apparently the Kiss and Ride is a section where drivers can drop off their passenger and not have to leave immediately. It is a silly-cute tradition for the drivers to be able to kiss the commuters before they head off to work. How considerate.