Remembering China

Adventures of an American Teacher Living and Learning in the Middle Kingdom

Rodney H Clarken

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Copyright © 2012 by Rodney H Clarken

All rights reserved.

The latest version of this book is freely available at http://rodclarken.wordpress.com/published-works/

Please send comments and suggestions to [email protected]

Current version: July 2, 2012

Page 2

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Table of Contents Acknowledgements ...... 6 Preface ...... 7 Introduction ...... 9 The Earthquake ...... 11 May 14, 2008 ...... 11 May 17, 2008 ...... 12 Three Days in China ...... 14 Tuesday, December 26, 1995 ...... 14 Going to Work ...... 14 Going to the Countryside ...... 16 First School ...... 18 The Banquet ...... 24 The Hotel ...... 26 Wednesday, December 27, 1995 ...... 30 Eight Weddings and Eight Accidents ...... 30 Next Town, Next School ...... 35 Thursday, December 28, 1995 ...... 41 Third School ...... 41 Going Home (I Think) ...... 44 Christmas/New Year’s Party ...... 45 Foreigner Living in China: Cross-Cultural Experiences ...... 47 My First Visit to My Chinese Employer ...... 47 Working with the Waiban ...... 50 Panda Cage: Aliens in China ...... 52 Monkey in a Cage ...... 54 May You Live in Interesting Times ...... 57 Assaulted in China ...... 59 Pigs in China...... 62 Living with Rats ...... 67 The Pedicab Affair ...... 78 Christmas Eve in Deyang ...... 81 Johnny's Chinese Haircut ...... 84 Watch Out for Wajiao ...... 89 A Ticket to Ride and a Place to Stay: Xian ...... 91

Page 3

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Riding My Bike to Work in Chengdu ...... 93 Reflections on Driving Across Sichuan ...... 96 American Hamburgers and Chinese Boazi ...... 100 Stranger in a Strange Land ...... 102 Building and Struggling in China ...... 105 Karaoke and Leadership ...... 108 Chaos Theory in China ...... 110 Arrested ...... 112 Honking ...... 113 Looking at Chinese Education ...... 114 Ideas for Teaching English as a Second Language to Primary Students ...... 114 Notes on Meeting with Leaders and Teachers in Leshan ...... 117 Visiting with an American Comrade ...... 119 Teaching Middle School English in Guanghan and Deyang ...... 122 My First Observations of Teaching ...... 126 Going to and Observations of Guanghan School ...... 128 Rock Star Receptions ...... 131 Observing and Speaking at a Middle School ...... 132 Learn from Yang An: A Model School in China ...... 135 Ceremony for Bilingual Education and Experimenting English: Chengdu 10/25/95 .. 139 My Last Trip Out: Tuesday, May 28, 1996 ...... 142 Aftershocks ...... 144 Yesterday in Dujiangyan ...... 145 Today with Yingxiu teachers ...... 146 The Next Day and Many More to Come ...... 149 Postscript ...... 151 What Happened Next ...... 151 Writing in China ...... 154 On Choosing My Chinese Name ...... 156 Dear Mr. Bahai: Farewell Letter ...... 162 Unfinished notes: Observations traveling in rural Sichuan ...... 164 Essays...... 167 Cultural Identity and World Unity ...... 167 Drug Wars: Past and Present, East and West ...... 169 Thoughts on Chinese Education ...... 170

Page 4

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Understanding Social and Economic Development ...... 171 Made in China...... 174 Moral Education and China ...... 175 Open and Closed Door Policies Between America and China ...... 176 Fears and Social Reconstruction...... 178 Five Impediments to Prosperity ...... 181 Religion and Moral Education in China and America ...... 183 China Wakes: Role Of Education ...... 184

Page 5

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Acknowledgements

An earlier and shorter version of the chapter "Three Days in China," was published in two parts in the December 1996 and January 1997 issues of China Today and another version as "An American Teacher in China," in Journal of Thought, Winter 1998, 33 (4), pp. 53-83. A revised version of the chapter “May You Live in Interesting Times” was published in US-China Review 21 (1) 1997. A version of “Pigs in China” entitled "Pigs: A Chinese-American Cross-Cultural Experience" was published in US-China Review, 21 (2), pp. 21-23.

Page 6

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Preface

China is emerging as a world player. It is a dynamic country changing so rapidly that it is hard to understand. Its size and diversity make it impossible to grasp and describe comprehensibly. After living in China for one year and reading every book about it I could get my hands on, I know less than ever. So many scholars, writers and others are interpreting and reinterpreting what is happening in China so much that it becomes even more confusing.

Americans who only read or hear about China are like Chinese who only read or hear about America. Their understanding is limited at best, and likely based on biases and misinformation. Americans who have lived in China, and Chinese who have lived in America also have understandings limited by their own biases and experiences. A Chinese student spending a year in my rural college town on the shores of Lake Superior will have a different impression than a Chinese businessperson visiting a major city. No single description of America or Americans is complete and comprehensive. Similarly, there is no one view of China or Chinese.

I grew up on a farm in Iowa and have lived and taught in Native American, urban, and rural communities in America. I also lived and taught in Africa and the Caribbean for eight years and have traveled to over thirty different countries. I thought coming to China would be another in on ongoing series of experiences in different cultures. It has been more different and more challenging than any other place I have ever lived in several ways.

I was preceded to China by most of my family. My seventeen-year old daughter came to China in August of 1994 on her own. She had graduated from high school a year early and had raised enough money through selling her art and graduation gifts to pay her way. She was joined by my wife, our fourteen-year old daughter and our five-year-old son in February 1995. I joined them in June and my sixteen-year old daughter joined us in August from a year-long stay in Japan as a Rotary exchange student.

I came to China on a one-year sabbatical from Northern Michigan University where I had been Director of Laboratory Field Experiences and Associate Professor in the Department of Education for several years. I came to China to pursue professional development through interaction with China and Chinese education. China fascinated me. It was the largest country by population and third largest by size. It had the longest continuous history, had made many contributions to the world, had been shrouded in mystery and had promise of again being a dominant influence in the development of a new world order. China still fascinates and challenges me. It also did many other things to me that I have not yet sorted out.

I did not learn the Chinese language beyond what was needed to take care of my immediate needs and be civil with others. This limited greatly my understanding of what was going on and

Page 7

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

any intimate contact with a broad range of Chinese. My "fieldwork" was also limited by many contingencies and circumstances that further circumscribed my understanding and description of China. As a result, reliable and valid anthropological or education abstractions about China are not proposed. The value of these observations is further constrained my limited ability to translate the "essence" of them in written form. At best it is a dirty, broken and shaky mirror that reflects my experiences in China during 1995-96.

My stories about life in China are just that--my stories. Through the cloudy lenses of my biases, my experiences and my ignorance, a fuzzy outline may appear of a very small part of China. Do not be too sure of what you are seeing—I am not too sure myself. My wife, children and other Americans living in the same place and doing the same things often saw things very differently from me. This collection of essays is not ethnography, history or by any measure an objective descriptions of reality in China. But I hope they will give you a feeling for China and my life. May they enrich China and your life.

Page 8

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Introduction

When I left America for China, I left behind a respectable home with five bedrooms and a large wooded back yard. I came to a small two-room apartment in which my wife, my four children and I were expected to live. I left a well-paying position in America for no position in China, though my wife taught English full-time at a Chinese "normal" university for $180 a month. I left behind two cars and the freedom and mobility to go anywhere I wanted in America for an old bicycle and crowded, rickety public transportation in China, which, along with the Chinese bureaucracy, limited my freedom and movements. In America, I could go about my business without undue attention. In China everywhere I went I was an object of curiosity; I was always being stared at. I came from a place where everything was familiar to a place where everything was different. I could not understand the Chinese languages, nor did I understand the Chinese culture and customs.

I arrived on the east coast of China on a freighter in June of 1995 and left it on foot in the western mountains in1996. I arrived on a hot, muggy day in Shanghai, the largest city in China and one of the most densely populated in the world (ten times as dense as New York City and four times more dense than Tokyo). I left in a snowstorm crossing the Himalayan Range of Tibet, one of the least densely populated areas of the world. I arrived at Shang-hai (upon-sea), parts of which are below sea level and sinking, and left at the "roof of the world," which is the highest place on earth and rising. I arrived among the most populous ethnic group in the world, the Han Chinese, and left amid the small group of Tibetans, whose heritage and existence as a people is endangered. I arrived among a deeply atheistic population and left among a deeply religious people. I arrived in one of the most polluted places on earth and left from one of the most pristine.

I came into China with my oldest daughter via Japan, one of the richest countries in the world, where a bowl of noodles could cost ten dollars, and left with my two younger daughters via Nepal, one of the poorest countries of the world, where the same bowl of noodles could cost ten cents. These are but some of the contrasts and contradictions I was to experience in my year in China.

In October, I began visiting primary schools in Sichuan province as part of an experimental program to teach English to primary age children. I had made friends with the foreigner, Gabe, who was the demonstration teacher for this program and through him had gotten myself invited to travel to the area schools with him and the provincial personnel in charge of the program. For a foreigner to get into the Chinese schools to observe is a long and difficult process, which often ends in failure, so this was a rare and valuable opportunity. During my first visit to the schools, Gabe had a long and intense argument with Mr. Liu, the officer in charge of the school visits. Gabe resented the many rules he had to follow that he felt were

Page 9

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 unfair and his being treated like a trained monkey. He asked if I would take over his contract as he was fed up with the shenanigans of the Chinese officials. I agreed as this was an excellent opportunity to be of service to the Chinese and to learn firsthand about their schools. As a result, I spent the rest of my sabbatical year in China visiting many schools, teaching many demonstration lessons and giving many lectures. The provincial office I worked for claims that I have visited and taught in more schools in China than any other foreigner. I am sure that was not true then or true now, but I did count 100 schools I visited and either delivered a lesson or talk.

This book is a collection of some of my stories and experiences while I lived there and when I went back to visit later. After the Sichuan earthquake in 2008, I went back to look at them again, partly to help me process my grief over the loss of life from that disaster. Later I decided to share them with you. I hope you enjoy them.

Page 10

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

The Earthquake

May 14, 2008

On May 12, 2008, the area where I lived in Sichuan province in China from 1995 to 1996 was devastated by a 7.9 earthquake. Some of the 100 schools that I had taught in had collapsed on their students. The faces of those children are both in my memory and in my collection of photos. Their spirits haunt me. The students I taught are all now in their twenties, but children like them are still buried beneath tons of concrete and bricks. They are being mourned by their mothers and fathers and those spared from a similar fate. I too am in a state of grief.

The high walls of my emotional stronghold that guards my sense of detachment, security and well-being from the vicissitudes of the world has been overcome by the heartbreaking news of a people suffering the life crushing assaults of this devastating natural disaster. My soul weeps.

I am haunted by the thoughts of the thousands of children dying in the rubble of collapsed school buildings. I have gone back to look at my notes from that time to try to work through my demons, to calm the hurt and sobs that well up inside. I am touched by my stories and my notes from my time living and teaching there. One story recalls the student who asked me how it felt to look at a sea of yellow faces and my response to her:

I move beside the girl who asked the question, putting my face next to hers. "See how much alike we are? You are not a sea of yellow faces to me. You are my family. You are my brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, nieces and nephews. The world is one country and we are all citizens of that country."

I feel I have lost part of my family. Each face in that sea of children crushed was precious. Each face will be mourned. I have four children, each one dearly loved. In China, the rule is one child. Each of those children is cherished and treasured. When those buildings and schools collapsed, many mothers and fathers lost their treasure. Communities lost most their children in one fell swoop.

I have been trying to hold back the reality of it from my mind and soul, but now I close the door to my office so the others cannot hear or see me sobbing. I had taught in those schools that now entombed their students. I look at the pictures on the web and wonder, was that the school at which I sang the song to the assembly of 600 middle school students . I relook at my notes to see if the names match. The faces of children like those I taught are now trapped or crushed under the tons of concrete and block of that school. How can their mothers and fathers survive? How can their neighbors and we deal with this grief?

I have two boxes of books that have been sitting in my office for two weeks. They are addressed to a school in Dujiangyan, near the epicenter. I have been waiting for word from the school to send them. I was sending them at the request of a friend so the young people would have some good English literature to read. Who is there to send them to now? Who can receive them or read them?

Page 11

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

I lived with my family at a school in Dujiangyan when I first arrived in China the summer of 1995 and where I plan to visit again in three weeks. My daughter attended one of those middle schools. Another daughter taught for two years in a school in Mianyang. My emails to my friends there asking about their welfare have not been answered and may never be answered. My answers may come in weeks from friends of friends. The books may never be sent.

I pull out the pictures from there that I have not looked at in years. Where were those children when the quake hit? What has happened to them? Where were their children? And their parents? And their friends? I go back and look at some of the notes I had taken during my year in Sichuan. Some of my first observations in China were of the builders and their work. I marveled at the building going on everywhere all the time.

I remember the workers constructing the building next to the apartment where my family and I lived on the outskirts of Dujiangyan. I wonder if the building I saw built that day or the one I lived in and was standing on when I made these observations are still standing. What happened to the people who were in them at 2:27 p.m. when the quake struck?

Yesterday I prayed and meditated with a friend who is a Buddhist monk. I also read the news and saw the pictures, one of a bloated body floating in a dirty river. My mind will not let me absorb it—the pain is too great. My life is protected and removed from the devastation, I try to keep it that way or else I will be overwhelmed with grief, but my fortress has been breached and my heart has suffered a heavy loss.

May 17, 2008

As I try to cope with the loss of life and the vision of dead children in collapsed schools from the earthquake in Sichuan, I go back to notes I had taken when I lived in Dujiangyan and Chengdu in 1995-1996. I look at the pictures of the children I taught. I remember the faces. I see my friends and neighbors in the faces of the Chinese.

“Do I know you?”

“Were you in my class?”

They look like people I knew in America. My seeing familiar faces, though I know I do not know them, has happened in every country I have visited, but nowhere as much as in China.

I see the faces of the grieving and the suffering, the dead and the dying, on the news. I am proud of the Chinese efforts to save these souls, to do what they can for those in distress. As I hear about the many young and old people volunteering to help, I remember with admiration the spirit of the people and their disposition to hard work.

As I think about the rescue workers working around the clock now to save those they can, working together with determination, I am again impressed with their hard work and fortitude. Several countries have offered to help by giving money and sending in rescue teams. China has accepted the money, but not the on-the-ground support offered.

Page 12

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

I remember traveling the mountainous road in the region of the earthquake, passing by villages that reminded me of scenes in movies about medieval Europe. The workers walking up two-story inclines carrying construction materials on their backs or in buckets at the end of a pole over their shoulders. The little tractors, like a garden tractor, pulling wagons carry large rocks to fix the road. I remember miles of mountain roadbed torn up and waiting for construction, road gangs were breaking rocks with sledgehammers and bars and women moving dirt with hoes and baskets, passing rocks from person to person, men and women working side by side. I remember the extremely hard work I saw farmers, laborers, factory workers and others do throughout China. They did not complain, they did not falter, they did not stop. They did what they thought they had to do.

These memories along with the pictures in the news of the Chinese government and people pitching in to help with the relief efforts for those suffering in the destruction of the earthquake, bring some solace that the determination and the fortitude of the Chinese people will find a way to work out of this tragedy.

They following stories are in remembrance of and honor to those people. They are also a window into the differences between Chinese and Americans, seen through my perspective and experiences. I hope they help you appreciate how we are all one people on this shrinking planet, and only as we come to understand one another and work together will we all advance.

Page 13

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Three Days in China

A lot happened during my time in China. The following story is of one of my many trips to the schools in central Sichuan province. Later you can read other accounts of my travels and teaching that give more details about these activities, but this description of three days give a good sense of what my life was like. Throughout, I have generally changed the names of most of the people and places to prevent possible unpleasant repercussions for anyone.

Tuesday, December 26, 1995

Going to Work I am wedged between my six-year-old son and my wife in our three-quarter bed. My son had left his bed in the middle of the night, burrowing under our layers of heavy blankets to keep warm in our cold apartment. At 5:30 in the morning, the alarm clock goes off. I am up and putting on my layers against the near freezing temperatures when I realize the clock, which had been dropped and fixed so often that the hands were out of alignment, has gone off an hour before it was supposed to. I re-set it and crawl into my son's cold bed to keep warm and get an hour more of sleep.

At 6:30, I get up again, put on my insulated long underwear, then my silk and rayon two- layered workout pants and then my thick cotton pants. I put on three layers of socks, one of which is heavy wool hunting socks, which means I must wear my jogging shoes as they are the only shoes I can fit into with all these sacks. Over my insulated long sleeve undershirt I wear a long sleeve shirt designed to withstand arctic temperatures, a tee shirt, a long sleeve dress shirt, a sport jacket and a coat with winter gloves and a stocking hat. I make my way down the four flights of stairs in the dark foreign teachers' apartment building. I quietly remove the bar that the guard who sleeps in a makeshift room in our entrance foyer puts on the door to lock it when he goes to bed each night. Once outside I realize it is drizzling quite heavily, so I run back up to get my rain poncho. I hurry back down, unlock my bike from the bicycle parking shed at the end of the dormitory building and head for the Foreign Affair's compound gate. Unfortunately it is locked. If I didn't have my bike, I would just scale the ten-foot high gate and be on my way. I go back and wake up the guard of the foreign teachers' apartment building, thinking that he will have the key to the outside gate, but he doesn't. He also doesn't particularly want to get out of his warm bed to help me, but as he can't speak any English and my Chinese is still quite limited, he can't tell me what to do or whom I need to see, so he has to get up and show me.

The guard in the foreign student dormitory next to our building has the key, but that building is also locked up, and we have no way of getting in. This is the building where my three daughters where allowed to stay when we finally convinced the Foreign Affairs Officer of this

Page 14

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

University that six people in a one bedroom apartment was too much. Of course, my seventeen and eighteen year-old girls had to teach three classes of conversational English for the University in exchange for the two rooms. My building guard and I pound on the dormitory door and shout for the evening guard that sleeps inside it. Soon a light comes on, and a moment later, the guard appears at the front door in his slippers, holding up his pants over his long johns with one hand. Once he understands the problem, he goes back to his makeshift room under the stairs, gets the key, and still in his slippers and holding his pants up with one hand, comes outside in the rain to unlock the gate to the foreigners' compound, called the "panda cage" by the Chinese students and locals.

There is only one road out of the completely walled-in campus, and it also has a gate, but it is open. It is common for the schools, factories and other institutions to be completely surrounded by ten foot high brick walls and have only one entrance that is guarded twenty-four hours a day. It is about 6:45 a.m., almost an hour before daylight when I pass through it. Daylight comes late not only because this is one of the shortest days of the year, but also because all of China follows Beijing time, which lies in the eastern part of China. I am forty-five minutes from my office and I should still make it there on time if I don't have any more delays. The heavy drizzle that surrounds me and the steam from my breath make it impossible to see through my glasses, so I stop in the middle of a mud puddle to take them off.

I started fifteen minutes early today, because I had a flat tire two days earlier--Christmas Eve--that made me late. That morning I had ridden a mile in the rain and mud on my old farmer bike (nicknamed "The Tank"), before I discovered the back tire was flat. I knew something was wrong--it was pulling harder and rattling more than usual--but I couldn't figure out what. I had twice gotten off to find the problem, but in the dark, rain and mud I couldn't see what was the matter. When I got on a paved road, it rattled so badly that I thought it would fall apart. Finally I stopped under a street light and discovered my back tire was flat. I had ridden that far with the flat, so I decided I might just as well keep on riding. I leaned forward, shifting my weight as much as possible to the front tire, until I came to one of the many little bike fix-it stands that are set up at frequent intervals along the road, but there was no one on the street. Finally I saw a man pulling his bike repair cart toward a street light. He repaired it for the standard price of 12 cents. I am happy he didn't try to overcharge me, which is the norm for a foreigner, or because I obviously had no other options and needed my tire fixed. I had neither the time nor the disposition to argue about the charge. At twelve cents a tire the man can make a decent living, even better than some office workers if his business is good.

I can't understand why this morning, two days later, the streets are teeming with people and traffic, and bike repair stands are everywhere. Why was there hardly a soul on the streets when I made this same trip at the same time and in the same weather two days earlier on Christmas Eve? It couldn't have been because of Christmas Eve, as the Chinese don't celebrate Christmas. Halfway to work I realize the difference in traffic is because Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday, which most people have off, and today is Tuesday, a regular workday. After fifty

Page 15

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

minutes of dodging puddles, pedestrians, bicyclists and buses, I arrive at the office bicycle parking shanty where I lock my bike with the hundred already there. I am unscathed but wet, as my poncho cannot protect the lower half of my body from the many puddles.

Going to the Countryside Waiting for me at the provincial education office in downtown Chengdu is my Chinese overseer/co-worker/host/manager/comrade, Mr. Liu, and two strangers--a driver and an official from the town we will be visiting today. Neither our regular driver nor my official translator are there. This is unusual, but as Mr. Liu is the only one who can speak any English, and his is marginal at best, I do not find out why. As soon as I lock my bike up under the office's bike shelter, we leave for somewhere in the country in a TongGong, a Chinese imitation of an old Jeep Cherokee. I do not know where we are going nor do I bother asking as it would mean nothing to me anyway. The traffic as we try to get out of Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan province and a city of three to nine million people depending on whom you ask and how you define it, is tightly knotted in several places, and our driver from some distant countryside town, seems uncertain about negotiating these unfamiliar streets clogged with aggressive pedestrians, bicyclists, and drivers. The hundreds of bicyclists waiting at the stoplights in their bright multicolored ponchos are a refreshing contrast to the gray of Chengdu.

The driver is careful, too careful for this big city traffic unaccustomed to cautious drivers. After an hour of battling with drivers and the masses on the city streets, and of Mr.Liu giving advice on what to do, the driver finally breaks free from the worst of the congestion. He seems determined to make up time, and maybe to regain any "face" he may have lost by Mr. Liu having to tell him what to do in the city. On the slippery country roads he speeds up to fifty miles per hour. I can't bear to look as we slide first toward the rear end of a stopping truck and then swerve into the path of an oncoming bus, miraculously missing both. I have had more than a thousand "near misses" in China, but I am still not used to them. Each time I still think this one is "it," and they will find me in the ditch clutching my pen and my blood stained Chinese government issued notebook with my last words scrawled on it:"LOOK OUT!!!".

When we pass through towns where the traffic is heavy enough to require our driver to slow down, I can relax a little. Although we are more likely to hit someone or something here, the chances of major injuries (to me anyway) are less. The farther we go into the rural patchwork of small family plots, the more the bright colored ponchos of the city are replaced by dark blue Mao jackets that were worn by almost all Chinese two decades ago. These utilitarian outfits are now worn mostly just by peasants or old people. Sometimes the party leaders will wear them to make a statement, but generally wear Western business suits.

My gloves are still wet from the bike ride this morning and now my hands are getting painfully cold. I don't know if Chinese vehicles have heaters in them or not, but it wouldn't matter anyway as the people I ride with always drive with the windows opened. The Chinese

Page 16

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 seem to have a thing for fresh air, and no matter how cold it is they will have their windows open in both their vehicles and their homes. No one in our vehicle, besides myself, has on gloves, and everyone but the driver has their hands between their crossed legs trying to keep them warm. But the windows stay down. Our steamy breaths blow out the windows to join the thick blanket of dense fog. The thought occurs to me that maybe the frequent fog during the cold season is really just the combined steamy breaths of 120 million Sichuanese, 70 million Sichuanese pigs and the millions of other assorted creatures. The amount of sunshine in the last month totals in hours and minutes, not days. This is not unusual in this basin region of Sichuan, but I miss seeing the sun more during the cold months of December to February. When you can see the sun, it is often an eerie red ball in the ashen clouds and hazy pollution. The English workbook the students use states, "The sun is red." I thought it was an error in the book until I realized that it does appear red to the students here. And I only thought culture made our perceptions relative.

I am freezing and have to go to the bathroom, a debilitating combination of symptoms with no relief in sight. Once chilled, it can be a long, shivering road back to warmth, as there is no certain way to get warm in these months. Most buildings do not have heat and when they do it is usually a little coal stove. I grew up in Iowa, where the winters can get much more severe than this part of China, and have been living on the shores of Lake Superior for several years now, which gets long, cold, snowy winters, but, before China, I have never been where I could not escape from the cold. I do not like being cold and not being able to get warm.

As a visiting foreign expert, relieving oneself can also be a challenge. With a limited ability to communicate, I never know when we are going to stop. When we do stop, I am usually surrounded by people, the welcoming officials and/or several hundred mobbing students, which makes heading for the nearest bathroom a problem. Once you get to the bathroom, the accommodations and stench provide additional challenges for those who like privacy and/or cleanliness. Also, I must make sure to bring your own paper, reading or otherwise, as it is only provided in the better hotels. At a large crossroads bus station where we meet up with another person, Mr. Liu and I cross the quarter mile muddy lot to get to the newly built station restrooms in the far corner. It is a far away from the buses as they can put it and as I approach it I understand why--the stench is overpowering. I see where people have done there business around the outside walls of the restroom that has one end for men and the other for women. Inside the mud floor is covered with excrement. I balance myself on two bricks on the floor near the door, and urinate on the floor like every one else had done before. Ten miles later we stop at a roadside restaurant and have lunch.

In the mountains of eastern Sichuan, five hours from Chengdu, we come upon a mile- long line of vehicles stopped on a mountain. We learn that a TongGong vehicle like ours has collided with a large truck on bend in the road at the top of the hillside. The traffic is blocked going both ways with two thousand people waiting for the road to be cleared. We put large stones we find along the roadside to block our tires so our vehicle won't roll back, then go to

Page 17

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

survey the accident. We join hundreds of other observers in the popular Chinese activity of post- accident analysis, choosing sides, and watching the opposing parties resolve (or not resolve, which is more interesting) their differences about whose fault it is. These differences are usually resolved verbally, but I have also seen several physical fights between the parties, and sometimes the onlookers, socking, wrestling and choking one another. I see some women going off one by one down one path and some men trickling down another. I surmise that they have designated different trails as men's and women's bathrooms. This is an opportunity that I cannot afford to miss, and take my chances by following the men. With the rain and the clay, I literally slip down a mountain path, and to my relief (literally), find the men are "doing their business." I join them.

Back at the accident, both parties have refused to move their vehicles until the police arrive to determine the cause and blame. A lady is bruised, but no one seems seriously hurt. After an hour of negotiating, a narrow lane on the outer edge of the road is cleared allowing the smaller vehicles and braver drivers to squeeze around the accident. We slip by, but a quarter mile down the road a bus is broken down ahead of us in our lane. As the other lane is blocked with the vehicles waiting to get around the accident, we convince several cars, trucks and busses to pull ahead and back up to make a space so we can drive between them and the stalled bus. Ninety percent of the waiting vehicles are buses and trucks which are too large to get around the accident. One-half mile further down the road we are stopped again, this time the police are trying to get into an accident by coming at us in our lane. We jockey around them and have clear roads to our destination, Dongdu.

First School It has taken us about nine cold hours to reach the first school on our itinerary. We averaged thirteen miles an hour, not that great, but for China, not all that bad. We could have completed the 200 kilometers (that's about 120 miles) sooner, but the poor weather, city traffic, lunch stop, slippery roads, country traffic, bad roads, mountains and accident slowed us up. Unfortunately, many of my trips contain all these same elements.

When we drive up to the school, the district and school leaders are waiting on the steps to greet us, though we are quite late. The school, built with money from the wealthiest man in the town (and named after him), is still under construction. His only child, a tiny, sweet, unassuming ten-year-old girl, attends this school, and during the seemingly obligatory picture- taking ritual in front of the school with the leaders and teachers, the district photographer and school officials take several pictures of her and me together. The educational and party leaders escort me to the school's reception room and offer me the customary cigarettes, tea and refreshments. The Chinese are very hospitable and gracious, especially in the countryside. The children have been kept after school so that they can have an English lesson with me. I hear them singing English songs, while they wait for their lesson. Though we are late and the children have been waiting for some time, the officials still observe the ritual greeting and reception.

Page 18

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

They and the students will work around our schedule. They are used to the vagaries of life in China. Two days earlier over one hundred children, parents and educational personnel gave up their free Sunday afternoon (which also happened to be my Christmas Eve) to come to school and participate in a lesson I taught.

Before I teach, we observe a local teacher doing a demonstration lesson with her class of sixty students aged nine to eleven years old. They are sitting on thin benches behind table- desks made for two. It makes four columns with an eight across by eight deep configuration for the room--the common set up for most classrooms I visit. Some strange unrecognizable drawings are on the front chalkboard. When she starts her lesson, I realize, to my surprise, that the drawings are of a head, hands, feet and fingers. She points to the drawing of a hand, then says "handa" while she holds up her hand. She follows the same procedure for each drawing, then she has the students repeat each thing after her--"hea-da," "hand-za," and so on.

Her primary teaching technique is the use of repetition and she uses it extensively. To keep from going crazy, I start counting the number of times she has students repeat things--20 times saying "han-da" while raising one hand; 20 times saying "hand-za" in unison while they show two hands; 23 times counting their fingers from one to "ton"; saying and doing "clap your 'handza'" 52 times; "wiggle you fingers" 80 times; and on and on and on. Her main lesson was on "nod your heada" which she had the students say and do over 120 times before I stopped counting, but I estimate they did it 200 times. She introduced some variety after she got to 120 times of "nod your heada" though--she had the students face each other in rows and say "nod your heada" while they nodded to one another. Then she had one row say it while the other row did it. Then she calls for volunteers--"Who are the best?"-- to come to the front of the class to lead the others in "nod your heada." Can she not think of anything else to do or is she trying to "beat this into their heads!!?" What is amazing is that the class remains very attentive and involved throughout the entire thirty-five minute class. She tells the class to do something, but I can't understand what she has said. It must have been to sing the "ABC Song" and "Hello Boys, Hello Girls" song from the book that primary English provincial office has supplied to the class, because the class breaks into a well-rehearsed chorus. The teacher seems to be getting desperate to fill time. Just as the teacher starts launching into a series of "stamp your 'fate,'"and I am about to "lose my mind," Mr. Liu stands up and arbitrarily announces "Class is over." This is the worst class I have witnessed in China and I am thankful it is over--not only for myself, but for the teacher and the students as well.

Then I am ushered down the hall by twenty government officials and teachers to another class of over sixty-four anxiously waiting nine to eleven year old children. The classroom arranged in eight rows with eight students in each row, but it is further packed with additional students and observers crowded around the edges and in the aisles. The halls are also crowded with people watching through the doors and windows. Like all of the countryside schools I go to, I am treated like a visiting dignitary. (This I am getting used to.)

Page 19

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

In teaching English demonstration lessons to the Chinese primary school children, I use a lot of entertainment humor and interaction. Before I launch into the lesson in the book that they are supposedly on, I do a few warm up activities to see where the class is at. Often I find they are on a different lesson than I have been told or do not understand what they supposedly should.

"Hello," I softly say, peeking my head in the door while giving a shy, weak wave.

Some kids start giggling, but no one says hello back.

"Hello!!" I say louder as I jump into the room, waving more vigorously.

A few students respond, but weakly.

"HELLO!!!" I thunder while bending down and waving in the face of the child in the front row.

Finally they get it, and all shout back "HELLO!"

"My name is Bahai," I announce, pointing at myself and then writing "Bahai" with a flourish in letters that cover the board.

"Oooooh!" the class gasps in awe, amazed to see someone, a foreigner especially, write so fast and so big.

"What's your name?" I ask looking and pointing around the room.

"My name is . . . " as the class answers in a cacophony of names that ends in laughter as the kids realize that it is incomprehensible.

I shake my head in mock confusion then go up to a student with a twinkle in his eye saying "My name is Bahai, what's your name?" When the child answers I put out my hand to shake his hand and say, "Pleased to meet you." The Chinese are not accustomed to shaking hands and the children are especially overwhelmed at the prospect of shaking a foreign teacher's hand. Most of them have never seen a foreigner except on television or in magazines. I shake their hands very vigorously, in an exaggerated, humorous way. Some I let their hands almost come to mine and then at the last second coyly move mine, ala the Marx brothers or the Three Stooges. I dance with some or take their caps off and put them on my or another

Page 20

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

student's head. The classes always get a big laugh out of these antics.

I generally bring two boys and two girls to the front of the class. I do this by not letting go when I shake their hand and dragging them up front. Then I point back and forth between the boys and girls standing in front saying "boys" when I point to boys and "girls" when I point at the girls. I confuse the class by pointing back and forth between boys and girls faster and faster until I am pointing at the boys when they are saying girls and girls when they are saying boys. This always has the class excited as I look at the boys and say "GIRLS???" while looking bewildered. Sometimes I have all the boys in the class stand, then all the girls stand while I call out "boys" and "girls." I repeat this several times and then suddenly switch the order so as to have the boys stand when I say girls, and girls standing when I say boys--girls, boys, girls, boys, girls, boys, girls, girls. This is always followed by a dramatic look of amazement on my part and hilarious laughter on their part.

I put my jacket over the head of a boy like a scarf or in front of him like a dress and ask "Is he a girl?" The class is in an uproar. For girls, I put them with the boys and put a boy's arms over her shoulders, or I put a cap of her, or I put a mustache on her with chalk. The class and observers go wild at these antics. I also have students pantomime the different animals they know in English. I often bring a banana to offer the "monkeys" and draw white circles in chalk

Page 21

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

around the eyes of the "pandas." I always try to be sensitive not to push a student too far in my joking with them, but twice I've misjudged and brought tears to two little girl's eyes. This tore at my heart when it happened, but it has been these students and the ones I've joked with the most who will be the first in line for my autograph, which I rarely give as it usually results in an uncontrollable mob. But for those I have joked with I will. I will pick them up and hug them and pinch their cheeks. They become celebrities by being chosen by the foreign teacher for attention.

For forty minutes I am on stage and my audience is as captivated as if they were watching a giant panda doing magic tricks and talking. They love it and so do I. Because of the class I just observed, I am more animated and innovative than normal to make the point to the teachers and education leaders that learning does not have to be as rote, repetitious, serious and dull as it often is in China. The children, who are so precious and eager, are a joy to teach. I feel like I have made their day and that they will remember this class forever. After class they all mob around me trying to shake my hand.

Afterwards the teachers, leaders and I go to a meeting room to talk about teaching English in the primary grades. When Mr. Liu talks, I hear my Chinese name repeatedly as he describes what I did that the Chinese teachers should imitate. I can't understand the Chinese, but through the English examples he uses I can figure out much of what he is saying--teach more enthusiastically, use more activities, have the students use "real" English and don't put vowel sounds at the end of English words, like "do-ga" (dog) and "boo-ka" (book), as is often done here. When it's my turn to speak I tell them how happy I am to be here and teach their students. The district leader then speaks saying how much they have learned from me, thanks me, praises me "to the sky"--as the Chinese would say--and welcomes me to come again, all standard practice in polite Chinese custom. After fifty minutes, the meeting is over. As we start to leave for the banquet, I am presented with a gift of a large bag of chocolates by a representative of the school.

The Chinese are great gift givers, and I am given a gift at most of the places I visit. If they know that a guest likes or wants something, they will try to give it to him or her. Two months earlier at the end of a large banquet the host asked Gabe, my predecessor with whom I was travelling, what Chinese foods he liked. He rattled off ten dishes in Chinese, pleased to be able to flatter them with both his knowledge and love of their food. Over the next half hour each of these ten dishes was served. Though full from the thirty-dish meal we had just finished, he felt obliged to at least taste each dish which had been ordered especially for him.

My hosts are very sensitive to trying to please me. If I shake my drink-can to see how much is left or by mistake make slurping sounds with my straw when its empty, they will have a new can brought for me. If I show a preference for a food by expressing how much I like it or taking more of it than usual, they will order more of it and see that it is served at future meals. That might be all right except I want to taste the full variety of foods that the Chinese would

Page 22

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

normally eat. Also, after having the same thing every day, I get tired of it. Another problem is that what may be good at one restaurant may not be good at the next. So I tell them I like everything, which is generally true, and I am careful not to eat too much of any one dish. I also try not to shake my can or make any slurping noises, unless of course, I do want another drink.

This morning in the car Mr. Liu asked me in broken English what my wife liked.

"What is she like?" He asks and I respond with a perplexed look.

"What will she like?" He tries again and again I guess he is not really asking this.

"Does she like me?" He take a different tack and I start laughing.

"What does she like?" I query, guessing this is what he is getting at.

"Good question. All of them. And deep, too!" I think to myself.

I am not too sure about any of them. What does she like? Whenever Mr. Liu asks me a question like this, I know it is not to make small talk--it is to get information. She likes to spend money, and she likes expensive, classy things, I think to myself, but I knew these answers would not be appropriate, as I suspected the information would be used to get her a gift she would like.

I tried to think of something that would not be too expensive, but would make her genuinely happy. She does smoke, and the Chinese are fanatics about giving out cigarettes. Every official I meet offers me a cigarette; some even stuff a whole pack in my pocket. At first I accepted them, thinking it would make them feel better, but then someone would invariably offer to light one for me. Then I felt silly telling them I don't smoke, and certainly didn't want to tell them I was taking them home to my wife. So now I just cup my hands in a prayer-like fashion and tell them no thanks. She didn't like the Chinese cigarettes I brought home anyway she likes only the expensive American brands. It is also socially unacceptable for women in China to smoke, so she prefers I do not let the Chinese know she does. I only saw two Chinese women smoke in public in China, and both looked like no one was going to dare bother them about it.

She would like some new clothes and a plane ticket back to America, but they were too expensive. She does like chocolates, and though she prefers the expensive, imported brands, at this point she would be happy with any chocolate.

"She likes chocolates," I told him in simple English.

Mr. Liu had evidently told the hosting officials that chocolate would be a good gift for me, and they had gone out while I was teaching my demonstration lesson to buy the large bag of Chinese chocolates they presented to me as I was leaving the school. They were not bad, but some other chocolates we have gotten in China left such an offensive and long lasting taste in

Page 23

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

our mouths from the bad grease or rancid additives, that we gradually lost interest in local chocolates.

The Banquet At 7:00 p.m. we go to the banquet in our honor. Chinese banquets are generally big and important social occasions, and on these trips I am the guest of honor at two of them a day. Although Westerners may think the Chinese mannerless with their phlegm-hawking, snot- blowing, and bone-spitting table behavior, they have their own strict table etiquette. For instance, they would be disgusted to see someone blow their nose into a hanky and then put it into their pocket. They would find it uncouth that people would put more than a bite of food from the serving plates onto their plates, rather than taking just a single serving. Growing up as a poor farm boy in America (called a peasant in Chinese), I am generally comfortable with this less formal, so called "mannerless" behavior. The Chinese etiquette has not been too hard for me though, as the Chinese have been very forward about telling me what to do, and I do what I am told. In fact, I am rather good at it--"sit here, eat this, help yourself, take this, toast now, let's go." Having lived several years overseas and in diverse cultures, I have also become adept at watching the "natives'" behavior, and taking my cues from them. I watch what they do and try to follow it. If they eat or serve themselves something in a certain way or order, I do the same.

A Chinese banquet consists of many courses, so I have had to learn to pace myself, as it is polite for the guest to take a little from each dish. It is not unusual for the banquet to last two hours and to consist of thirty dishes. Many Westerners have trouble with the Sichuanese food, which can be quite exotic, spicy and greasy. Many non-Sichuanese Chinese I knew also have trouble with Sichuanese food. Not only do I like it--I think it is the best food I have ever eaten, and I have eaten food from all over the world. Of course, it helps if you already like exotic, spicy and greasy foods, which I do. On the other hand, it is also some of the worst food I have ever eaten. That's China, the land of contrasts! Much of the difference depended on the quality of the food and preparations. I ate in some of the best places and some of the worst places in Sichuan. Although, I sometimes think my hosts get a secret amusement out of trying to gross me out with the strange food, burn me out with the fiery spices, or clog me up with the mounds of fat and oceans of grease.

In China toasting is an important part of a social banquet and it follows certain protocols, most of which I am probably either blissfully unaware or break, as I don't drink alcohol. The host offers a toast, sometimes with a Chinese sorghum 120 proof whiskey called maotai. China, the first home of paper, gun powder and clocks, may have also been home of the first Molotov cocktail. Maotai burns when a match is put to it, when it goes down and when it's inhaled. Not only can this firewater get you plastered, which the Chinese take no small delight in, but it is also said to work well as paint remover and jet fuel.

Page 24

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Toasting is done much like in the West where someone offers a toast by raising his glass, saying a few words, and at the signal, "cheers," "bottoms up" or maybe "ere's mud in your eye," everyone else raises their glasses and drinks. In China the signal to drink is ganbei, which literally means "dry glass." When they've downed their drink, they proudly display their empty glasses much like an amateur card shark showing the crowd the missing card or a magician theatrically displaying the empty hat that a second before had a live rabbit in it. They seem to say, "See! I told you I could do it, o' ye of little faith. I literally have a 'dry glass.' Now what does you say to that? I bet you can't you top that?" (Har! Har! Har!)

No, I can't, nor do I want to. If this is a contest of who has the biggest balls or of whom cares the most, then you can win. One rule I live by is "Do not drink any liquid that burns when a match is put to it." It is considered ungrateful and rude not to drink when toasted. It is like refusing to shake an outstretched hand or not acknowledging a greeting. I knew this Chinese custom about men guests being expected to join the host in a toast of alcohol at banquets, and how forceful they can be in getting hesitant guests to comply. One story I heard was about a group of friends using a knife and physical force to hold down the reluctant person as encouragement to join them in a toast. I had made it very clear to Mr. Liu before I took this job that I would not drink alcohol. I did not bother telling him drinking was against my religion, something that would carry much weight in America, but very little weight in China, as I was sure that would not have meant anything to him. Besides I did not want my religion, which is not officially recognized in China, to become a matter of concern for the authorities.

I would quit before I would drink, so I suggested it would be better for everyone if this was made clear, so no one would have to lose "face"--a very important matter to the Chinese. Mr. Liu has been good about handling this sensitive issue, but sometimes an official will still try to get me to toast with alcohol. If it gets ugly, I pull out the picture of my three daughters and one son I always carry with me in my coat pocket. ("Can you top that?") In a country with a strongly enforced one-child policy, I can hold my own in this arena and settle any questions about balls. Of course, this is all in the polite spirit of being a good appreciative guest. ("Har! Har! Har!")

It isn't polite to drink alone, so every time someone wants some spirits they must toast the whole table or at least one other person. This practice encourages the maximum alcohol consumption, as the person at the table who drinks the most must get others to join him if he is to get his fill. In addition, there is often a table server, always female, young and attractive, whose only job is to make sure the glasses are filled, to serve as a cheerleader for the drinkers and to assist in chiding those reluctant imbibers. I have observed them in action. Sometimes her chiding takes the form of challenging the hesitant male to a drink off. She will take two table glasses, fill them equally full and say, "If I can drink this much, then surely you can too." Before he can answer, she downs her glass in one long drink, then triumphantly flaunts her empty glass to the assembled guests and the defeated male, who must now finish his glass to save face for both himself and the young woman. (Friendly advice: Do not get yourself in this situation.) I am

Page 25

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

sure it is good for the restaurant's business, but I suspect the turnover rate for these young women is high.

At the countryside banquets they tend to drink more and be more forceful in their encouraging everyone else to also drink more. At this banquet, eighteen people consume four large bottles of strong whiskey; enough, I think to myself, to power our vehicle back to Chengdu. They toast with little ceramic glasses filled to overflowing, down their drink (what doesn't spill on the table and food) in one swig, and then they triumphantly display their empty glasses.

I have never seen women teachers drink more than a token sip at these banquets. Tonight four of the five young female teachers change that. As a group they toast me, the honored guest, first. They all toast me with strong whiskey, but allow me to toast them with my favorite standby--coconut milk. Then the four young ladies each individually toast each of the other eight officials, so the male official has to drink four drinks for each lady, but each lady has to drink eight drinks for each male, and that is not counting the several toasts they had before running this gauntlet. This was a long process as each official vociferously protested each drink at length. One younger man saw his turn coming and slipped away only to be dragged back fighting later by two other young men. He was the last to be toasted and fought the hardest and longest to resist. He finally worked out a compromise of only drinking a sip to each of the four, not downing four whole glasses. As I witnessed this drawn out affair, I noticed that most men, but only one women--another female teacher--flinched or grimaced swallowing their drink.

At the countryside banquets they also spit and blow their noses onto the floor more, and are generally "less sophisticated" in their eating habits. The most popular style of spitting here is leaning slightly forward and letting the spit, bones or food fall between one's legs. It looks quite easy, but does require some skill. Some of my attempts at spitting out bones have landed on my neighbor or on me. It is quite embarrassing to have to reach over to my neighbors' trousers or fancy coat and brush off a piece of fish head I have spit on them. Clearing the nose requires blowing, and is usually done by turning to one side, plugging one nostril and giving a forceful snort. This requires even more skill and greater cultural detachment than spitting. I tried, but ended up making more of a mess than it was worth. I also still felt self conscious about it and did not want to have to clean off my host's sleeve like I had to do with my own when I miss aimed. As I have not developed this useful skill or the proper detachment required, I still use a tissue. On the other hand, I understand how many Chinese can find it disgusting when people use a hanky or tissue to blow their nose. And if you think about it, they have a point, all- be-it a sticky one.

The Hotel After the banquet, I am led across the parking lot to my hotel with my little vinyl briefcase bag containing a change of shirt and undershirt. Mr. Liu normally travels without any changes of clothes. My shirts get so disgustingly dirty from the pollution, especially around the

Page 26

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

collars and cuffs, that I can't bear to wear them two days in a row. I have been cold all day and am hoping that my room will have heat, but it doesn't. It does have hot water from eight to ten in the evening, though, so I decide to take a hot bath before going to bed. The hot water does not work in my first room, so I have them move me to another room. This time I check the hot water before I unpack. It works. I undress to take my bath and discover the cold water tap will not work. We check another room but its toilet is broken. Finally, I end back at my first room which now has hot water. I use eight of the twelve pieces of toilet paper given me when I checked in (most hotels do not give any) to block up the overflow on the bathtub, fill it to the brim and submerge myself in heavenly bone-thawing warmth. The room does not have towels, so I use the edges of the bed sheet to dry myself, then I hop into bed.

I turn on the television, but all of the programs are the regular staple of mind-numbing soap operas and outrageous fight scenes, all in Chinese. As I flip through the eight available cable stations a show captures my attention with two men and two women martial arts masters (and mistresses?) flying through the air, knocking their enemies down with energy fields (qi) and chopping their heads off with their bare hands. Before long, I have the bed warmed up and I drift off to sleep.

Foreigners are still only allowed to visit certain areas in China and in these places they must stay in specially designated hotels. I found out two weeks later that Dongdu is not on the approved list of cities that foreigners can visit when I spent a whole day in the immigration police office under arrest for writing my children's names on the page labeled "Children" in my Foreigner's Residence Permit. (I had lots of time to read the regulations posted on the walls.) This all happened as a result of giving my family's passports to the authorities at our University, our keepers, so they could get re-entry visas back into China for us, as we were leaving the country for Thailand and Hong Kong during spring festival. Because everyone in my family but me also had to have their Chinese resident permits extended, they also took all of our resident permits. Two days before we are to leave on vacation everything came back except my resident permit. It had been held by the police and I had to go to the immigration office. An official from the Foreign Affairs Office at the university where we were staying went with me at 8:30 in the next morning.

It was just above freezing and was expected that the drizzling rain would soon turn to snow sometime that day. At the provincial police compound we are sent to an office on the second floor that deals with offenses committed by foreigners. Though the temperature hovered at 0 degrees Celsius, the doors and windows were wide open and the two officers there were working in their police uniforms, without heavy coats on, one making entries into a ledger, the other assigned to my case. I was instructed to sit in a dirty, worn, overstuffed chair. When I did, I noticed what appeared to be a dead fly on the cushion between my legs. I casually flicked it onto the floor in the middle of the office. It was only then I realized it was not dead, but in a state of inert helplessness because of extreme cold. It sat in the middle of the floor, unable to move its nearly frozen body. I felt somehow connected to the fly. By flicking it in the middle of

Page 27

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

the floor I had put it in a precarious situation and I felt that only I could save it. I stared at it to keep from not acting concerned about this serious offence I had committed. The more I stared at it, the more I felt that our destinies were linked, but if I intervened to save it I would upset the balance of nature and the gods that control such things. It was unfair. Both our fates left to the gods or bureaucracy, whichever would act first. Throughout the morning-long interrogations, with people entering and leaving the office, I watched to see if they would step on this fly that was too frozen to move. I looked to the fly on the floor three feet in front of me for solace, comradery, and focus. I waited for a sign. Will someone squish it? Will it begin to move toward safety? Will we be delivered from our perplexities?

The crime I had committed was writing my children's names in my Chinese resident permit. There was a page that had blanks to put your children's names, ages, nationalities and genders, and I had filled it in. I had tampered with "Chinese" property. I had altered a "Chinese" document. The way they said "Chinese" made me think of the old time movies (was it Charlie Chan?) when they would say "We have a way to make you talk. 'Chinese' torture! Ha! Ha! Ha! Haa!" Putting a special emphasis on "Chinese," as if the world had some magical, demonic or sacred power. I not only had violated a "Chinese" law, I had violated a "Chinese" document and the "Chinese" government and the "Chinese" people themselves. I had committed a sacrilege. This was a serious violation and I was careful to display a proper attitude throughout their questioning and recording of my answers.

"Did you write these names on this page?" the officer in charge of my case would ask as if I had murdered someone.

"Yes,"I responded, trying to be short so that no misunderstandings would occur.

"When did you write them in?"

"I don't know."

"But you just said that you had written them in, now you are telling me you do not know?"

What was he getting at? Was this a trick? Did he not understand my English, or English in general? Would it better to make up an answer or stick with the truth? He acted as if he had asked me "When did you murder these people?" and I answered "I don't know." It seemed he could not believe me that I did not know. How could I have committed such a heinous crime and not remember when I did it? The questioning went on like this all morning.

At noon I was presented with a statement written in Chinese that was orally translated for me. I had to sign, date and thumbprint the statement. I thought it was mercifully over. Then the officer in charge of my case informed me in broken English that I must return that afternoon and that I should bring money.

Page 28

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

"How much money? One-hundred kwai? " I ventured, not wanting to sound too low or disrespectful. He just stared at me. Maybe he did not understand I thought.

"Twenty kwai?" I said hopefully when he didn't respond. He just looked at me as if he were reading my soul. Was he trying to decide whether to just say it was a simple mistake and they would overlook it this time, or was he trying to read how much he could get out of me? He looked in my eyes a long time then began talking in Chinese to the official from my work unit who had escorted me there. I heard the police officer say "1500 kwai" to my escort, but I didn't think anything about it as that was a ridiculous sum of money. He couldn't be talking about my fine. Maybe he was talking about the maximum they could fine under the law.

He looked at me again, taking another measure of my soul. He talked again in Chinese to my escort and then in English to me he said, "Not less than 1,000 kwai." So he had been saying 1500 kwai for my fine earlier. I was shocked. I had written my children's names on the page in my resident permit, as I thought I was supposed to do, and they were going to fine me more than a month's salary, or about one-ninth our annual income for teaching full time at a university in China. The fine was more than the annual per capita income of a Chinese farmer, which in American terms would be $20,000 - $30,000. The fine was possibly a third of the immigration officer's annual income. In America dollars this fine would be equivalent to about $15,000. All because I was doing something I thought I should.

Writing my children's names in the ten page resident permit caused no harm to anyone and was of no benefit to me. To impress upon me the seriousness of my offense, he compared the "Chinese" resident permit to my "American" passport.

"You would never write in your United States passport," he said decisively.

I handed him my passport in which I had written my address and the names and passport numbers of my family.

"Well I would never write in your passport." he retorted.

So! What's the point I thought, but I knew arguing would be counter productive.

"I cannot even pay 1,000 kwai, let alone more." I said calmly, getting back to the point.

He stared at me again. We finally parted with the officer saying, "I will see what I can do." I had heard this before several times in my many travels around the world. It was generally a euphemism for "I will help you if you help me," or what is commonly called a bribe. I have never had to "grease anyone's palms" or "give money under the table" before, and I wasn't planning to start now. In my travels and living in Africa I was in situations where officials suggested things might go smoother if I were "cooperative." But when apparently I did not understand, and for a long time I didn't, (ignorance really can be bliss) or was not going to "cooperate," I eventually got the documentation or service I was supposed to get anyway.

Page 29

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

After an afternoon of tense negotiation with my Foreign Affairs Office and the immigration office, in which I made it clear that if I paid this fine, I was leaving China, even if it was after serving time in a Chinese jail. After signing a confession and promising never to do this again, I was set free without paying any fine. I found out after returning from my vacation that a friend of mine ran into the same immigration officer the week after me and was told to pay a 10,000 kwai fine. She did end up leaving China and did not return as the result of this, but that's another story.

I generally cannot ask many questions on my trips because most people cannot understand English. I also do not want to appear ungrateful or too nosy, or to have them to lose "face," nor would I trust most answers about such matters. At the hotels I normally fill out the forms they tell me to fill out and I show my passport and residence permit to whoever asks to see it. My resident permit entitles me to a substantial discount on the high prices nonresident foreigners must pay for hotels and some other services. At Dongdu I did not fill out any of the required forms or show my passport, as required, to anyone, and was kept in the background while they checked me in. The officials evidently handled the irregularities, if there were any.

Wednesday, December 27, 1995

Eight Weddings and Eight Accidents The next morning we are picked up to be driven part way back to Chengdu in a police land cruiser. This is the first time I have been driven by a plain-clothes police officer in a police vehicle and I am curious as to why. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I hesitate to ask because of their limited English and the possibilities of misinterpretation. I also am sensitive to not crossing over the line of propriety,but I am not sure where that line is. When will I ask one too many questions, or the wrong question, that will make them clam up, shut me out, be investigated or asked to leave? Will this question make them think I am a CIA agent or writing some book that will expose all of their foibles and corruption? Because they do not understand English very well, I cannot be subtle--"I see we are going in a police car today"--and expect them to offer an explanation. I ask a question that does not appear snoopy and should be both understandable and informative.

"Are we riding in this police vehicle today?"

"Yes."

A few miles down the road when we stop at a gas station, I venture into a new level of questioning.

"Why are we riding in a police vehicle today?"

Page 30

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

They talk among themselves in Chinese. Are they asking each other to understand what I said, or are they discussing how they should answer the question? Maybe they are deciding whether to take me to the Party authorities or not? Or maybe no one really knows the answer and they keep asking one another to see if anyone knows? I don't think the Chinese ask or are asked these kinds of questions. Maybe they do not even think about them? Maybe they all know? Asking the wrong question can have serious repercussions--can be interpreted in the wrong way--especially if you are a Chinese. If it was something you should know about, you would be told; otherwise . . .

Nobody seems to know why. It seems that this was the vehicle and driver that were available and, though not said, suitable for this level of delegation. Who knows? As with most answers I get, I never know if it is the truth or if it is just the answer they think they should give.

The sun has poked through after weeks of different shades of gray. In forty minutes of driving we pass three recently overturned trucks off the side of this mountain road, all with crowds still around them surveying the damage, seeming to enjoy the diversion from what seem otherwise uneventful daily lives. We also pass two wedding parties with crowds of festively dressed participants. The people in the rural areas generally dress in dark colors which seem to take on the color of the soil in which they work, so when I see people dressed in bright, light colors and frilly dress clothes, it stands out like a flower in a dirt patch. The first wedding is a more traditional one with several porters carrying the bride in a sedan chair and her belongings in trunks and tied to poles up a mountain slope to the groom's and her new home. The porters generally work in pairs, one following the other with a bamboo pole over each shoulder, their loads suspended between them, but there are four men carrying the sedan containing the bride. The other wedding party has two cars waiting on the roadside to carry the bride and her belongings away.

"Before liberation they would have used horses, but now they use cars. This is progress" Mr. Liu proudly points out, alluding to the benefits of communism.

I ask the officials riding with me about the wedding customs of this region. Instead of answering, Liu asks me to show them the picture of my family I carry in my suit coat pocket.

"In China, four are too many children," the District Education Officer says.

"In America, four is also too many children," I reply.

"You are a 'good' man to have a son at your age," he says pointing to my six-year-old son. The others concur by giving me congratulatory looks, nods and thumbs up gestures.

I take "good" to mean virile, and give a deep manly laugh in response. My mostly white beard, part of the fruits of having four children, makes me look much older to the Chinese than my 44 years. Liu, a great joker, tells the officials that my English name is "Rod" and that "Rod

Page 31

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

makes good children. Har! Har! Har!" He is making a play on the Chinese equivalent of "spare the rod, spoil the child." In Chinese he explains the double meaning of "Rod," and, I also assume the double meaning, "Rod makes good children," as he and everyone else seems to find it so amusing. He gets a kick out of telling it to every new group we meet, especially the young female teachers who seem to fawn over me.

Our vehicle pulls over to the side of the road and all seven men get out to relieve themselves at a doorless and roofless "outhouse" with one meter high brick walls. It was probably built by an enterprising farmer to collect "night soil" for his fields. Two of the men go into it, but the rest relieve themselves along the side of the road. As a foreigner forever on display, I decide to wait to use the half-walled toilet, but realize the wisdom of those who chose not to as I step into the repugnant "human waste recycling center."

In 100 kilometers we pass a total of eight weddings and eight accidents. We pass wedding parties in buses, trucks, tractors, cars and porter caravans. We stop for one wedding party that has over forty porters working in pairs carrying the bride's things on the poles over their shoulders. Of the eight wedding parties, this is the largest. They are carrying everything needed to start a well-equipped home. Two small, elderly men carry a cabinet that looks too large to fit into a normal Chinese house, followed by a small boy carrying a live chicken.

At 5' 7", I am the tallest person there. Many porters only come up to my shoulders, but they are carrying loads for miles on muddy paths that I would have difficulty even lifting. We talk with them as they wait along the paved road for the bride, groom and musicians to catch up. They tell us that the boy's family has given one thousand yuan (US$ 123) and the girl's family has given thirteen hundred yuan (US$ 160) to get the couple started. The average annual income of a Chinese farmer is 1550 yuan, so this must be an extraordinary amount to them, and they seem happy to be able to impress us with it.

Soon the musicians arrive playing their handmade oboe-like instruments, their cymbals and other percussion instruments. Then the groom, wearing an oversized, soiled and worn suit, shirt and tie, works his way through the crowd. His pockets are bulging with cigarettes which he is hypnotically handing out two-at-a-time to each male in the crowd. He is so serious about giving them out to everyone that I graciously accept my two. The porters put their cigarettes behind their ears for safe keeping. I put mine in my pocket, for my wife, of course.

I see the bride coming through the field path leading to the main road. She has stopped at an especially muddy spot on the path. I am waiting for someone to pick her up and carry her across the mud on this special day --- maybe she is too --- but I don't see anybody coming to her rescue. After a short pause she and her escorts hop through it on their own. In the distance she looks like a fairy princess in her white fur-lined purple velvet coat and flowery red head dress, but up close she looks like the peasant girl she is, with ruddy cheeks and a strong build. Liu takes their pictures and promises to send them copies.

Page 32

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Bride and Groom pose with me

A wedding party coming up the road.

Page 33

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Musicians.

"Why are there so many weddings today?" I ask Liu.

Today is a "six" day in the Chinese lunar calendar he says, and one of the good days (2, 4, and 8 being the others) on which to get married. Evidently the number six said three times in Chinese also refers to going ahead, and to be married on this day will bring good luck (translated as money) to the couple. I guess that explains the large number of weddings, but not the equally large number of accidents. Traffic accidents are not unusual in China, I have seen over fifty in my travels. I have seen a gravel truck that had smashed into a home, with its bottom up where the wall used to be. I passed an accident involving a bicyclist and a fully loaded lumber truck. The lumber truck was tipped over by the side of the road, its huge logs thrown into the field. What was left of the bicyclist and his or her bicycle was under a straw mat in the middle of the road. The front rim sticking out of the edge of the mat was flattened like a steam roller had gone over it.

You can tell there is an accident ahead by the crowd. Whenever there is an accident, whether it's just a fender bender or a fatal accident with bodies strewn on the road, there is a crowd to see the excitement, and, in the case of survivors, to observe and/or participate in the laying of blame.

I try not to look anymore when I am traveling the highways and byways of China. If I am going to go, I'm going to go. Maybe that will be the last words they find on the tablet I am clutching in my dying hand, because now I try to engage myself in writing while on these trips. Conversation is limited as I generally don't share enough common language with the other passengers and the sights are limited to repetitious fields and buildings, and, of course, the thousands of vehicles, bicycles, and pedestrians I pass.

Somehow I have avoided being in an accident, but the close calls are causing a strain on my nerves--the bicycles pulling out, the passing two trucks side by side while seeing two trucks

Page 34

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

side by side passing a bus coming at you. I don't even have the language to describe such things, let alone the psychological and cultural experience to properly deal with it. It's like watching a chase scene, or a daredevil, death-defying stunt for three hours straight. It's like those crash and burn arcade games except the vehicles are real and you have no control of the wheel. It is exciting when your life is not in actual danger, and you have some influence beyond prayer over your destiny.

It does no good to tell the driver to be careful, because it will only suggest that I don't trust him or think he is a good driver, and he will drive faster and more dangerously to prove his prowess. My mind cannot take the constant threat, the preparing to die and miraculously being spared five times every minute. That's why I would never ride with a drunk person in the United States. So you can watch the rice fields speeding by or practice your Chinese or pour yourself into reading or writing, but don't, I warn you, look up when the driver hits the brakes or swerves. And if you have a heart condition, don't ride the roads of China.

"Then why are there so many accidents today?" I ask hoping for another insightful answer.

"I don't know," Liu shrugs.

Eight accidents in one hundred kilometers are unusual. The large number of accidents might have been caused by the drizzle and cold which made the roads slippery. Like the first snow when people are not yet used to it, lots of accidents happen. Maybe there is some ancient Chinese wisdom to this seeming coincidence of eight weddings and eight accidents. Or maybe "six" is also a good day for having accidents.

Next Town, Next School The drab countryside covered in ashen pollution and chilly fog yesterday has been transformed in the sunlight today. The peasants are taking advantage of this precious sunshine to dry out their clothes, grass mats and many other things on poles, lines, bushes and anything else that is available. Rows of poles are covered with thousands of two-meter long strings of homemade noodles which look like a dozen brown sheets hung on clothes lines to dry. It's as if they had declared a national holiday that is celebrated by hanging up whatever you can wherever you can. Having lived through the gray, damp, cold times here, I understand that the sunshine alone is reason enough for celebration.

We pass over fifty elderly villagers, almost all in the standard dark blue jackets, returning from praying at a nearby Buddhist temple. Hundreds of children are walking along the road going home from school for lunch and the customary Chinese after-lunch rest before going back to school at 2:30 in the afternoon. Four bent over old folks, two men and two women, are carrying a dead pig to market. The pig is in a basket tied to two poles. Two people, one following

Page 35

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

the other, have one pole over one of their shoulders, with the other two carrying the other pole over their shoulders, all bound together by the pig. Four hours into our journey we stop for lunch at the same roadside restaurant where we ate yesterday on our way to Dongdu. The four district officials in the vehicle with us stay in this village to visit the schools, while we are driven another hour and a half further to our next school. We drive through some of the most beautiful mountain countryside I have seen in China, or is it that I am so hungry for greenery and open spaces that this scenery is so enchanting. I remember the time in northern Botswana when I kept taking pictures of trees and water after having spent weeks in the Kalahari region. When I saw these pictures later, I wondered why I had taken them. It was because I was so hungry for these sights after being deprived of them for so long.

We arrive at our next school in the early afternoon. The driver from the provincial office who normally drives us, Mr. Gong, is waiting for us. He is napping in our regular van which is parked in the school compound yard. The driver of the police vehicle says goodby and without any further ado leaves immediately to go back to Dongdu. He will pick up the officials we left in the village on his way back. The school head comes out to greet us. Along the outer wall of the school yard are mounds of a corn meal like substance and three young men completely covered in fine yellow dust. They have on face masks that prevent them from breathing in the powder which they are shoveling into large plastic gunny sacks. I had never seen anything like this before and did not know what it was.

"What is it?" I ask Mr. Liu while pointing at it and shrugging.

He asks the school director who has greeted us. "I don't know the English word, only Chinese," Mr. Liu says and tells me the Chinese word ??? which means nothing to me.

"Is it a food?" I query, thinking it might be corn flour or something.

"No, it's for doctor," he responds.

After talking with another person who knows more English, I am told it is antibiotics that will be sent to a factory to put into capsules. I understand it is one of the school's money-making ventures. Many schools I visit have a factory or something attached to it which they run to make money for the school. They will take the money they get from the government and invest it in some venture to try to secure more funds for the school. Many government agencies now use similar strategies to raise money. I wonder how the antibiotic dust affects the students in the school. Do they have less or more diseases?

Another school; another round of formalities. At most schools I visit, the principal/head, the assistants and the English teacher are at the school entrance to welcome and greet me. Next they escort me to the reception/meeting room. Some of these rooms are very elaborate and are furnished like a prestigious boardroom in the States. In the smaller countryside schools, the reception is often in the principal's office with a few chairs brought in. Tea is always offered the

Page 36

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

guests, even if it is the principal's jar. In China it is common to drink tea from a regular glass jar that is refilled with hot water and loose tea leaves which are changed periodically. Generally there is fruit that is in season on the table. All of the men are offered cigarettes and this ritual may be repeated several times. Sometimes I am given a pack of cigarettes on arrival at the school as a ritual welcome gift.

In the meeting room I am often introduced to other education officers and teachers. If I politely refuse the fruit they will keep asking until I accept, often pealing the fruit and handing it to me, but they generally are not insistent about my accepting cigarettes. Most of the conversations are in Chinese and unless I have an English speaker sitting next to me, I am pretty much left to sit. Somewhere into this reception someone announces that it is time for me to teach my demonstration lesson, observe a lesson or give my lecture. Everyone gets up and we go to the classroom. The children in the school are excited and the bold ones try to steal a glance at or word with the foreigner.

In the classroom, the children, who have been expectantly waiting for this visit, are bursting with excitement, but they are seated quietly at their desks as they have been trained to do since their first days at school. Sometimes they are singing a song. If so and I am to teach them I will either direct them in singing or dance to their singing.

After my lesson, the students, the class and the rest of the school will generally mob me for autographs or to shake my hand. I do my routine about shaking hands in my lesson as shaking hands is part of greeting someone in most English speaking countries. I only made the mistake of volunteering to sign my autograph once. The kids were so wild they almost crushed me and tore me apart in their fight to get my autograph. From then on I've been more careful about encouraging such adulation.

Leaving school includes saying goodbye to the officials and the children. Sometimes the Chinese teachers and guides have to shout at and pull back the students so our vehicle can leave the school grounds. The kids want one last look, word or touch.

As at most schools I visit, we have a reception, we observe a local teacher, I do my demonstration teaching, we talk with the officials and teachers and we have a banquet. The primary English class we observe is unusual in that there are only 36 students, the smallest class I have seen in China, and the teacher is a male; almost all of the primary English teachers I have seen are female. As teaching English on the primary level is still very new and experimental, there are no formally trained teachers for it. The schools that are participating in this experimental program must find something that has never existed before--primary English teachers. They usually look for those who have taught English in the secondary schools, teachers in other subjects who have had English sometime in school or any available person who can speak a little English, and I mean a little. It is common for these English teachers to be very nervous when I come, as most of them have never talked with a native English speaker before. Many avoid me so that their very limited English does not become apparent to me or the

Page 37

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 authorities, and they lose "face" or a job. Some have learned English only in secondary school and some, who did not have the opportunity to go to secondary school, have learned it from listening to English programs and through self study programs. As it is an experimental program, it is not a part of the regular school curricula. All students taking this English class have to pay a small fee for the instruction and materials.

This teacher has four girls sing "The More We Get Together." The teacher plays the song on a cassette tape that comes with the class book or office supplies. The singer on the cassette sounds like she is satirizing British opera with her pompous and over-affected enunciation. Many of the words on the tape are incomprehensible to me, but the students don't seem to mind as they sing it several times. The class does several activities from the book then repeats the rhyme ("rim"): "Spring is warm with flowers and songs, Summer is hot and the days are long, Autumn is cool with fruits, rich and cheerful, Winter is cold with snow and New Year's Day" at least 12 times. The seasonal attribute may have meaning for temperate North America, but they are not true for much of the world or here, and are only partially true for Europe and North America. What does this rhyme (pronounced "rim" by every English speaker I have met in China) mean to these students. I wonder? Two boys have been standing in the font corners of the room facing the class since the beginning of the lesson. I think they are being punished, but they may be class monitors. After thirty minutes they sit down without any noticeable cue from the teacher. Though the number of boys and girls in the class is balanced, the teacher calls mostly on girls. He seems to be filling time by having students recite proverbs such as "Love me, love my dog," which are incomprehensible both to the students and the listeners. Finally he ends class with his often repeated transition phrase, "Okay let's have a stop."

I teach three classes and then visit six more classes for about seven minutes each, to greet and treat them. Each class is a story in itself. I am part circus clown, grandfather, panda bear, star and Santa Claus to the kids. I am a teacher, and it brings me joy, especially when I see how much joy it brings to the kids. I try to touch as many children as possible with my love, humor and hands. I have shaken hundreds, maybe thousands, of Chinese children's hands. Along the way I must have touched many children's hearts. I also must have picked up tuberculosis, as I tested positive when I returned to the States. In these classes I have the boy in the most tattered clothes come up front to be my assistant. I pick up a little girl in my arms and ask her name. I take a little kid's cap and put it on my head. I dance with the shyest girl in the room.

In one class visit the monitor and teacher are in the front of the room when I unexpectedly barged in. The teacher had just told the monitor to take down the portable chalkboard while she went to the back of the room. But I was standing between him and his assigned duty.

"Hello." I said as I bent over and waved at him. He looked at me, then he looked at the portable board, clearly trying to decide whether to answer me or to do what his teacher had

Page 38

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

told him to do. He tried to go around me. I stepped in front of him, and said hello again. He looked at me sizing me up. He was a husky kid, strong but chubby, with his short hair sticking straight out like porcupine's quills from his head. I remembered a Native American student with that same build, hair and look when I first starting teaching 22 years ago.

To this day he is my most memorable student. His name was Ivan and he was known by the teachers as "Ivan the Terrible." He was not only the classroom bully in my fifth grade, but he was the bully in the whole school. He was also probably the most effective classroom monitor I have ever had. I was a new teacher out to prove myself, and handling Ivan would be my most dramatic proof I had what it takes to be a good teacher and handle whatever needed to be handled in the classroom. I had to enlist him as my ally in the classroom or else both of us would be the losers. His reward for being good in class was to be my helper, my assistant. He valued this opportunity to exercise his power in a legitimate and appreciated way. Even though he was the worst behaved kid in the school, no one had better step out of line during his watch. He was used to lording it over others in his bullying role and adapted easily to doing the same in his teacher's assistant role.

This eight-year old Chinese boy not only looked like Ivan, but he had the same passion and talent for monitoring the class. He tried again and again to get around me and again and again I dramatically stepped between him and his goal. The class sensed I was making a joke with him and started giggling. He might not be able to get to the chalkboard, but he had a straight shot at the class. He turned to the class and, like a seasoned drill sergeant, barked "shut up" in a voice that scared even me. I decided to let him off the hook and spare the class his wrath, so turned to the class to introduce myself. The second I turned to the class he determinedly went to taking the portable board down as he was instructed. I saw the teacher in the back of the class trying in vain to get his attention to tell him not to worry about it--just sit down!! He was too intent and single minded to notice her or anyone else. When I turned to write my name on the board I inadvertently ran into him as he was coming from the corner where he had put the board. Again we were in a face off, and again the class was giggling. Again the monitor turned on the class, this time ordering them to stand. The giggling immediately stopped as the class jumped to their feet. I looked at them, then I looked at him, then I told them to sit.

By now he decided the best thing was to head for his seat. But by now I was not ready to let him go so easily. When he tried to go one way I stepped in front of him. When he tried to go another way I blocked him. The class was laughing now at my comical antics with the monitor as I tried to lighten up the situation and give the monitor a face saving way out. The boy changed from his role of trapped uncertainty to his well deserved role and duty as class monitor. He grabbed the bamboo stick on the teacher's desk, slapped it down hard on the desk and barked in no uncertain terms at the class to be quiet. When a couple of students didn't instantly obey, he called them by name to get their compliance and establish his authority. With the class back in control, he decided to go the long way around the back of the class to get to his seat.

Page 39

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

"My name in Bahai, what is your name?" I said to him as I put out my hand, trying a different tack with him.

He either didn't understand or thought that since he had removed the portable board as the teacher had told him he was to sit down, not to answer questions, even from a foreign guest teacher. He didn't flinch, but I could tell his quick mind was trying to figure out what to do. In a flash he retreated behind the teacher's desk and went for the first chair, commanding the boy sitting in it to get up and move. I grabbed the monitor from behind, picked him up and carried him back up front. He had already gotten hold of the other boy's chair and wouldn't let it go. I set him down with the chair in hand. He instantly offered me the chair he was carrying as if he had gotten it for me. I offered it to him. He offered it to me. I offered it to him again and again he offered it to me. He would not sit down and would not give up control. In the end he won, and I sat. Now that he had gotten me under control, he had to get the class which was laughing hysterically under control. He took the stick again and quickly got control of the class with a few quick blows to the desk and a powerful stern look.

He saw his opportunity to finally officially turn the class over to me by handing the stick to me so he could formally be relieved of his monitoring duties. As he was taking his leave, I jumped up, grabbed him and set him down standing on the teacher's desk. The instant I let go he jumped down, obviously very concerned about this serious transgression of standing on the teacher's desk. My five minutes with the class were finished. I was unable to get him to respond to any of my greetings or introductions earlier so I offered him my hand in a gesture of truce and farewell. He still didn't get it--was I talking to him as a peer or in his role as a monitor? The students shouted and motioned to him to shake my hand. After a long moment's hesitation, he uncertainly raised his hand to meet mine, I would move my hand just as his was about to meet it, which only made him more uncertain and the class more wild. Finally I grabbed his hand and gave him a body shaking hand shake. It was over, but I remember him and I am sure he remembers me. I wonder if Ivan, who is serving life in prison, remembers me?

At seven we have a banquet and at nine o'clock that evening we leave the restaurant to check into a hotel. On the street in front of the restaurant a man and woman are racing by on a clangorous old Chinese tractor. They are bundled up against the cold with enough clothes to keep warm while they are working, but not enough for riding a tractor in the cold night air. They bounce down the street at full speed. The scent and feel of the cold evening air and the sight and sound of the man and woman on the tractor take me back to the cold harvest evenings of my youth in Iowa. The little Chinese tractor is a cross between the oversized rotor-tiller and small Ford tractor my uncle had when I was a boy. Its dim headlights give off only enough light for oncoming traffic to see them, not enough to light up the road. It reminds of harvest and the times I would bring the wagons loaded with corn or soybeans in from the fields. It leaves me with a warm feeling on this cool evening.

Page 40

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

It is about 40 degrees fahrenheit outside, but like most places in this part of China there is no indoor heat. Like most "better" hotels, it has hot water for two hours in the evening. Like last night, I am moved from room to room until I can find one where everything that I want works. I plug up the overflow on the tub with half the toilet paper they have given me with my room, fill it to the rim with hot water and stay in it until I am ready to crawl into my bed. No kung fu movies tonight. I am too exhausted and cold.

Thursday, December 28, 1995

Third School At seven in the morning Liu is banging on my door.

"Ba Hai, get up!"

I know Liu is coming because part of his wake up routine is to sing Sichuan opera at the top of his voice. Besides, I have been up since six and am ready to go. We have a standard breakfast for this part of China watery rice porridge, steamed buns and pickled radishes and turnips, then drive through fog so thick that we have to keep stopping to ask directions. This seems to bother driver Gong, who takes pride in doing his job very well. This morning it was so cold in the van that even Mr. Liu puts on gloves (I was surprised he had any), sat on the engine compartment, and kept slapping himself and stamping his feet to keep warm, but driver Gong still drove with his window all the way down. Maybe I will figure out why they do this before I leave China. I am frozen. I notice that Liu, like many Chinese, suffers form chill blain--sores and blisters on the skin that result from being exposed to cold--on his hands and ears. Although I have lived many years in the coldest parts of the United States, I didn't learn about chill blain until three day ago. I probably hadn't noticed his sores before because I did not know what they were. Swelling, redness, sores and blisters from the cold are very common here, especially on the hands of students and workers who have no way of keeping them warm while they work.

Two hours later we arrive at our destination, probably late, but this is not unusual in Chinese traffic, especially in this dense fog. As the person who has taught in more schools in China than any other foreigner, I have been greeted in many different ways from no ceremony to the whole school lined up on two sides of a path that I walk down while they sing a welcome song to me. Sometimes when I arrive at a school there are banners hung over the gate, across the front of the school building or in the school yard welcoming me. Sometimes the school band is at the gate in uniform, playing music as I enter. Sometimes the children will line both sides of the entrance and greet me with flowers, songs, clapping and some sort of cheer. I feel like when I was on my high school football team during homecoming. I ran onto the football field down the two rows of cheerleaders and fans shaking their pom poms and screaming. Sometimes the greeting is more formal and actually takes place in an elaborate ceremony.

Page 41

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Today there is no welcoming ceremony, and there are no officials, as they have not yet arrived. We will all be treated to a special performance after the teaching. When I visited this same school four months later, it was more special, as the provincial office was awarding the school a plaque to name it as an official provincial experimental primary English language instruction school. Though fewer officials came for my second visit then this first visit, the ceremony was much greater. It was held in the school yard with the whole school seated around the large field and some community members standing in the background. I sat at the guest of honor's place in the middle of the speaker's table. A marching band of over one hundred primary aged students opened the ceremony with a song. Then the Young Pioneer representative came forward to present me with a bouquet of artificial silk flowers. The local leader welcomed me and the other guests. The band played another song. The plaque was presented to the school head by Mr. Liu while a tape of the Chinese national anthem was played over the loudspeakers and video cameras recorded the event for local television and the district archives. Mr. Liu said a few words followed by the mayor and some other education leader.

In my short speech I compare the children to flowers in the school yard garden, using the silk bouquet they have given me as a visual aid. I compare their teachers and parents to loving gardeners.

"Today you are just young saplings, but you will grow into strong trees like those surrounding the school yard, to bring fruit to themselves, their families, their country and the world," I tell them as I point to the tall trees around them.

"I grew up in a rural area like you, and was 16 before I ever visited a city as large as the mayor's city," I say gesturing to the mayor sitting at the head table with me, "but today I am here talking to you."

"I hope someday you can come to America and talk with me like I am talking with you today." I close as the translator translates, the crowd applauds and the drummers hit their drums.

Then the entertainment begins. First eight girls who are about 12 years old do a traditional dance of the Xichuang minority group in southwest Sichuan province. Next a group of about 18 girls do an aerobic dance routine in flashy tights, dancing with flowers as part of the routine. The third act is a traditional Chinese dance from the 1943 Communist days celebrating their cause. It is performed by 80 girls. The fourth performance was a dance by 20 seven to eight year old girls (they looked 4 or 5 to me) dressed all in yellow dancing around two older girls dressed in white tights with bright blue shirts. They young girls in yellow were depicting little chicks dancing around their mothers, in white and blue. The grand finale was a traditional band like those that would perform triumphant music for the emperors. It was composed of over sixty boys in traditional purple clothing and 60 girls in traditional white ceremonial clothing. They played only drums and cymbals, with the head teacher leading them in a well choreographed routine.

Page 42

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

The beauty and skill of these performances would make most Americans proud if their children were performing in them. And these are countryside children whose family's annual average income is probably less than $400 a year (and maybe under $200). I ask the leader sitting next to me how they could afford to buy so many nice instruments, costumes and uniforms. He says the school has several money making ventures, such as a small manufacturing factory, a fishing pond and a swimming pool. This is common now in China.

But today there is not only no ceremony, the district education officials have not yet arrived. The sun is starting to burn away the morning fog. I am beginning to understand why and how people used to worship the sun. I find myself longing for and seeking its life-giving and soul- healing rays. I watch the children playing on the playground. Twenty boys are spinning homemade tops with strings, then whip the tops with the string to make them move around.

The officials arrive, as do about twenty ten to eleven year old students brought from another part of the district to observe and participate in the demonstration classes. We first observe a local teacher teach a lesson, Ms. Zhou. She is teaching her forty-five nine-year-old students some exercises from the books. They sing the "ABC Song" in from the book (it is the same ABC's we use, but the song is different) unison to start the class. After "hellos" and "what is your name," Ms. Zhou has a girl come up front to recite "My name is Meng, I am a pupil, I am a girl."

"Open to page 20 and read after me," Ms. Zhou instructs the class. She has students explain the meanings of the English words in Chinese, then gives cards to four students with the names of four characters in a dialogue in the book. These students read their parts and the class repeats after each student has read. They sing "Hello Boys, Hello Girls," identify some pictures and try to do some dialogue using both Chinese and English. She asks for volunteers to tell about what their brothers and sisters do. A boy clears his throat and spits on the floor. No one volunteers to answer, maybe because they do not have any brothers or sisters, because of China's one-child policy. After some other activities they close with the song "Who is Wearing Red Today" in which they go through several of the colors. The students respond in the song with "I am warring rad torday," and pronounce all of the colors wrong--"bu," "yeow" and "gren."

Then I teach two classes that the local press and official photographers record for the evening news and posterity. Afterwards the children give me New Year's cards they have made or bought for me. Several are decorated with Santa Clauses and some contain personal messages such as "I wish you like the card," "You coming our school is pleased," and "I hope I make friend with you." I am touched, especially by the ones made out of rough paper or cardboard. This is a big affair for the school that includes a special banquet in their cafeteria for the about thirty officials. About five drivers, photographers and other workers also eat with the officials, as is the custom in China. I am surprised to see that he visiting students are also included in the banquet, though they sit at their own tables.

Page 43

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

After lunch we are escorted to a large hall where the students entertain the visitors with songs and skits. I smile when I see the kids elbowing each other to get in line and telling each other what to do. The other Chinese student performances I have seen are so rehearsed that the children's spirits seem lost. The child master of ceremonies is a cross between a sports announcer and an evangelist. He makes the tall, thin teacher with thick glasses in charge of the program look meek in comparison. This teacher has six of the educational leaders and me come in front. She assigns each of us a musical note in the scale that we are to sing when she points to us. A couple of the leaders say the right note (do, re, mi), but not in the right tone. This makes the song incomprehensible, but more entertaining for the audience. Then she has seven children come up and do the same thing. They are much better (at least you can tell what the song is), but certainly not as entertaining. As guest of honor (and the only native English speaker), I am asked to sing a solo. I sing the chorus of "Do, Re, Mi" and surprise myself by remembering all of the words.

Sixteen girls wearing all yellow outfits with red crepe decorated jump ropes are led by their teacher in an aerobic dance routine to a driving disco song in English. The only part of the blaring tape I can understand is the often repeated chorus: "Lead to Russia." This very American activity seemed incongruous in Communist China. Maybe the part about "Lead to Russia" has some redeeming message. They take several group pictures in front of the school, then everyone wants an individual picture taken with me, including the videographer and the photographer. Everyone thanks me, says goodby and shakes my hands several times in the half- hour process of leaving.

Going Home (I Think) I crawl into the front seat of the van to close the window and to let the rare sunlight (have I mentioned that before) bathe and warm my deprived body. I know I am putting my life in greater danger by sitting in the front seat, but my immediate need for sun and warmth overcomes my long term survival needs. I never know until we get there where we are going, and then it often does not mean anything to me anyway, as the cities and schools are hard to distinguish from one another. I understood we were going directly back to the office, but instead we stop at a school on the outskirts of Chengdu. It is a military school--built, managed and owned by the military for the military dependents of units serving in Tibet.

The cypress trees around the school's large paved yard are decorated like Christmas trees, and a large Christmas tree is set up in the middle of the grounds. What appeared to be a courtesy call ended up lasting several hours. We first watch the children doing a dress rehearsal on the school grounds for a program that evening, then attend a special ceremony honoring the school's accomplishments in the school's large reception room with over fifty visiting officials and teachers. I am probably the only person in the room who is not a Party member. I sit at the head table with the military and educational leaders from the district and provincial offices. An English teacher translates for me, which is enlightening, as she does not edit or interpret as

Page 44

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

much as the translator from the provincial office does. Some of the military officials have distinguished themselves serving on the front lines--Tibet. They ask me to address the gathering. I share my views about the future of China and the world, and how we can work together to make them better for all of us. Afterwards we are all loaded onto two busses and taken to a fancy hotel for a large hot pot banquet with over sixty attendees.

With so many high officials from the regional education and military departments, there is much toasting. The four-star general, who seems to be our host at this expensive meal, had already had one too many ganbeis when he got to me, and was not about to accept (very gracefully anyway) that I would not drink a Maotai toast with him. Before he could get too offended or too wound up, I took my tall glass of coconut milk, toasted him and downed it in one long drink. With my empty glass upside down in one hand and my palm upward in a welcoming and challenging gesture with the other, I invited him to "dry glass." I had beat him to the ganbei, and he could do nothing now but respond to my ganbei. He did, allowing us both to save face. At the end of the banquet he came back with his own tall glass of coconut milk to ganbei me again. I finished several tall glasses of coconut milk that evening.

Christmas/New Year’s Party I am driven back to the school and ushered to my seat on the guests of honor's platform at the head of the field. The night air is cold and brisk, perfect for a high school football game. The lights are on surrounding the field and the drum major is about to strike up the school band. The players in their uniforms are standing around the field anxious to show their parents and community how good they are. The feedback screeching from the P. A. system announces to the over two thousand people gathered that the evening's activities are about to begin. The announcer welcomes the crowd and the band is cued to play the national anthem when the lights go out. We are submerged in complete darkness.

The lights come on after a long minute. The band plays and marches off the field. Tonight I am not standing on the sidelines in my pads and helmet; I am garlanded in wreaths and waiting to say a few opening remarks to the crowd. The four-star general, distinguished for service in the front lines, instructs the photographers and camera operators to take pictures of him and me together. The photographers are flashing pictures and the news cameras have their blinding lights on me when the power goes off again. I am thinking they will have to cancel the evening activities, when the lights come back on again.

They decide to go immediately to the opening kickoff. I am the only one of the two thousand people present who can clearly see, hear and understand what is happening. That is because the kick off is a "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" skit performed in English without amplification immediately in front me. The other players on the sidelines are the approximately one thousand students waiting to perform their songs, dances and skits in celebration of Christmas and New Years.

Page 45

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

After the first skit, I am graciously whisked off by my keepers. I guess I had satisfied the school's need to have a foreign guest present; now I could go. The photographers want me to pose with some children, interrupting the second performance. With the children crowding around saying goodby, I am escorted through the crowd to the car waiting to drive me back into town. I had left Chengdu on this trip on eight o'clock Tuesday morning and am returning at eight o'clock Thursday evening. A huge illuminated sign over the four-lane road welcomes me home. It is the Marlboro man in his cowboy hat and on his horse.

I arrive at the dark office lot with only my bike waiting for me. Twenty minutes earlier I was a star in the spotlight, now I am dumped with my gifts to pedal my clunker through the night over muddy roads to a cold apartment. Tonight I will squeeze into our bed with my son and wife. Tomorrow I will wash my set of good clothes so they can dry before my next trip. Next week I will visit new towns and schools, have more banquets and stay at new hotels. All of these thoughts are running through my mind when someone steps out in front of me. I swerve and curse (in English), narrowly avoiding a collision. It seems we are both destined to live, to see a new day, in China.

Page 46

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Foreigner Living in China: Cross-Cultural Experiences

My First Visit to My Chinese Employer

Although it was less than fifty miles away, it took four hours, five buses, a pedicab and a van to get to the office in charge of our lives for the next year. My fourteen-year-old daughter, Lua, who had been living in China for five months, translated and held my hand through the process. The pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles, human/animal pulled carts, tractors, trucks, cars and busses all seemed to be playing a game of chicken with each other to see who would be the first to get out of the way of the other, waiting until the last moment before moving to avoid a collision.

I had told the officer in charge of our affairs that I would try to be at his office by 10:00 a.m. We arrived at noon. I began to apologize for being late when he cut me off in an angry tone, "This is very bad. We have been waiting all morning for you. You should have left at six o'clock this morning." Then he demanded my passport and my other official papers. "Where are your medical papers? We can't do anything without your medical papers." I had told him on the phone two days earlier that all of my other papers, including my medical papers, were in bags sent from Shanghai over ten days ago. "Have you received these bags yet?" I had asked him, beginning to worry that all I had brought with me to China except what was in my backpack was permanently lost. "No," he replied, in a way that seemed to suggest "It is not my problem that you were stupid enough to trust such important papers to the mail."

"Well nothing can be done now, it's xiu xi (pronounced “show she”) time," he said in exasperation throwing up his hands. Xiu xi is the time everyone rests from noon until around two, and the time when offices generally shut down in China. He instructed his assistant to take us to a dorm room where we were to stay until three o'clock, then to take me to get my bags from the mail room. "But I thought you didn't have my bags," I was about to say, but then thought I had better leave well enough alone. The room was very musty and dark. Neither the lights nor toilet worked. We were afraid leave the room for fear on invoking more wrath from our host, but we decided it would be permissible to find a bathroom and look around a little. When we returned to our room, we walked in on a man in his underwear, staring at us in shocked disbelief. We decided to wait in the lobby, somewhat relieved not to have to stay in that smelly, depressing room.

They were forty minutes late to get us. We then went to get my bags with the official Chinese government medical form I had completed in the States to avoid having to do it in China. With medical form in hand, we drove to the Government Medical Services building. After first inquiring on the fourth floor, then the first, then the fifth, then the second, and then back up to the fourth floor again, I thought maybe this was part of their physical fitness test. The

Page 47

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

doctor studied the form while I waited for her verdict: "No!" the doctor said pointed decisively to USR (Wassermann and Kahn) on page two of the form, "It does not specify that this test was a blood test. Regulations from Beijing require a blood test." What had I done wrong? Was I being punished for some capitalist wrongs I had committed in the past or was this just a test of my psychological stability? Is "USR (Wassermann and Kahn)-Laboratory Exam (Serodiagnosis)" a real exam or did they put it on the form to catch those who check it when it should not be checked? Didn't serodiagnosis mean a blood test? I had already spent eight hours today to get to this point, and as I tried to reason with them I realized that if it wasn't the "USR (Wassermann and Kahn) Laboratory Exam (Serodiagnosis)" it would have been something else like my picture was to have been glued on instead of stapled on, or stapled instead of glued. I also realized that I was at their mercy, if I did not cooperate then they could make it even more difficult for me. I took the "Chinese blood test.".

This required filling out more forms and the payment of 150 yuan. No one had told me there would be such a fee and I had not brought enough money. Would they allow me to pay when I came for the results? Could they bill the University? Would they take an American check? No, regulations specified 150 yuan must be paid at the time of the bloodletting. It was the same Beijing regulations that specified that I must have the medical, although I knew of others who did not need it, and others who did not have to pay. On the other hand I knew of others who had to pay more than six times this amount to have blood tests (put in unmarked vials with dozens of others), x rays (by broken machines while technicians went through the motions), vision tests (Do you wear glasses?) and eye examinations (Can you read this?).

It was no problem that I did not have enough money, they told me, I could come back another day to have my test. I had spent eight hours, multiple bus fares and much psychic energy to get to this point, and the thought of going back to start, forfeiting all that I had invested to come another day when the doctor might be more uncooperative, when I would not have the advantage of a University official to help me through the process, or when they may not do the tests, steeled my resolve to find some way out of this nightmare. Perhaps they would see my quandary and take pity on me. Perhaps they might say "Well actually you really do not need this test, in fact, you do not even need these medical forms at all as it is not you who will be employed by the University, but your wife. We are sorry to have troubled you, Have a nice day." But no, they did not say this, they just handed my forms back to me. I looked to my escort for some help. He had neither advice nor money. When all hope was lost, I remembered my daughter who had stayed with my bags in the parking lot. Together we had the 150 kwai, but not enough money to get us back home. I went back with the money and my escort loaned me 50 kwai for fare back home.

Deprived of one vial of blood, I had to run with my hundred pounds of bags to catch the bus as it would not stop moving because we were waiting near a police officer (who Lua had asked for directions) and it was against the law for buses to stop on the highway. The lady on the bus who collects the fares demanded my daughter pay her more because we had two large

Page 48

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

bags. They argued back and forth in Chinese until finally my daughter said we will get off if they charge us more then the Chinese have to pay. I would have been happy to pay the additional fee that amounted to about 60 US cents, but my daughter would not stand for the injustice. Lua offered her one kwai, about 12 US cents, and the aggressive fee collector, who by then realized she was not dealing with your average "big nose," as Westerners are often called, agreed. Next, Lua negotiated for a taxi to where we were staying. As was her practice, she had the taxi driver agree before we got into the taxi to the fare--10 kwai. When we arrived, Lua gave the taxi driver the 50 kwai note that had been loaned to us. He thanked her and was proceeding to drive off when Lua literally put her foot down (back into his car that is).

A heated argument ensued with the driver demanding his "rightful" fare of 50 kwai and Lua demanding her "rightful" 40 kwai in change. A number of locals began gathering around to observe the melee. The driver took his case to "the people's court" for support against these "foreign devils." After it became clear that the people were not going to come to his defense, and that this young woman was not going to be hoodwinked by his theatrics, the driver very reluctantly (returning ten kwai at a time and arguing each time that that should be enough) and angrily (screaming and throwing the notes on the seat) finally returned the proper change. As we passed through the crowd, they were nodding approvingly at Lua and saying in Chinese "Good for you for standing up for your rights." I didn't say it, but I felt the same as those villagers, "Good for you! Good for you!"

Page 49

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Working with the Waiban

In the People's Republic of China everyone is assigned to a work unit or danwei that is responsible for the care and control of its workers. The danwei can "give or deny permission to marry, move, travel and bear children, and are the front line of the Chinese justice system" (Weiner, R., Murphy, M. & Li, A. (1991). Living in China. China Books: San Francisco. p. 58). As a result, the leaders of a danwei can make life pleasant or intolerable for those under them. The Chinese generally accept this control over their lives and work well in this paternalistic system, but Westerners tend to find it restrictive and oppressive, and often come into conflict with this autocratic power.

When someone enters the People's Republic, they enter into China's mutual responsibility network: a guest-host relationship, whether the guest knows it or not. The Chinese host danwei is responsible for the foreign guests while they are in China. If something happens to the guests or if the guests do something wrong, the host is responsible. As in America, there are mutual obligations between a guest and host, but Chinese hospitality makes these relationships much more complicated. The danwei section at a school or university responsible for foreigners, generally called the Foreign Affairs Office or waiban for short, controls many aspects of the "foreign guest's" life. Because of the waiban's power and influence, it should be chosen and nurtured with care. We did not do this.

Because my wife, four children and I were fulfilling an exchange agreement between my university in America and a University in China, we were not able to choose our danwei based on first-hand knowledge, but we did our best to get along with them. My wife went to China to work as an elementary teacher in a private school seven months before our contract began with SNU in September. She contacted the waiban at the Chinese university soon after she arrived in February to discuss arrangements for her teaching and our living. They were evasive and refused to talk with her about matters related to the agreement, our living situation and her teaching responsibilities. After a second unfruitful meeting with the waiban in April, Mary Jo suggested that I, as a male and a person with more academic status, might have better luck. I met with them when I arrived in June and discovered that their treatment of my wife was not apparently based on sexism or status, as they treated me as badly as they had her. I met with them again in the beginning of July, and again they were evasive and rude.

My wife met with them again on July 24 and 25 to get syllabi for her courses and to try to finalize our arrangements for coming. As her work at the private school had ended, we were hoping that we could move to the university so she could begin preparing for her classes and I could begin professional development activities related to my sabbatical. In her two days of meeting with the officials of the Foreign Affairs Office, they made it clear that they would only give us a one-bedroom apartment with two beds for the six members in my family and would only pay my wife 900 yuan (US$ 112). They had been and were paying the other American

Page 50

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

teachers with only Bachelor’s degrees and no experience 1200 yuan, whereas my wife had Master’s degrees and several years of teaching experience. They refused to let us move in before September saying they were full, even though at least three of the eight apartments were empty and had been since early July. They also expected my wife to teach more than the agreed upon 12 credits. Every time we tried to talk with them about these matters, they were contradictory and evasive. We talked with Chinese professors there, Chinese officials with international exchanges in the national offices in Beijing, and others in the area, including U.S. personnel. They all said that the Foreign Affairs Office at was unreasonable and unfair in these matters. It appeared they did not want us, though my university had hosted and been very generous with their previous visiting scholars.

In view of their refusal to accommodate us, and in view of the limited time and funds we had, we immediately informed my university that we would not be able to fulfill the exchange agreement and began searching for another university in China where we could live and work. The Foreign Affairs Office at our host institution appeared only interested in getting as much as they could out of the exchange agreement and giving as little as they could. We could walk off the street to other universities in China that paid more than twice as much for Master's degree level teachers than they were offering and also get better accommodations without any previous agreements between their university and mine.

We had tried hard to make things work at SNU, but eventually we became frustrated in our attempts. We had met with the officials at the Foreign Affairs Office five times in six months, and on each occasion they did not want to talk about the details concerning our coming, saying they would discuss these issues with us when we moved there in late August. After a series of telephone calls and faxes back and forth among myself and the universities throughout the month of August, it was agreed to raise the salary to 1400 yuan (US $168) and to give our three girls dorm rooms in another building in exchange for their teaching six credits of English Conversation at the university. Our girls were ages 18, 17 and 15 at the time, an only one of them had graduated from high school.

Page 51

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Panda Cage: Aliens in China

The Chinese students call the compound on the Chinese university where we aliens live the “panda cage.” That makes us aliens the pandas, which may be a step up or below, depending on how one views it, being the “barbarians” (waiguoren) we are traditionally considered according to other Chinese. We are locked up, guarded and treated like pandas. The Chinese public may look at us from behind the bars, but they must not get too close, both to protect them and the “pandas,” who are housed in this cage while they are being trained to speak and write the language of the Middle Kingdom, or while they are used to help the Chinese learn the exotic language of the pandas. Only the panda handlers can be trusted to know how to deal with these temperamental and exotic creatures. The cage is locked at 11:00 p.m. and opened at 7:00 a.m. All “pandas” must be present and accounted for, and all non authorized personnel must be cleared from the area.

Any Chinese wishing to visit a panda in his or her cage must be first cleared by the panda handlers and inspected by the cage guards. If the handlers or guards of our cage do not like the visitors or if they do not feel like granting them access to the pandas, then they do not get beyond their view from the bars. If the panda is not fully grown and established, usually a student panda, then the Chinese person and the alien panda can only meet in a special panda reception room. If the Chinese visitor passes inspection and is allowed to meet a still developing panda, then a guard will inform the panda that they have a visitor and bring them from their private cage to the reception area.

The mature pandas, generally teacher pandas, live in a separate locked and guarded building. Anyone wishing to visit them in their apartments may have to go through two or more separate guards, their identity cards being scrutinized and their names logged in at each point as they may contaminate or become contaminated from close contact with the pandas. This information may become particularly useful if in the future China experiences any further cultural revolutions, anti-rightist campaigns or other purges that might be blamed on the pandas and therefore involve those who have had contact with them in the past. Such contact, however minimal, can result in them potentially becoming democratic, capitalistic, spiritually polluted, disloyal to their country or a spy against the Chinese government. These people would therefore need to be thoroughly examined in cases when such outbreaks of these diseases occur.

It is at some risk that visitors come at all. All are logged in and reported. Some are physically and forcefully denied admittance and some or interrogated to the point of fear and tears. I have seen it. “Why do you want to see these pandas? Does your cell leader and work unit know you are here? We will report this to your supervisors and it will be in your file. If there are any problems you will suffer. If you tell the waiguoren that we did not let you in, you will be in trouble.” You cannot blame the panda handlers, it is their job, and if they mess up, there will

Page 52

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

be a price to pay. Someone above them will come down on them as hard as they are coming down on the would be visitor.

The overseers of the panda cage assure its inhabitants that these policies are for their own good, even if they cannot see it and do not want them. It’s for the pandas’ protection, otherwise the citizens might bother them too much or might take things from their cages. Their concern is transparent. If anything happens to the pandas or because of them, it will be their hides, skinned by a yet higher bureaucrat lying in wait for the kill.

It is also to protect the unwary citizens from the pandas. They look cute and adorable, but you can never be sure. Besides it not be good if the pandas and the public became too close, especially those aggressive male pandas who might take more than a passing interest in a female Chinese.

The pandas receive more-than-fair treatment. All Chinese students must not only follow the same or stricter rules than the pandas, they have less desirable food allotments and living quarters and are under even harsher constrictions and consequences. While the pandas are in zoos in civilization, they should be fed and cared for, but they must also be watched and protected. They can serve as a curiosity, and can be studied and learned from, but the most pandas come from and must eventually go back to the wild. There they will be able to move about freely. The Chinese on the other hand must continue to live in the “real world,” and can only dream of the freedom and life that the panda has in the wild. But they should not try to act like or aspire to be a panda.

Page 53

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Monkey in a Cage

The following verses were written to give voice to the frustration and feelings of a co-worker of mine who was a demonstration teacher of English.

Take me out to do my show Then lead me back again

Keep herd upon the foreigner Someone might get hurt

What could happen on my own Someone might lose face

I'm not your monkey in a cage I refuse to do my tricks

Unless you treat me like someone Someone might get hurt

Tell them I'll perform no more Tell them I am through

I'm not a monkey in a cage I'll give you no more grief

I'll go and leave you on your own I want a life too, you see

I'm not your monkey in a cage Don't smile and humor me

I'm tired of being "oh so good" I'm tired of trying to please

I am not your monkey in a cage I long to be set free

Response to Monkey

You stay in while I go out It's better this way you see

You're not a monkey in a cage We care about you so much

Page 54

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

We don't want you to hurt yourself (We need you to perform)

We don't want you to be unhappy (Good monkeys are hard to find)

You're not our monkey in a cage We treat you oh so well, don't you see

We give you the best of foods and treats We care for all your needs

You're not a monkey in a cage You're a foreign expert, you're free

We tuck you into bed at night You can do just as you please

If anything bad happens to you That will be bad for me

Refrain

Our fathers died for democracy Yours for communism

Ours gave their lives for freedom Yours for a wall-less prison

I didn't come to China to live in a prison cell

I don't have to stay here and go through this living hell

I have lived in democracy I have lived in communism

I'd rather live in freedom than live in a prison

Refrain II

"Are you happy?" "No, I'm not! I'm through! Go get someone else and tell them what to do. You can tell the big boss

Page 55

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 peanuts will not do. The monkey's no longer in the middle This monkey's fed up with you."

Page 56

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

May You Live in Interesting Times

I first saw China from a freighter on the East China Sea. The sampan-like boats we passed gave the feeling of entering the nineteenth century, but the skyscrapers and modern construction were decidedly twenty-first century. What a fascinating mix of past, present and future. New buildings are being built by laborers carrying bricks on shoulder poles up bamboo scaffolding as has been done for centuries. The construction is supervised by managers with beepers and engineers using the latest technology to build the new industries, businesses and offices for the next century. The river front of Shanghai reminded me of downtown Chicago. Remnants of Shanghai from a different era are surrounded by new buildings going up everywhere, so much so that I am told that Shanghai's official bird is the (construction) crane. This was not what I was expecting!

I also was not expecting the traffic. In Japan from where I had just come everyone strictly obeys traffic signals and rules. In America there are rules, but many people will jaywalk or break a traffic rule if they think they can get away with it. In China there appear to be no rules, it's every person for him or herself. Gradually I made some sense out of what seems to be an individually determined rule system involving probability statistics, chaos theory and telepathic communications. It appears the most vulnerable objects, pedestrians, are given priority over the less vulnerable objects--bicycles, motorcycles, cars, trucks and busses. The rule simply stated is the one who would lose the most if the other did not yield has the right of way. But like Americans, the Chinese like to get away with breaking the rules when they can, so you can never be sure that the truck barreling down at you can or will stop. As a foreigner who neither really understands nor trusts the rules, other problems do occur. I stop when the other traffic thinks I should go, and go when they think I should stop.

After you figure out how to cross the street, you must figure out where you are going. After searching for an hour for the site of the founding of the Chinese Communist Party and getting all sorts of conflicting directions, we stopped on a corner where we thought it should be to consult our map, which, I discovered later, was incorrect. Predictably a crowd gathered around us and each person began giving his or her idea about which way to go. Each pointed a different direction. Finally several agreed that we needed to go down a few streets and turn right. While they were discussing how to get there, I noticed the building immediately across the street resembled the picture on the map of the building we were looking for. How could all these Chinese standing across the street of the founding site of their Communist Party not know where it was? Our subsequent experiences trying to get directions confirmed that it created more problems than it was worth. Its not that people were not trying to be helpful, it was that they were trying too hard to be helpful, even when they couldn't or didn't know how.

Like getting directions, the information we got about tickets was either conflicting or wrong. You can only purchase tickets three days in advance at the departing station. You cannot do this business or get any information by telephone, so you must travel to the station daily to

Page 57

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 see if you can get a ticket. As a foreigner you must go to a separate office where you first get in a line to get a ticket that allows you to go to another line to buy your ticket. There you pay the foreigner price which is generally more than twice what a Chinese pays for the same seat. These ticket offices are only opened for limited times each day, so by the time you have gotten through the first line, the second line is closed. After trying unsuccessfully for three days to get boat tickets up the Yangtze River, we decided to try the train. After being sent back and forth between ticket offices at the railroad station, each telling us to go to the other one for tickets, we finally learned that we could get tickets at a nearby hotel by paying an extra service fee. The only available tickets were the most expensive ones on the late night train, and by that time, we were glad to get them.

Whenever you come into contact with cultures, customs and languages different from your own, you can expect challenges. Meeting and overcoming these problems can be rewarding. This wisdom is reflected in the ancient Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times." I could tell from my first few days in China that I was cursed.

Page 58

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Assaulted in China

Written 1995-1996 You are assaulted in China. Not physically assaulted, as China is one of the places in the many I have visited in my travels around the world where I personally have felt safest. I feel my family is safe here from any kind of criminal physical harm, partly because of the culture, and partly because of the severe penalties against any assault, especially against a foreigner. It is not physical assaults that I experience here, but the assaults on my senses and sensibilities as an American in a new and different land.

Your nose is assaulted by the worst air pollution in the world, the stench of refuse on the street and the night soil carried to the fields to be used as fertilizer for this seasons crops. In China, they recycle everything. The toilets, generally small holes over open pits in the ground so that the excrement can be easily retrieved to fertilize the plants, are sensed by the nose long before they are seen by the eyes. When these offensive smells attack your nostrils, your impulse is to run away, though the need to empty your bowels may force you to run toward them.

Your ears are also assaulted by the constant blaring of horns of vehicles trying to create an opening on the busy streets and the cacophony of a billion Chinese trying to have their say. It starts at 5:00 a.m. with the life-ending screams of a hog behind our apartment being wrestled to the ground and having its throat cut so it can be butchered for market that day. These screams are accompanied by the local farmer’s roosters crowing. The chickens the lady keeps caged behind some boards at the end of our hall are also clucking to life for what may be their last day.

At 6:00 a.m., the government loudspeaker posted on a telephone pole in the field near us blares out tinny music and information for everyone within a mile radius to enjoy. In the past, this loudspeaker only played such favorites as “The East is Red,” but nowadays the music is “Mrs. Robinson” and “New York, New York.” I am not sure if these new songs have any ideological message for the Chinese, but I guess they get the workers up and going as well as the more standard and patriotic traditional marches.

At 7:00 a.m., our Chinese neighbors turn on their radios and the workers arrive to begin their daylong pounding and building activities. At eight o’clock the store on the other side of the road immediately behind our apartment turns on its TV so its customers sitting on stools and standing in the road can hear it over the other noises. The TV stays on high volume for the benefit of those in the area until they close at nine in the evening.

There is also the noise of the people passing by on foot, bikes and tractors, along with those pulling carts, leading animals and the other traffic on the road all times of the day and evening. Then there are the Chinese having conversations in voices that sound like shouting. I would often go to the window to see what the argument in the street was about only to find

Page 59

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

two people having a conversation. At different times of the day these noises compete with each other for your attention; the latest news or political commentary over the radio, a Chinese dubbed over “Lone Ranger” TV show, the current “Top Ten” of the People’s Republic on the government loudspeaker, and loud talking from the street.

It is like the round-the-clock assaults by competing Red Guard troops during the Cultural Revolution who would blast each other with ear and nerve shattering loudspeakers trying to defeat the rival group in proclaiming their truer loyalty to the Great Helmsman, Mao. In this psychological warfare, the deafening loudspeakers were such powerful weapons that even the masses were pleading for mercy. As I cannot understand most of the tunes or Chinese, it is mostly just noise that has not damaged my psyche too much yet.

Your mouth is assaulted by a variety of tastes unfamiliar to the foreign tongue. Every part of every imaginable species of animal is eaten. I have eaten everything from frog to dog, fish lips to turtle hips, and chicken claws to pigeon jaws. The spices are so intense they leave memory traces on your tongue that last for several days and so powerful they are used to kill or mask the pain of toothaches. The volume of fat and grease used in the food would clog the Yangtze River, to say nothing of lesser arteries. Pig fat (remember the bloody curdling screams of those pigs sacrificed earlier in the morning) is in everything and big chunks of it are heartily consumed. Pound for pound, pig fat is as desirable as the best cuts. To ask for a lean piece of meat would be unthinkable here.

On the other hand, my tongue has been assailed by the finest tasting food I have ever eaten. Not only is it the most varied and delicious, it comes in heaping quantities when you are the guest of the Chinese. You are expected to eat a great deal and there is a great deal to eat, so much so that your stomach cannot handle the onslaught. If you eat or drink the wrong thing, your own body turns against you in perhaps the worst of all assaults. The two most common problems foreigners have in China are diarrhea and constipation.

Your eyes are assaulted with pollution, garbage and filth. The pollution is so bad that you forget the blue of the sky. I had to take a trip high into the mountains several hours from the nearest city to see blue sky. It is like living in a constant fog, except this fog is toxic, makes your eyes water, and leaves a film on everything, including your lungs. There are few trashcans, and almost everything is thrown on the ground. On the trains, people throw everything out the window. Even the train toilets empty right on the ground. For this reason, you are to “unload” only while the train is moving, not while the train is making a stop and doing it own unloading. On my first train ride in China, I put all of my garbage into a plastic bag to properly depose of it. As we were coming to my stop, the conductor came by to clean the compartment, saw the bag and, before I could do or say anything, threw it out the window. How do you turn off years of “Do Not Litter” implanted in your brain?

Page 60

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Your body is assaulted by the heat of summer and the cold of winter, by being bounced over rough roads, jostled in crowds and crammed into all manner of transport. If you are unfortunate enough to have a disagreement over a fare or who has the right of way, you may be verbally assaulted and threatened physically. I have seen several encounters between Chinese where the outcome is initially decided by who can be not only verbally the most aggressive, but if that is not successful, then who can be the most physically intimidating. In a disagreement over a fare involving 36 US cents, my daughter was almost thrown into a canal along with the pedicab she refused to vacate until the driver would return the proper change. After forty minutes of negotiating with a crowd of over sixty Chinese participating, no compromise was reached. Finally, a guard for the place where we worked paid the difference so that it would not turn into a serious altercation.

Your psyche is also assaulted. As a foreigner, you are subjected to constant stares and attention. Everywhere you look there are people, and because you are a foreigner, a so-called “big nose,” they gather around you to the point that traffic is stopped. Parents are pushing their crying children toward you so that they may get a picture with you or tell their friends that they talked to or touched one of these foreigners, much like might be done with a famous person or carnival attraction. They want to be able to tell others that they actually pulled the beard on the bearded lady, and it is real. Every transaction becomes a battle as the Chinese try to make you pay your fair share, about twice what the normal person (a Chinese person that is) would pay. Every transaction becomes a psychological ordeal, as you feel extorted for whatever they can get. It is one of the few places on earth where it is actually government policy to charge foreigners more.

After a while you stop feeling, smelling, seeing, hearing and tasting. You are home. This is normal. America, that land you came from, is the stranger now.

Page 61

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Pigs in China

I grew up in the 1950s and 1960s on a farm in Iowa, by far the largest hog producing state in the United States. I know pigs. I've helped dozens of sows give birth to hundreds of piglets. I've castrated hundreds of pigs. I've fought with them and they've fought with me. I have fed them the slop from the slop bucket we kept in our house that we filled with our old food and table scraps. I have been covered with their manure and have cleaned it up from the hog house and hog lot. I have heard them fighting, feeding and frolicking in the pig lot less than one- hundred yards from our house. I have wrestled them into pickups and taken them to their execution. I have heard every sort of pig squeal, oink, grunt, shriek, howl and scream imaginable.

My wife and children have had little contact with pigs and have never witnessed the killing of a pig. Like most Americans, they are unfamiliar with the sights, sounds, and smells of pigs. They are experiencing pigs for the first time during our one year stay in China in 1995-96. Pigs are common where we live in Sichuan, a province in the southwest region of the People's Republic of China. Sichuan province is less than four times the size of Iowa with over forty times the population (2.8/115 million). It is one of the most densely populated rural areas on the earth in the most populated country on earth. America produces 59 million pigs compared to China's 342 million, and Iowa produces 16 million pigs compared to Sichuan's 70 million.

The Chinese were probably the first people to domesticate pigs in about 7000 BC, whereas the first pig to make it to the New World was brought by Columbus in 1493. Pigs did not make it to the North American mainland until 1539 when DeSoto brought thirteen pigs that were the beginning of the American Razorback hog that still runs wild in the southeast United States. The Poland China hog came about in the mid-1700's by crossing American backwoods hogs with white Big China hogs and remains an important American breed. Even recent attempts to improve American pigs have involved cross-breeding with Chinese pigs because of their earlier sexual maturity, larger litter sizes, and resistance to disease. On the other hand the Chinese are introducing more mechanization and large scale pig farming techniques used in the United States.

Like me, most of the Chinese in rural Sichuan know pigs. Pigs are part of their lives like they were part of my life as a boy in Iowa. They know pigs from birth to death. Like me they have midwifed, castrated, cleaned up after, fought, fed and ate pigs, but they do many of these things in a different way than I did.

Page 62

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

On a recent outing to the countryside to see the peach and pear blossoms with our Chinese hosts, I decided to make an unannounced and unsupervised visit to a peasant's hog house to learn more about how pigs are treated in China. It was so dark in the pig house, I couldn't see a thing. I decided to feel my way along the pig fence to the back corner and take a flash picture out the front door so that I could later see what it was like. Whoosh! Suddenly there was no ground beneath me and I was hanging onto the fence for my life. My legs were splashing in something wet and putrid. I had fallen into something that I had never seen or thought would be in a hog house--a deep watery pit where excrement is stored for fertilizing fields. Fortunately I was holding onto the pen fence when I fell into it or I might not have lived to tell about it--I may have either drowned in it or died of the methane gas rather than just have gotten my legs "soiled."

The worst part of this experience was not falling into this septic pit, it was facing the officials and my hosts with my smelly embarrassment. "What were you doing in a pig house?" "How could you have fallen into the 'toilet'?" they asked when they saw me. Then we all had to ride a bus together back to my host's home. Though the Chinese were concerned about me and my feelings, they could not keep from breaking out in laughter as they would play over in their minds what had happened and my predicament. One moment they were consoling me and the next they were uncontrollably sputtering out laughter that they could no longer contain.

American pig farmers do not make pits to store their excrement in for fertilizing their fields. They do use pig excrement for fertilizer though, but they do not use human excrement like the Chinese do. The Chinese also spread their pig manure on their fields for fertilizer differently from Americans. They get their "liquid fertilizer" with buckets from the slushy pits and take it to their fields in two buckets suspended on each end of a pole over their shoulders, in four-gallon wooden barrels strapped to their bicycles or in special wooden fifty-gallons barrel type carts. American pig farmers generally use shovels, pitch forks and tractors with front-end loaders to scoop up the feces from the ground of the pig yard and hog house floor, then take it to their fields in a manure spreader--a wagon with a conveyor belt on the floor to drag the manure into rotating blades at the back end of the spreader that evenly distributes it over a wide area. This process may have been the origin of the phrase, "when the sh-- hits the fan." The Chinese distribute their fertilizer one dipperful at a time, usually on individual plants, or by selectively sloshing it from their buckets over a small area.

In Iowa, generally large truckloads of hogs are driven to a meat packing plant when they are to be slaughtered and processed into meat products. In Sichuan they are generally driven to a town market on the road or they are killed at home and promptly delivered to a market where their meat will be all sold that day. In China, hog carcasses are seen on shoulder poles, slung across motorcycles, on the backs of bicycles and hanging in outdoor markets. When I was a boy it took a lot of fighting, beating and cussing to load the pigs into the back of our pickup so we could take them to market, usually about seven miles from our home. They fought and squealed as if they knew we were to taking them to their executions.

Page 63

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Seeing the Chinese trying to drive their pigs to market along the country roads reminds me of the times we would drive our hogs from pig lot to pig lot. I remember in particular this one sow we drove to her death. For some reason, she and the other sows did not want to go where we wanted them to go. They kept trying to run away. Each time we tried to herd them down the lane, one sow would break away and run back. Pigs can trot, canter and run fast, so it was no easy task to chase them down. After finally getting most of the sows in the hog lot, my father, two brothers and I ganged up on the two remaining sows. We made a human wall and battering ram to push these hogs, now outnumbered, down the lane. Still one persistent sow broke through and ran back. When we went back to get her, she still refused to go, and would turn this way and that trying to break through our four-man line. We beat on her with whips and clubs and we yelled at her, but she would not move. We stood there pushing against her two hundred pounds of sow power in the hot noonday sun. Our clothes were drenched in sweat, but she had no way to cool down. Suddenly she gave a mournful cry, fell to her knees and, after a few long agonizing moments, died.

The Chinese also market their pigs differently than Americans. Where Americans want their pork to be all packaged and antiseptic in clean stores, without any hint of the carnage that happened to the pig, Chinese expect to get their pig parts alongside the road, cut from the carcass hanging on a meat hook or lying on a dirty plank of a vendor's makeshift counter. Americans don't like to be reminded that what they are eating was once a living animal. The Chinese, on the other hand, want to see their food alive. They pick out their fish, turtle, chicken or rabbit live at the market or restaurant. They often serve and eat their meat with the heads and feet still attached or sometimes just serve you the head and feet. Not only can you look your dinner in the eye when you buy it, you can look it in the eye when you eat it. You can even eat its eye. Americans don't want to look at, listen to or be familiar with the food they eat. They don't want to be reminded that what they are eating was once a living creature like them.

An article in the China Daily, the country's English language newspaper, showed another difference between Chinese and Americans. It reported that vendors were injecting their pig meat with water so it would weigh more. When asked why one meat cost less than the other, the sales person said that it was because one had been injected with water, and the other hadn't. This type of thing would never happen in America. Americans might add water to add weight to their pork, but they would never tell you unless they were required by federal law--in which case it would be in print so small and language so obscure as to elude the notice of ninety-five percent of the consumers.

The Chinese and Americans also differ in what parts of a pig they will eat. The Chinese not only eat pig noses, ears, tongue, brains, stomachs, skins, feet, intestines or other body parts most Americans do not eat; they also like most of their vegetable dishes dripping with hog fat. Americans like their meat lean, the Chinese like their food fatty, so fatty that some Chinese "meat" dishes consist of no meat at all, just chunks of pig fat. Pig fat costs the same as pig meat in China. The Chinese are surprised that someone would want to cut the fat off the meat.

Page 64

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Because I am a foreign guest here and they understand Americans like sweet foods, they often serve me a mound of rice covered in inch thick slabs of pig fat with sugar sprinkled on top. Though I certainly did not need any more fat in my diet, I did not have the heart to tell this to my hosts who kept lovingly serving me mounds of straight pig fat and vegetables swimming in pools of fat. Besides, it tastes good.

The only Americans I know who approach the Chinese in the parts of the pig they will eat, and in their artful and tasteful cooking of so many parts of a pig are the African Americans. African American food, or soul food as it is called, is among America's most delectable, but if it includes pork, it is better eaten than described, because, like many Chinese pig dishes, some of it consists of things most other Americans would not think of eating. I have both eaten soul food and have helped preparing it. My first experience with pig soul food was being handed twelve feet of still warm pig intestine. I had to fill the intestine with water from the garden hose, slosh it around a bit and then wash it out. The smell was comparable to the smell of the Chinese pig droppings pit I fell in, but rawer. However, the chitterlings they made from that intestine were hard to beat.

On the other hand, as a boy I ate parts of the pig that Chinese do not eat. Where I grew up the local taverns would not have Friday night fish fries to attract customers, they would have "mountain oysters"--deep-fried pig testicles. It is the sweetest meat I have ever tasted and, though I have not eaten it in years, I still remember it as one of my favorite foods ever. Before I was old enough to catch and hold the pigs down while my uncle cut out their testicles, I used to carry the pail that we would put the "oysters" in when we castrated the pigs. There was plenty of pig screaming during these operations. A castrated pig, a barrow, was worth more per pound than a boar, because the meat tastes better. You are supposed to castrate the pigs when they are still young, but my uncle often didn't get around to it until he had pigs almost ready for market. Some were so big that it took three strong men to hold them down. Some were so old that they died of the trauma. The Chinese I talked with wouldn't think of eating these Iowan delicacies, but they will put pig testicles in special bottles of an alcoholic drink they make.

While living in rural China, we were awakened every morning before sunrise by terrifying screams just below our second-story apartment bedroom window. They were screams that have been heard in China for about nine thousand years. The cries were desperate and pleading like someone was being brutally murdered. Because it was still dark, no one had ever seen the act, but my daughters claim to have seen blood on the roadway. They were the screams of a pig, not a human, but it's unsettling none the less. Everyone in my family but me believed that the pigs were being killed. I, however, didn't think the screams are coming from pigs being killed, but from pigs being wrestled down, hog tied and loaded upside down into a bamboo basket on a bike to be taken to market, where they would then be killed--otherwise they would not screech so long and so loud.

Page 65

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

I thought I ought to know if the screams are coming from a pig being killed or not--I have heard pigs being killed in our local slaughter house. The butcher used a .22 rifle to kill the animals. There was no squealing or screaming, just the snap of the gun and the sound of the animal dropping to the floor. So I knew what a dying pig sounds like, and I didn't believe the screaming pigs behind our countryside apartment were being killed. They made too much noise. Also, when I was seventeen I worked in a beef packing plant on the kill floor and have been present for the killing and butchery of thousands of cattle. There was no screaming or bawling from the cows. It was over before they knew what had hit them. The only sound was the crack of the knocker, a machine that would break through the animal's skull, and the dull thud as the dead weight of the cow hit the floor. It was not very pleasant, but much better than the sledge hammers they used to use.

Then in the daylight one morning, I heard the familiar screaming outside our window. In the middle of the road three men were holding down a screaming pig. I was just going to call my wife and kids to show them that the screams were just from a pig being wrestled onto a bike to be taken to town, when one of the men pulled out a large butcher knife and slit the pig's throat. It didn't die right away, but squealed through its dying breath. I heard a gurgling sound that I had never noticed before. I had finally seen the act that my family had only imagined.

Though I grew up on a farm and worked in a slaughter house, I never liked to see, hear or be a part of any animal's dying. I didn't want to see or hear that pig. I didn't want to think about its dying. I didn't want to remember that sow I helped beat to death thirty years ago, and her last cry. I didn't want to hear the gurgling sound I now heard in the screams outside my window.

With my years of experience with pigs in America, I thought I knew what the screams were about. Maybe it was just what I wanted to think as an American. Maybe it was the "reality" I was most comfortable with. I wanted to go on believing the screams were just from some disgruntled pig being loaded off to market, but my family was right: they were killing the pigs; the screams were screams of death.

Page 66

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Living with Rats

My first memories of rats were probably not rats at all, but mice. Being only five-years old and having several of them run up my pants may have affected my memory. They seemed like rats to me, but my memory cannot explain to my rational mind how several rats would fit in my pants along with me.

It happened while we were shelling corn on our farm. We harvested corn in the fall and stored it in large corn cribs until we were ready to take it to market. Then my dad would hire a corn sheller to come to our farm and shell the kernels of corn from the cobs. The sheller was a monstrous machine that would greedily devour the whole corn, spitting out what it doesn't like, excreting the unwanted corn cobs out of one orifice, vomiting the corn shucks out a long trunk, and delivering its infant corn kernels into the farmer's waiting wagon.

I was still too young to help with the actual shelling, so I played outside the crib with my younger brother and my cousins, while the older boys and men worked feeding the sheller and taking care of its refuse. Our "job" was to kill the mice and rats that tried to escape the men and machine.

It was during my first big job when several mice ran up my brother's and my pants, frantically looking for a safe place to hide. My memory fails me again here, (maybe a combination of fear and humiliation has repressed it) but the collective memory of my family and relatives recalls (quite vividly) my uncle swiftly ridding me and my brother of both the mice and our pants.

My next memory of rats was when I was about nine years old. They lived in our corn cribs and granaries where they feasted on the oats, beans and corn we stored. We set traps for them, the kind trappers used to catch minks and muskrats. One of my chores was disposing of the dead rats and resetting the traps. This did not bother me as long as the rats were dead. But sometimes the rats were not dead, and I had to finish them off. I didn't like this part of the job. I tried to do it quickly without thinking about it or having to actually look them in the eye. I avoided any personal or emotional encounters with the enemy. It was easier this way.

Generally this worked, but once I came upon a rat that broke through my thin veneer. I normally would come up on a trapped rat unawares or exhausted and club it to death, but this time as I opened the door to the granary, this rat made such a commotion screeching and jerking hysterically at the trap and chain that I was startled. I was caught off guard and embarrassed that I had been frightened by nothing. When I realized no one had seen me jump for fright and that the rat was caught in the trap by its back leg, I calmed down. The rat was not

Page 67

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

going to break free despite its desperate attempts to do so. I began to slowly move closer to it, trying to figure out what to do. I stopped and stood a long time. Our eyes were locked onto one another, both of us were frightened and unsure what to do.

As I inched closer, I could see that it had chewed its leg to the bone trying to get free. I felt sorry for the rat. It was so helpless and so desperate. Its only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was only trying to live. And to save its life it was chewing its own leg off. I decided that I wouldn't kill it. I couldn't kill it. I didn't have the heart to kill it. As soon as I made this decision, that rat stopped its maddening chewing on its leg and jerking on its trap. It stared knowingly at me. Then as if to tell me that it didn't matter as he would die in the trap anyway, he began gnawing on its leg bone again.

I could feel his fear and hopelessness. I wanted to tell him that I was going to help him, not hurt him. I tried to do it with my eyes and my soft reassuring voice. It seemed to understand, but as I moved closer it started yanking and gnawing again, trying to get free. I decided that I would have to free the rat from the trap, but each time I got close to it, it went into a frenzy. I would move back while trying to tell the rat with my whole being that I was its friend. I was trying to help it, not hurt it.

I got a stick to press down on the trigger spring that held the jaws of the trap shut. I moved very slowly, all the time talking reassuringly and sending it my love and concern through my eyes. I would free him. Trust me. It stopped its yanking and stared back at me. Through its eyes it was telling me it trusted me. It now understood I was there to save him, not hurt him. The fear and hopelessness in its eyes were replaced with love and hope. With my stick I very slowly and carefully pressed the trigger down, releasing the pressure on the jaws of the trap. He watched me, seeing now the angel of life where he had imagined the angel of death moments before. The trap jaws opened a little, but the rat didn't move. Was it lost in wonderment at the love and compassion pouring from my eyes into his?

As only the bone remained of its trapped leg, he couldn't feel that his leg was now free. If it would just move, it would realize it was free. But it stayed, his eyes fixed on mine. It was becoming too hard for me to continue holding down the spring with my stick. I tried to jiggle the trap hoping it would cause the rat to lunge to freedom. I turned my eyes away, thinking if we broke the stare it would bring him out of his trance. The stick slipped and the trap clanked shut, leaving us both startled.

In the fear of the moment, he interpreted my turning away and sudden movement as a double cross--I had made him think I was there to save him, when all along I was there to kill him. It started wildly biting at its chest and stomach. Then it stopped, shuddered and fell back like it was dead. I stared at it, waiting for it to move. Maybe it was just playing dead. I nudged it with my stick, but it didn't move. It had killed itself. I had double crossed him and he killed

Page 68

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

himself. I was trying to free it. I had freed it. Why didn't it pull itself free? Why didn't he give me another chance? I could have saved him.

I buried him behind the granary, then went into the hayloft and sobbed. I was really just trying to set it free. I didn't want to hurt it. I would have gotten him free if he had waited, trusted in me. Until now, I've never told anyone that story. Who would have understood? It was just a rat.

My next memory of a rat was when I was twenty-three and had just arrived in Africa. This rat was as big as a dog. It stood waist high sitting upright on its haunches, and weighed more than fifty pounds. I encountered it coming around a corner in Nairobi. Fortunately the corner was in a museum and the rat was stuffed. More fortunately, this species of rats lived in west Africa and I was living in east Africa. As I recently researched to find more about this rat, I learned that the African Giant Rat or Gambian pouched rat, which is three feet in length (counting the tail), is the biggest rat in Africa (and does live as far east as Kenya). As the rat I had seen was bigger than this, I now believe this rat was not officially a rat at all, but a rodent more like a huge North American beaver (with a rat-like tail) or the capybara of South America (that grows to be 200 pounds).

My next memory was two years later in Tanzania when my wife and I were visiting friends. Their bathroom, like most in this part of Africa, had a squat toilet--basically a hole in the floor. They had made a chair to put over it for those who preferred sitting to squatting. They instructed us on the use of the chair (to avoid splinters) and on how it had to be moved in their tiny, crowded bathroom so that the door could be opened. They also showed how to get the sagging and warped bathroom door to lock and unlock by simultaneously lifting and pulling in a certain way. These instructions were especially challenging for my wife, who being seven months pregnant had trouble maneuvering in that tight space. The first time she tried it, we heard the chair hitting against the walls and door, and then, crashing and screaming.

I thought maybe she had fallen and hurt herself. I ran to the door to see if she was all right, but she only continued screaming and banging on the door. When she got the door unlocked, it would only open a little because the chair was in the way. She finally knocked the chair away, ran screaming into the living room and jumped up on the couch. As she came running out, a foot long rat (longer counting the tail) came running after her. She had been trapped in the bathroom with this rat. When she escaped, the rat followed right behind her.

When my friend and I saw the rat chasing my wife, we began chasing it. The rat raced frantically trying to find a place to escape. It ran from room to room looking for a place to hide. It ran over our friends' infant and small child who had been laying on a mattress on the floor. In our shock and hysteria we ran shouting and waving our arms after the rat from room to room. Because there were so many things to run around and behind and we had no weapons, the rat kept eluding us. In its mad dash for freedom it scrambled over his wife's lap as she sat in front of

Page 69

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

her sewing machine. But there was no way out of the house for the rat, and in its frenzied tearing through the house, it had not been able to find a place to hide. Finally we got a broom and a stick, cornered it and beat it to death.

This was not enough for my friend. The rat had violated his home, his children, his wife and his guests. It must be made an example of and pay for its sacrilege. He picked it up by the tail, carried it outside into their enclosed courtyard, got a gallon can of kerosene, doused the rat with it and then lit it on fire. I watched, my heart still racing from the attack, the chase and the beating. I had not yet recovered from the shock and trauma of all that and now I had become party to a bizarre ritual cremation that would condemn this rat's soul to eternal damnation and serve as a warning to any other rat who might think of desecrating this sanctuary. I felt this was going a bit too far, but what could I do? It was surreal to be able to see the rat so clearly amidst the flames, its body twitching. Suddenly the rat leaped to its feet and bolted straight toward the still opened back door of the house. I was too stunned to move and watched in horror as the flaming rat sprinted back into the house

Besides, we had no way to stop it. We had left our weapons in the house and we couldn't scare it away from the door as it was running away from us toward it. My friend grabbed the can of kerosene, ran after the rat and slammed the opened can down on the rat's tail just as it was entering the house. My relief was quickly overtaken with thoughts that the still struggling rat will get free by either pulling his tail from under the can or from having his tail severed by the edge of the can. When neither happened, my fears of him running through the house setting everything it touched on fire were replaced with the new fear that the can of kerosene would explode and engulf us and the house in flames. In a few dreadful seconds the rat began struggling less and twitching more as its body succumbed to the flames.

In 1978 we returned to the States and from 1979-83 we lived in Detroit. We first lived in a second-floor flat. A huge Great Dane (sitting upright on its haunches it could look me straight in the eye) lived downstairs (with its human companion). He (the Great Dane, that is) must have frightened or consumed any rats that may have ventured in from the alleys.

When we moved to a downstairs flat a few blocks away, rats did come into our place from the alley. They came through the back door, and through our flat, they got into our landlord's flat above us. They evidently knew what they were doing and had cased out the place quite well. I surprised them one day when I came home earlier than expected. In their scramble to get out of the house they left a typewriter and stereo parts in the backyard as they made their get away in the alley. These were the human variety of rats (who usually will not look you straight in the eye). I had gone into the house, saw that I had just been burgled, called the police and then my landlord, who was more savvy than me about the ways of the city. My landlord told me to get out of the house as there may still be burglars in there. I called the police back and told them that I thought the burglars were still in there. (This had the added benefit that the police would come sooner for a burglary in progress.) It was only after the police arrived (some

Page 70

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

time later) and I was trying to make an account of what was missing, that I noticed a slight breeze, then I noticed the windows were missing. It seemed the main item they were after were the leaded glass windows.

From 1983-88, we lived in the Virgin Islands. We had rats there too. The Virgin Islands, like Hawaii and most islands in the Caribbean, had been over run with hordes of rats. The mongoose was originally imported to rid the sugar cane of them. It did a good job killing the rats (and the snakes and birds), but the rat, which has survived and thrived for centuries, was not about to be eliminated by the lowly mongoose (which is not so bad at surviving itself, and is now a nuisance on these same islands). The mongoose cannot climb trees but rats can, so the rats adapted and began living in the trees. In the evening we would sit on our porch and watch them run back and forth from tree to tree on the telephone wires. In America, I have watch in amusement as squirrels did this, and from a distance you could not tell the difference between a rat and a squirrel, but just knowing they were rats, somehow made the sunset in the background a little less beautiful.

In 1995-96, I lived in China, considered (by the Chinese) to be the oldest and richest civilization in the world. Nineteen ninety six was the year of the rat in the Chinese zodiac. A person born in the year of the rat is "ambitious yet honest, prone to spend freely, seldom make lasting friendships" (Source: place mat in local Chinese restaurant. A more upscale Chinese restaurant place mat down the street said this: "ambitious and sincere, you can be generous with your financial resources."). I am sure each of China's five thousand years has been rich with rats. During the years of starvation, the Chinese learned to eat everything, including rats (and cats and dogs and snakes and whatever else you can think of). Vendors on the street would sell little shish kebabs (very tasty) of rat. I am told this is true, and believe it, though I never actually saw them butcher one or found any other supporting evidence, such as a disproportionate number of rat skins around the charcoal burners they cooked on. My girls would weave to avoid flattened rat carcasses on the roadways when they rode back and forth to town. Rats ran around in broad daylight. My sense was that the Chinese, like the other peoples I had lived among, do not like rats, but had learned to live with them.

I would see them lurking in the darkened hallways of the university apartments and by the garbage containers nearby where we lived, but I didn't expect to find them in our fourth floor apartment, off limits to everyone but foreigners (big noses) and those locals who had the courage and tenacity to get through two checkpoints. When it got cold though, they began visiting at night. I tried to put an end to these unwanted guests. It was not a pleasant experience. The first night I heard some noises in our kitchen at four in the morning. I went to investigate and came face to face (it was on top of the cabinet) with my nemesis. I shut the door trapping the rat in our very small kitchen.

It seemed to have entered through the drain pipe in the bathroom. For the next hour we were engaged in mortal combat. It would go back and forth between the refrigerator and

Page 71

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

the food cabinet. I broke or lost (under the refrigerator and the food cabinet) every implement of destruction I had been trying to kill it with. Finally, I filled two water bottles and dropped them like bombs from the top of the cabinet onto the unsuspecting rat hiding below. This wounded the rat so it left a bloody trail all over the kitchen as I continued chasing it. I finally let the wounded rat escape out the back door.

The next day the lady on the ground floor asked if I had heard the cursing, screaming and furniture moving last night. She thought that burglars had broken into the apartment above her and were tearing the place apart.

Not wishing to have another such night of excitement and frighten the neighbors, I bought an "amazing strong powered glue" rat trap. It has bait in the middle of a cardboard covered with a glue that the rat will get stuck on. It worked. Early in the morning I heard some screeching and noises coming from the kitchen. A rat was stuck to it, but it was not dead. There it sat looking helplessly up at me, asking for mercy.

The night before it had been a contest of equal to equal, may the best man or rat win. In the heat of battle, taking a life is one thing. But tonight there is no battle, no contest, no sport; just cold blooded murder. It is one thing to take a life by shooting an unseen enemy or dropping a bomb on unknown people the results of which are never seen. It is another looking into the eyes of a wounded or trapped enemy pleading for mercy.

I picked up the cardboard. The rat was so stuck it could hardly move. How would I free it even if I wanted to? I took it to the balcony. If I threw the cardboard over, it may hopelessly struggle for a day before it finally died. If I tried to unstick it, it would become so messed up that it would also suffer a long slow death. The more one thinks about these things, the harder they are. I took the bamboo stick from the bathroom and tried to knock the rat off the adhesive trap, rationalizing that if it survived the four-story fall, it deserved to live. But it wouldn't come off. So I hit it again and again. By the time it was freed and fell, it was dead.

I don't like rats, but I also don't like killing them. I want them dead, but I don't want to be the one beating them to death. I don't want to be present for their dying. I don't want to look them in the eyes, or hear their screeching as the hammer is brought down on their heads. I don't want to be one on one with them in a closed room.

When I returned to Marquette, Michigan, on the shores of Lake Superior, in 1996, I found rats everywhere I turned. There were rats in my friends' homes and in the schools. These were unlike rats I had ever known--they were pets. I understand they make wonderful pets, but I have to admit I was prejudiced based on my upbringing and on the rats I had dealt with before.

Page 72

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

My friends had gotten a male and female pet rat, resulting in a family of nine rats. (They are so cute, how could you get rid of them). These rats had their own bedroom. You could go in and let the rats climb all over you.

When my family wanted a dog, I suggested we get a rat, based on their admirable qualities as pets. I am told they are more loyal and affectionate than dogs, and they take much less care (and do not need licenses, shots, neutering, walking, kenneling, toilet training, grooming, obedience training or fifty pounds of food every few weeks). My family (not being as open minded as I) didn't agree.

To help myself overcome my prejudice toward rats, when a chipmunk or squirrel would come up on my deck, playfully scampering around me while I read, I would think of them as rats with furry or bushy tails. I began to see how unfair I was to rats.

A twelve-year-old neighbor girl came to baby sit the other night. It was her first time baby sitting for us and she was nervous. I tried to make her relaxed by making small talk with her. While she was talking, a tear flowed down her cheek. I choose to ignore it, thinking noticing it would only make her more self-conscious. Then, as she politely answered my questions about school and her activities, more tears started flowing. We both knew we couldn't ignore it, but I thought I would let her choose if she wanted to share the reason for her tears.

"Binky died," she said in her polite conversational tone while her tears continued to silently fall.

"I'm sorry," I said relieved that it was not something I had said that had brought on this unexpected onslaught of tears. But who is Binky?

"He died just now, just before I came, that's why I was late."

Was she crying about Binky or being late? I couldn't do anything about Binky, but I could reassure her that it didn't matter she was five minutes late.

"That's okay." (That you're late, I meant, not that Binky died, I thought. But she did not seem to see how it might be misinterpreted, so I didn't say anything.)

"You don't have to stay. We will be okay," I said to give her an out for having to baby sit.

"I'll be okay," she answered as her tears turn into soft sobs.

I waited, wondering who the friend or relative could be that had just passed away.

"Binky was my pet rat," she answered my unasked question.

Page 73

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Then she looked at me, thinking I would think it was silly to cry about a rat, and that I would not understand. It was just a rat. Who would understand? I did.

Page 74

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Reflections on Being Stolen From Around the World

1996

I have been stolen from in many of the different places I have lived. Over twenty years ago in Israel, my wife and I had our passports, papers, and records taken from our hotel room. We had to interrupt our pilgrimage to the Bahai holy places to get new papers in Tel Aviv. In Athens we were to retake all the shots and vaccinations needed to get into Tanzania, our destination.

Fortunately the nurse there took our word for some of the most potent shots, as we had just had them a month earlier and another dose could have been bad for our health. While in Tanzania we had our cameras, some money and other personal belongings stolen from a friend’s home where we were keeping them while we were moving from place to place. She assured us they would be safe there. Her nephew stole them while he was visiting.

Then when we got a house on the school compound where we were teaching, a young man, whom we were helping by giving odd jobs around the house, packed our bags one day and left with our things. We were greeted by a strange emptiness when we came home for lunch. You couldn’t leave a bucket or utensil on the steps or your clothes on the line unless you watched them. We learned from experience. One afternoon we were resting on our bed when we heard our neighbor call our names. A young man had come into our house and was leaving with our radio-cassette player. Our neighbor saw him and saved us another loss.

In the Virgin Islands we were relieved of our resalable goods. We came home in the evening to find our door forced open and our house filled with the violation that comes from being broken into and robbed. For weeks after I would look over and around the house when I came home.

In China we had our locked bicycle stolen in board daylight in front of the largest statue of Mao Zedong in the world. We had our pockets picked on the buses and our mail “lost”. Twice my wife had her wallet stolen from the small purse she wore. Chalk up another suitcase of clothes and another passport to the list.

While living in Detroit (one of the less desirable neighborhoods), our flat was broken into and a few of our meager belongings taken. I must have caught them in the act as there was a trail of merchandise leading to the back alley. When the police failed to respond to my call, my neighbor said someone may still be in the building as there were 3 flats and I should tell the police this. I did and they came promptly. We were trying to figure out why they didn’t take more when we noticed the front windows were missing. They were primarily after the leaded glass windows which brought good money and were picking up the electronic equipment as bonus prizes.

Page 75

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

After being stolen from most of the places I’ve lived you would think that one would get used to it. I haven’t. It still bothers me. As I am getting older I am in some ways getting less tolerant, less inclined to mercy. I now better understand cultures that cut off a thief’s hand or even put a bullet in their head and then make the family pay for the bullet. If there had been a brand on the foreheads of those two young punks in the bus today, we would not have learned too late what they were about. We would have been able to defend ourselves a little better.

I know I should be more detached. I don’t know if I should be less trusting. What a miserable way to live your life. As a stranger in a strange land, you become a target for being ripped off. You are a sitting duck. Someone is watching, waiting for you to make a mistake, turn your back, to walk away for a few minutes so they can strike. Sometimes if you are observant you might see them.

Once I took my girls and their friends to the beach on St. Croix in the Virgin Islands where we lived for five years. Normally we would only go to beaches where we could park our car to keep an eye on it, as it would sometimes take less than five minutes for someone waiting in the bushes to break into it.

Always when I parked I scouted the area to see who was waiting for a victim. If I saw a waiting thief, I usually greeted them to let them know I knew they were there and that I was that going to be watching them while they watched me. I never, if possible, took anything valuable with me, knowing it would be considered fair game.

Once, I didn’t see the young fellow who was sitting in the bushes about 20 yards from us. Although my young girls saw him they didn’t think it was a concern. I discreetly hid my keys to the car in my shoe and we spent a happy two hours playing in the ocean pools that formed there. When I couldn’t find my keys, I thought maybe my children were playing a practical joke on me or maybe they somehow moved my shoes and the keys fell out.

But after an hour searching I went to the car and found them sitting on the seat. The thief had ransacked the glove compartment and checked the trunk. Evidently he only found the dollar I kept there for emergencies. He took it, but nothing else as there was nothing else in there. I was lucky he didn’t take the car, but he apparently was interested only in small things like money and cameras or he did not know how to drive.

One of the few places I remember being where I wasn’t stolen from was Botswana. I was there for five months as a consultant with a USAID, working at a teacher’s college in a remote community and had 24-hour guards at my house. My neighbor, an Australian volunteer, who was not afforded similar protection, was robbed of her valuables. When she told me the circumstances, it became clear to me her young male gardener/helper,

Page 76

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

who she had been teaching English and helping out, was the thief. I felt sorry for her and decided to pay a visit to the young man’s house. There he was taking pictures of the villagers with his new camera. When the police came, they found the rest of her stuff in his house. Evidently he was a first timer as he was not very sophisticated.

There are good and bad people all over the world. We need to protect ourselves from the bad and encourage the good, both in ourselves and in others.

Page 77

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

The Pedicab Affair

Last night we had a violent disagreement over three kwai (local term for yuan, Chinese money), the equivalent of 36 U.S. cents, that led to a rather disturbing altercation that could have resulted in serious bodily injury. I now better understand how countries can get locked into battles, wars even, over what appears to be minor differences. My two daughters and I had gone into the nearby town, Dujiangyan, (anything under a million is a town in China) to have dinner with an older Chinese man who had befriended us.

I had only been in China about a week, so my daughters, who were both “old China hands” having been there several months, guided me every step of the way and handled all of the interactions. On the way home they bargained with a fleet of pedicab drivers for a fair price. Normally a pedicab, a three wheeled vehicle with a bicycle front end and a rickshaw-like back end, would be four or five kwai, but because they normally only carried two people and there were three of us, the cost would be more. As we were foreigners, there was an added expectation that the fare could be significantly inflated. After some haggling, the girls gave up bargaining for a pedicab to head for an automobile taxi at a nearby stand. The taxis charged a higher but standard fare of 10 kwai and would get us home much quicker and more comfortably. As we started to leave and the pedicab drivers knew they were not going to get any higher fare from us, one of them agreed to take the three of us for seven kwai, about 88 U.S. cents.

On the ride home he was joking with us and other bicyclists. Shop owners and other pedicab drivers along the way shouted out at him noting his unusual cargo of three waiguren, loosely translated as barbarians, and inquiring how much he was “taking” us for. He proudly cycled chest to chest with single bicyclist going home from work, even bumming a light for his cigarette from one as they careened along side by side. When we got to the gate of the school where we were living and tried to pay our fare, the tone changed.

“That will be ten kwai.”

“No, we agreed to pay seven kwai and you know it.”

We only had a ten kwai note, so demanded the three kwai in exchange as we knew he could not be trusted to give it to us once he had the ten. He refused to give us the change, holding out expecting us to walk away from the change. When he continued to refuse to give us change, my girls and I started to walk away refusing to pay anything if he did not take the fare we had agreed to. Our mistake was not to have the exact change. You always should have the right change so you can settle such differences more directly.

Knowing that he was being unfair, but also that it was unfair to walk away without paying, Lua, 14 years old, went back, held out the ten kwai note telling him in Chinese he could

Page 78

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

have it if he would give us back three kwai. He agreed, took the note, put it in his shirt pocket and began to take off. My daughters jumped in the back of the pedicab to prevent him from escaping from his agreement and with our change. He began screaming at them, I am guessing telling them to get out and that they had not right to deprive him of his rightful fare. As they were not buying his story and were not budging until he returned the proper change, he began pleading his case with great fervor and righteous indignation to the passersby who by now were beginning to accumulate. Not knowing what else to do, he decided call their bluff and take them back to town. Ziya, the 18 year-old daughter, jumped out before he could get up speed and grabbed his handle bars to stop him. He began cursing and threatening her physically. She did not back down.

By now a crowd of forty people had gathered around the scene. The driver was dramatically and very emotionally and loudly pleading his case to them. It seems he was convincing the onlookers how these unthankful and dishonest foreigners had cheated him of his rightful fare. (I think I heard the term “running dog capitalist pigs” in there somewhere. I certainly got the look, which needed no translation. ) Because only he could plead his side of the story as my daughters’ ability to speak Chinese and opportunity to present their side was limited, he was able to rally the crowd to his defense and whip up their anger to support him in his righteous cause.

One person became so angry that he was trying to rock the pedicab into an irrigation ditch in an attempt to dislodge my youngest daughter, who hung on with both hands. She stoutly refused to get out until she had justice. Some of the older women were pleading with her, some in caring and concerned tones and others in accusatory and condemnatory tones, to get out so she would not get hurt or the driver could leave with his rightful due. She refused, explaining as best she could that it was the driver who had cheated us and that he should be the one to pay. They seemed to understand, but their hearts were with her safety or for a face- saving solution.

The guard from the school was trying to reason with the man trying to dump Lua from the pedicab. As an employee of the school where we lived and worked, he alone seemed to stand up for us. I am sure he felt some responsibility to placate his fellow villagers as well as to protect us and the reputation of the school where we worked. Finally trying to find some way out, but not lose the fare he seemed to genuinely feel was his right, the driver heatedly threw a one kwai note on the seat hoping this would settle the argument and he could be on his way.

“No, we agreed to seven kwai and seven kwai is what it is.” Lua stood firm.

The driver kept pointing to his back and to his back tire as Exhibits A and B while he shouted justifications to the crowd. He seemed to further defend his claim to the ten kwai as he and his vehicle would need expensive repairs costing more than the fare as a result of riding us here. I imagined him claiming it was farther than he was told and now these ungrateful wretches want to further steal from him by refusing to pay the agreed to fared. It should have

Page 79

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

been twice as much. People from the crowd were angrily shouting and shaking their fists or shaking their heads at us.

“Look at those barbarians, they are so big and fat. Of course they should have to pay 10 kwai. What is the matter with them?”

The guard gave my daughter two kwai of his own money and told her to take it for her change.

"No, I don’t want your money. The driver owes us two more kwai, not you.”

The crowd had grown to over fifty and the anger was palatable. The pushing and shoving between the guard and the man trying to dump my daughter was getting out of hand. The guard gave the driver the two kwai Lua had refused and he in turn tried to give it to her. She refused it.

“No, you owe me two kwai, not the guard.”

She looked at me, asking with her eyes what to do. I nodded for her to take the money. You have made your point. You stood up for justice and right, but more harm will come to others if you do not accept the peace offering that has been given by a well meaning bystander. If for nothing else do it to save face for the guard who was desperate to find some amiable solution for all parties and did not know what else to do.

When we got back to our apartment, we talked it through, trying to process the emotion, how should we feel about what just happened, and the options, what should or could have we done differently. What was right and what was wrong? What did we not know or could not know? How might we handle such a matter in the future? How do you deal with injustice? Later Lua went down to the guard, returned his two kwai and gave him a prized package of U.S. cigarettes, which cost more than the ten kwai in question. An hour after we had left the scene, a crowd was still at the scene processing what they thought had happened and how they felt about it. Like us, I am sure they were trying to make sense of what happened and trying to release the emotion that was still pumping through their veins. We may be processing this for a long time.

Even though it was only over 36 cents, I wonder how much of we went through is not the same thing that nations go through in their trying to resolve differences, convinced of the justice and rightness of their respective positions. It seems we may be processing these differences for some time to come as well.

Page 80

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Christmas Eve in Deyang December 24, 1995

I am on my way to Deyang. My oldest and youngest daughters are leaving for Thailand, and my wife, son, and middle daughter are having breakfast at the most luxurious hotel in Chengdu. It’s Sunday and its Christmas Eve. I am riding in a van with six of my Chinese co- workers and the husband of one of them. My family was invited, but chose not to come on what is billed as a “holiday”.

Two days ago, when I declined to come on this country holiday because of previous engagements, it became clear it was more than just a Sunday outing for the office workers and their families. After three phone calls from the office, each impressing more on me how much they wanted my family and me to come on this excursion, the fact that the trip hinged on my teaching a class was explained to me.

They were in a quandary. It was Friday afternoon, the children had all been told to come to school on Sunday to meet the foreign English teacher and there was no way to tell them otherwise as they had gone home for the weekend.

“OK, I’ll go, but next time you must talk to me before you arrange something on the weekend.”

I couldn’t complain much—I had had the whole week off, was paid five times what the others made and worked much less time. To get some perspective, my one month salary in China only equaled about one day’s salary in the U.S.

The van is airy as I expected with the front windows opened, even though it is only 50 degrees and raining outside. I have on three pair of socks—two are thick cotton and one heavy wool like hunters and woodsmen wear. I have on four layers on the bottom, not counting my underwear, and five layers on top, two of them being coats. In addition, I have my rain poncho, which I wore while riding my bike to work, draped over my lap to block the air blowing on my legs and feet.

The Deyang school is nationally recognized for its quality. The 100 children have been waiting patiently for about two hours. I meet with the welcoming officials and we go through the welcoming routine, which takes fifteen minutes before going to the classroom. These are the best students I have taught and I have what I think was my best class. The kids were right with me, coming up front and drawing pictures to have the others guess what it is and taking my Simon Says type of exercise to new heights by introducing new characters for those who fail to follow instructions to portray.

I draw a circle on the board and ask “What is it?” Students give me two alternatives where other classes have failed to understand the question. The grand finale was putting on two of the kid’s baseball caps so that one bill stuck out on each side. This resembled the type of hat a traditional official in China would wear and the kids were going wild. Then I took off the hats off the other students until the caps and hats were stacked on top of my head higher than I could reach.

Page 81

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

When they finally fell off, the students scrambled to retrieve their headgear. In the reception later, I signed numerous autographs and discussed the differences between American and Chinese education.

The officials and we went to lunch consisting of roast duck, rabbit, pig skin, chicken nuggets, rare tortoise soup, crab, scallions, exotic fish (one said to be particularly prized that looked like a bullhead) and all sorts of other delicacies. After the lesson and lunch we did the “holiday” part of the day. We went to a nearby park in Qing Bei Jiang where we danced the Chang minority dances and sang their songs. These were very reminiscent of some Native American dances and songs. I hoped to learn one of them to take back to the U.S., but have forgotten them. The park doesn’t have much going for it, besides it is cold and raining.

Some members of our group want to visit some friends living on the way back to Chengdu. No problem. We go through our predictable traffic problems and jams where our two lanes are taken over by the on-coming traffic so we play chicken to see who will give way. Later we are diverted to the bicycle path. I take it as par for the course. At least we are not fitting the on-coming traffic as their two-lanes have also been diverted the bicycle path on their side of the road. This traffic jam of over one thousand cars has been created because they are installing a sign over the highway, which has blocked all traffic going both ways and forcing four lanes of traffic to take adjoining bicycle lanes. Even when we get past the obstruction, the traffic continues to be jammed up because the traffic coming into the area has been spilled over blocking our lanes.

During much of this traffic jam though everyone was resting, having missed their regular nap time. The driver keeps getting out of the car and sticking his head out of the window to get some reading on our immediate hopes of relief from the stopped traffic. Now the road expands to six lanes, but five of them are filled with traffic waiting for their turn to be funneled onto the bicycle path. After this we run into more traffic coming from the other way that that have come over into our lanes in an efforts to get “around” the traffic that has spilled over onto their lanes.

Now a car has stalled in our single lane of traffic. In the next mile we have to get around two stalled trucks which may be unloading something. We finally arrive at the place we think we should turn to find that the friends they want to visit are not there. We need to find a telephone to call them to come and show us how to get to their place, but there isn’t one around here. We drive on, find a telephone, but find that they are not working in this area. We get to an area where the telephones are and where they work and now we are one of the cars blocking one of the lanes, but we are past the jam so the traffic can use the other lane to pass us.

Throughout the day our group has been having a lively exchange punctuated with much laughter. The leader of the group is a jokester of sorts and generally has everyone in stitches. The young office worker sitting in the front seat continues eating her sunflower, watermelon or pumpkin seeds. The office translator’s husband is an army officer. He is constantly cracking his knuckles. The office assistant who is the married to boss spends her free time looking at herself in her pocket mirror and applying beauty cream to her face. When I visit the office, she regularly shows me some new foreign cream for her face and has to explain what it does and its side effects. Another foreigner who worked in the office had nick named her “sweet lips.” Her skin problems may be related to her infidelity, but then again, I’m not a physician.

Page 82

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

We are now passing hundreds of shops lining the street, each one like a ten by fifteen foot garage that open to the street with their wares along the three walls. At night they pull down a metal garage door to lock up their shop. They sell dresses, shoes, underwear, scarves, handbags, film, stationary, food and other items. We stop at a cake shop, which are becoming more and more popular in China. We are parked in the bicycle lanes as there are no parking spots along the street. It’s taking a long time. Are they buying a cake for the people we are visiting or are they buying a cake to give me as thanks for coming out today?

A man across the street is selling three-foot high blow-up Santa Clauses and a little kid is clutching one on the back of his father’s bike. Now the vendor, who has eight of these Santas hanging from his bike stall is throwing one high in the air and catching it. It does attract attention; maybe someone will buy one for a toy to throw in the air like a ball. He’s doing a brisk business and now I notice a fellow on the sidewalk filling up the plastic Santas with a foot pump to replenish his quickly dwindling stock. Santa seems to be a hot item, even in China.

Beside us an old man is wrapping some broken down cardboard boxes and loading them onto his pull-cart. It’s almost twenty minutes before they come out of the cake shop with two cakes—one for me and one for the folks we are visiting. I wonder if what took so long was to write “Merry Christmas” on my cake. It was spelled right, which surprised me.

As we approach downtown Chengdu, the vendors are walking among the cars at the stoplight. It’s getting dark and we are getting near our office. Are we going to visit these people we have been trying to get to for the last three hours? I am beginning to doubt so, but I’ve learned to take things as they come. It seems they weren’t able to get hold of their friends, so we are just going home. I wonder who is the other cake for? We all got paper crowns at the cake shop and “Sweet Lips” and the soldier are wearing theirs. Go figure. It’s still Sunday and it’s still Christmas Eve. The school did give gifts to me and to my wife and children who they are expecting, but who didn’t come. At least we will all have gifts on Christmas Eve. I load them into a bag and start on my 40-minute bike ride home in the dark.

Page 83

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Johnny's Chinese Haircut

There is no item on Chinese driver’s licenses or identification cards for hair color. Everyone has black hair. The young people who dye their hair a reddish brown--maybe one in a million--stand out in a crowd, much like someone with fluorescent green or purple hair in the US stands out. The Chinese call someone who changes his or her hair color to look like someone from somewhere else a "pretend foreigner". Dying hair in China from grey or white hair to black is common, but not to a foreign color.

When I catch myself staring at these pretend foreigners, it helps me better understand why people stare at my family and me. My hair is black, not counting the white and grey hairs increasingly appearing here and there, but when I asked a particularly bright and articulate ten- year-old girl in a class I was teaching the color of my hair as I pointed to the top of my head, she proudly announced “white and black”. My beard is mostly white, except for the stray black hairs that have held on for dear life. My hair is straight and black enough to be Chinese from the back, but from the front both my white face and my full white beard give me away as the foreigner I am. Even if I wanted to pretend to be Chinese, my face and beard would give me away. It is very rare to see beards in East Asia, and when you do, they are mostly sketchy and stringy.

My wife also has black hair, but our four children, like our siblings, all have lighter colored hair—usually a dark reddish brown color. We cannot go anywhere in this part of China without creating a scene. Foreigners are still rare in these parts and we are often the first outsiders many people have seen. My six-year old son is a special attraction and the kindly and curious want to pet or pinch him. Mostly, they like to rub his hair. The Chinese believe this brings good luck and do not seem to be able to get enough of it. John has begun refusing to leave the house for fear of becoming the object of this unwanted attention. When he does go out, he wears a hooded sweatshirt and we have begun aggressively protecting him. He seems to have developed some sort of a complex about his hair and haircuts that we are worried may affect him for life.

Therefore, I was surprised when he asked if we could go and get our haircut one weekend when he and I were home alone. Not only was he reluctant to go out at all, even to get an ice cream treat, he persistently and adamantly refused to get haircuts in the past. It had only been with substantial bribes from his mother and cajoling from me that he had been willing to get a haircut, and then only from a French hair stylist in the middle of the city that his mother would take him to. These visits also had to include eating at Kentucky Fried Chicken, the only western food chain in the region, along with visit to other such enticing spots, to get John to go. Today with no prompting and out of the blue he was not only asking, he was eagerly asking and was clearly excited about the prospect like someone asking to go to the zoo or to play with friends.

Page 84

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

"Can we go get our hair cuts now?"

"Sure? OK? You want to go now?" I said trying not to act surprised or confused, so as not to break the spell.

Where is this coming from? I do not want to discourage this new behavior by maybe asking the wrong question or saying the wrong thing. I do not want to thwart his willingness, and even desire, to get a haircut after months of wondering and worrying over what psychological damage we might be inflicting on him. We grab our jackets and head for the local barbershop fifty yards from our apartment, a ten-foot-by-ten-foot shop with electricity, a sink, a chair and a metal garage door that opened for business directly to the street in front of it. We wait on the street until the person in the chair is finished, and, along with all the passer bys and lingerers in the market, watch the barber work.

As we wait he asks, "Can I go first?"

"Sure," I say not trying to show any emotion that trigger a negative reaction in him, but I think to myself, “What has come over him?”

When the person leaves and John climbs into the chair, I ask him, "How short do you want it?"

"I want it all cut off," he says quickly and confidently.

In sign language I tell the lady barber to cut it about three-quarter inches long, but Johnny, who knows both my sign language and her Chinese, tells her in the Sichuan dialect he has picked up in kindergarten and playing hide-n-seek and shoot ‘em up with the neighborhood boys,

"No, I want it all off."

She gets her scissors to start to cut. She looks at me questioningly and uncertainly. I shrug my shoulders and smile. I do not know enough Chinese to communicate with her nor do I know what to communicate even if I did. Then she gets her electric hair cutter, shows it to me and then to Johnny. He nods. I shrug. She asks Johnny something in Chinese, which I imagine is,

"Do you want it all off?" However, it could just as well have been “Is your father crazy?” or “Are you crazy?” or “Do you want me to get into trouble with the barber’s union and the Communist party?”

"Yes," he responds in Chinese. (I do understand “yes” in Chinese, but it did help that he nodded his head in emphasis as well.)

Page 85

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

I can see by her face and body language that she does not want to do it. She hesitates. I imagine her trying to weigh the alternatives and consequences—

“What if I misunderstood them?” “What if cut it all off and they are unhappy?” “What if his father becomes angry and complains to the officials?” “Do they understand we cannot undo this when it is done?” “Who is the boss here--the father is saying one thing and the boy another?” “What might they mean by ‘all’? “

Even a local market barber has standards, and getting a "buzz cut" is like asking a doctor to "blood let." It is the kind of haircut that skinheads get. Even in China where they do not know about skinheads, a skinhead is horrifying image. The consequences of screwing up on a foreign guest’s hair will have greater repercussions than on a local person’s haircut.

Several times during the process of cutting off a little bit of hair here and there, she would have John look in the wall mirror, look questioningly at me and then look at John asking him in Chinese and body language,

“Is that how long you want it?”

Each time she asks, John insists in both Chinese and his gestures with an assurance that scares me that he said what he meant and meant what he said,

"No, I want it all off."

She looks at me hoping I can relieve her of her perplexity, of having only a six-year old, who clearly does not understand the repercussions of his choices, be the sole arbiter of this decision. I imagine her thinking that all she had heard about crazy foreigners was true or that cutting off all of his foreigner hair would not only bring her bad luck, but also be bad for business. In body language, I try to say through a complicated series of shrugs, hand motions and head wagging,

"I know. I think it’s crazy, but if that's what he wants, then okay. What to do?"

She finally takes off the plastic clipper attachments sized to cut various lengths of hair, makes several swipes along the lower sides, stopping to go through the above questioning routine several times. When she gets to the top of his head she puts back on a spacer that will leave the hair there a little longer than the sides, but John tells her he does not want it longer on the top. She complies.

Page 86

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Passer bys are stopping to watch the little foreigner get a haircut. I imagine the barber feeling compelled to explain to them that it is not her fault, that she is not inflicting some punishment on this child; this is what he wants. She seems to be hoping this will not hurt her business, that potential customers will not take this hair cut as an example of the kind of work she does. I imagine her thinking both John, and, by extension, she will be the laughing stock of the village and hoping that no one asks him where he got his haircut. I imagine her any minute throwing down her clippers and running down the street screaming,

“Don’t blame me, he asked for it!”

Finally, his hair is all gone and my son is beaming, a new person. Even the newly exposed top of his head is beaming. He is so excited about his new hair cut, if you can call it that, and keeps looking at himself in the mirror, turning his head from side to side and up and down so he can see it from every possible angle. I am at the same time happy that he is so happy, perplexed why he so happy and a bit shocked by the dramatic new look. I am unsure what to do with these mixed reactions, and how and which ones to express, conscious that I could further scar his psyche.

I also become concerned about my psyche, anticipating what his mother’s reaction will be when she gets home and sees him without any hair. She leaves him home alone with me for a weekend and look what happens. I am expecting it will not be pretty for me. She had just gotten him a $20 hairstyle by a French beautician, and I have rudely replaced it with a 20-cent buzz cut by a local Chinese barber without consulting her.

"How do you like it Dad?" John proudly asks.

While I look for a response that is honest, but does not hurt his feelings or discourages his newly budding interests in getting haircuts and I think about preparing him for what I think his mother will say. If I knew where his excitement was coming from, I might better know how to respond to him in a way that does not harm our relationship or his budding psyche? As he gets up from the barber’s chair and I am about to take his place in it for my haircut, I am still stalling, trying to come up with the right supportive affirmation of his choice. I do the best I can; I respond with a question.

"Would you like a shampoo with that?”

He looks again in the mirror, still smiling confidently and proudly.

"No, there's nothing to shampoo," he laughs.

"Well I am glad you like it, but I don't think I want mine that short."

Page 87

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

He keeps grinning at himself in the mirror, turning from side to side to get the full effect. He really is ecstatic about his haircut.

"Please tell the lady that I don't want my hair that short." I ask him to translate fro me. I follow up showing a three-quarter inch space between my thumb and index finger. She seems relieved.

I get a "regular" cut and a shampoo, the best part of the trip. Total cost for John’s and my haircut and my shampoo is 60 cents. I figure 20 cents for my son's cut and forty for mine with a shampoo. On the other hand, maybe the other way around, if we take into account the mental anguish and loss of face the barber had to endure.

I never did figure out what was going on with my son. He may have gotten it into his head that if he had all of his hair cut off, no one would bother him anymore by coming up to rub it. A young Israeli soldier who was staying in our compound while he studied Chinese may have influenced him. He had recently gotten a similar cut, reminiscent of those given to boot camp soldiers. It may have been one of his first of many steps at rebelling against his parents or trying to control his world by making his own choices. Maybe he was seeking to belong by getting rid of one of the things that differentiated him from his fellow playmates and classmates. Or maybe, he just wanted a haircut.

Page 88

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Watch Out for Wajiao

1996

I have lived and traveled all over the world. Each place has its own foods and spices. Many of them have hot spices. Some even pride themselves in having the hottest food in the world. Those who do, often want the foreign visitor to validate their claim. They invite you to try some and watch expectantly for your reaction.

The conversation goes something like this: “You may have eaten other hot food, but you have never eaten anything as hot and good as this. In fact, for you, as a mere foreigner, it is too hot, but you really should try it just to prove it for yourself.” They are disappointed if you taste and do not react or worse still them of the other food that is hotter and better somewhere else. The are delighted when you scream, pass out, turn purple, cannot breathe and/or your eyes and nose start running uncontrollably.

I have shook, gasped for breath, sweated and had all of the other adverse reactions that people have when they eat poison, but I still like spicy hot food. When I moved to Sichuan Province in China in 1995 on a one-year sabbatical, I was looking forward to their delectable and savory food. Sichuan food (Szechwan according to an older spelling) in the United States was my favorite, but like most ethnic restaurants in the America, the food they served to Americans was different from the food the Sichuanese actually ate.

The Chinese generally, but especially the Sichuanese, who claim their pigs eat better then the rest of the people in China, take pride in their food. They do not, however, seem to glory in how hot their spices are, neither do they seem to take same morbid delight in testing the guests’ mettle with their fiery flavorings. I am often I am asked by my host if I like hot pepper (lajiao), but have never had the theatrics or rituals I had experienced before when being initiated into eating another group's hot food.

Everything is spicy in Sichuan, except plain rice, although it sometimes also has hot peppers. One spice, called “wajiao,” is used as commonly as Americans use black pepper. Wajiao, prickly ash pepper corn, does the same things that the other scorching seasonings around the world have done to me, but more. Biting a wajiao must be what it would be like biting a nitroglycerine capsule. Your tongue and lips feel like someone has poured acid on it, and the feeling lasts. For sometime after you have eaten your mouth is numb. You are reminded the next day of its presence in your body as it leaves it.

Wajiao is hotter than anything I have ever eaten before, but nobody has ever said “betcha can’t eat this.” When I mention how hot it is to the Sichuanese they do not condescendingly grin and say “So, you got a wajiao, huh? Hot aren’t they? Har! Har! Har!”

Page 89

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Instead, they smile and nod approvingly as if I had said “This is succulently seasoned.” When I repeated “Dis is tewably hot!!!” (my tongue being too numb and my brain too disoriented to properly pronounce my words) to make my point, they just looked perplexed, not understanding how anyone would think that. I quickly learned the Chinese word wajiao so I could tell the cooks to “hold the wajiao.” I remembered it by associating it with “watch out.” If you ever try some real Sichuan food, watch out for wajiao.

Page 90

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

A Ticket to Ride and a Place to Stay: Xian

June 1995

My fourteen year old daughter, Lua, and I caught the 5:40 train to Xian. We were going to spend a week in Xian on our way to the United Nations Women’s Conference in Beijing. I had bought the tickets four days earlier and the booking office told us to come the afternoon the day before to pick them up. We went and were told to come in the morning. When I called them in the morning they told me they had given us our tickets the day before.

“No, you didn’t,” I said, getting ready for the run around and problems that inevitably come from such situations in China.

“But we gave them to you yesterday afternoon.”

“We came to your office yesterday afternoon, but you told us to come back this morning, so I am calling you to be sure you have them before I come down again to your office.”

“But we don’t have them... Please call back in a half an hour.”

As sometimes happens, our tickets were probably sold to the highest bidder who gave the agent some money for them. I had my Chinese friend go with me to their office just to make sure we were not having some communications problems. No, they understood that I had paid them 300 yuan to take the 4:00 PM train to Xian. (I had my receipt which helped their memory), but they did not have it. They would try to get us a ticket on a later train. They would call us.

At about 4:00 they called and said they had tickets on the 5:40 train, but we would have to leave immediately to make it. Our Chinese friend hopped on his mountain bike to head for the booking office to get our tickets and we grabbed our back packs to head for a bus to take us to the train. We would rendezvous at the bridge. It worked smooth as a whistle and we were safely deposited on a bus heading through a city of several million (figures vary from 3-10 million) with tickets in hand.

About a half an hour on the way to the train, an attractive young lady on the back of a motorcycle pulls up to my bus window going the wrong way down the street. “Are you going to Xian?” she asked in her faltering English. This was too strange, in a city of millions, she pulls up to a bus and asks a strange unknown person who happens to be going 18 hours by train to Xian whether he is going to Xian. “Yes,” I said, waiting for her to tell me my fortune and more about myself.

Page 91

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

“Let me see your tickets,” she said nonchalantly.

Lua, who had become a seasoned China hand, was immediately suspected and sensed a possible scam.

“Don’t give them to her. She can just drive off with our tickets.”

It was possible. Maybe they just drove the streets leading to the bus station asking people if they were going to some likely destination, then asked to see their tickets and then took off with them, laughing with the unsuspecting dupes sitting in the back of a bus going the other way. I gave her one ticket, thinking if they took off, whoever would be sitting next to me on the train could lead me to the culprits. While she looked at it, I quickly looked at the license number of the motorcycle so I would at least have something to go on.

“This ticket is for the 9th, tomorrow. It is no good. Give me your other ticket.”

The bus had stopped at the bus stop and the driver, along with all of the other passengers, was waiting for this transaction out of the back window of the bus to conclude so they could carry on their way.

“Where does it say the 9th?” I questioned, needing more insurance that I wasn’t being boondoggled.

She pointed to the 9 and I gave up my other ticket. To my relief she did not take off laughing, but instead produced two other tickets. The ticket office had given my friend the wrong tickets and had scouted out the buses on the way to the station until they had found us. How nice of them, I thought, until later on the train I learned they had charged us 300 yuan for tickets that should have only cost 120 yuan. The extra is the price one has to pay for having a big nose in China.

We met a lively and friendly Chinese woman with her husband and daughter on the train. She had seen us asking the conductor where our car was. Like us, she had been misdirected. We walked from one end of the train to the other. At each opportunity we asked where our train car was. Everyone pointed towards the far end of the train, sending us further along until we were finally at the last car. We showed our tickets, expecting to be told to get on, but instead the lady told us our carriage was the other way.

We asked on the way back to the other end and each conductor told us to go back to where we had just come. When Lua explained in Chinese with a frustrated American accent that they had told us to come this way they looked at our ticket again and either shrugged their shoulders or told us to go the way they were going, whichever they felt would get rid of us faster. Finally we found our car at the opposite end of the train.

Page 92

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

We talked for hours with our new Chinese friend who was an English teacher. She was happy to speak with real native English speakers. She sang popular Chinese songs. I didn’t know the words but had heard the melodies so often from neighbors’ radios that I had no trouble joining in. Other passengers came to ask their questions about life in America and to share friendship. We became a family with me a brother or uncle to them and Lua a sister or niece.

In Xian they insisted we share a taxi and stay at their unit’s hotel. The taxi driver charged us the foreigners’ rate which turns out to be more than double the regular rate. As a result, big argument ensued between the driver and our Chinese friends. When the driver told them to get back in and they would go to the authorities, they paid the fee he demanded, but would only let us pay what the normal fare should be.

The hotel would not accept us as we were foreigners and it was against regulations. They didn’t have the proper facilities and comforts for foreigners. In other words, they charged Chinese prices (very cheap) not foreigners’ prices (very expensive). After 40 minutes it became clear this would not work and so they walked us to a hotel that did charge foreigner prices, but who also could not accept foreigners.

After 45 minutes discussion in the lobby, a stranger came to our rescue. He knew a university that would accept foreigners. He not only called to set it up, but got his uncle who worked in a travel agency in the hotel to take us there in his car. The English teacher from the train escorted us there to see that we were safely deposited and then had them carry her the ten kilometers back to her hotel. Such is the kindness and craziness of getting around and getting things done in China.

Riding My Bike to Work in Chengdu

1996

Riding your bike on China's city streets is a bit like scenes from "Ben Hur" or "Road Warriors." Remember the scene where the two men are battling each other in their chariots. One has spears sticking out of its wheels and every time the chariots come up against each other it cuts into the spokes of the other. Finally the hero forces the bad guy off the edge of a cliff. I feel like I am in one of those scenes as I ride my bike through the busy streets of Chengdu.

I ride an old farmers’ bike, dubbed "the tank." It is much less likely to get stolen than the sporty mountain bikes that are becoming more common in Chengdu these days. We have already had couple of nice bikes stolen, one from its locked and guarded place beneath the towering statue of Mao that dominates the center of the city. It is not worth the effort to try to

Page 93

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

find a stolen bike through the police. Believe me, I tried. After several hours of interrogation and paper work, I was glad just to be free. Don’t get me wrong, they were helpful, it is just the hopelessness of trying to find a stolen bike combined with the hopelessness of trying to work through the legal system that does not make me want to do it again.

If this bike gets stolen, then whoever took it must have been needed it for heavy work or something. If I paid $10 dollars for it, it would not bring much on the black market, certainly not enough to warrant stealing when $100-200 bikes were standing around for the taking. Besides the large size and ruggedness of my beat up bike and my being a foreigner gives me some maneuverability and respect. None of those sporty bikes would dare to tangle with it, let alone brush up against it.

Every trip is an adventure. As I ride I see a man restraining a woman on the side of the road. She is crying and fighting to get free, her bag lying on the ground about ten feet away. No one interferes with what appears to be a domestic fight. Then I pass a wild looking and disheveled woman in a torn dress with only part of the sleeve over one shoulder. There is something free about her in this country of so many constraints.

Further along there are two lovebirds riding slowly, out in front of me, talking back and forth. There is the pretty girl who mysteriously and seductively keeps pace with me, looking over at me while I am trying not to look at her. Is she attracted to my big nose or is it my evanescent and charming character that she finds so irresistible? Certainly it is not my aging and decrepit bike. As I am thinking that maybe I should upgrade to a faster more vivacious model that more befits me, a truck in front suddenly slams on its brakes for no apparent reason. I swerve and almost run into the very vehicle that had just pulled in front of the truck causing it to slam on its brakes. I narrowly miss a pedestrian who was trying to decide which way to go when the first vehicle unexpectedly pulled out.

There are the small kids tied on back of their mother’s bikes hitting them and shouting at them to look at the strange foreigner—m e—coming up from behind. School kids are riding backwards on the back fender while their friends pedal them to school. They are all staring at me—the bike passengers while I follow them and the pedalers when I pass. Even the 60 live ducks tied by their feet hanging over back of another passing bike seemed to take a special interest in a foreigner on a bike. Bikes on their way to market are carrying everything you can imagine. Some have mounds of hay that encase the rider, sofa sets with matching end tables, refrigerators, live hogs and whatever else might be bought or sold in the market. We are all like a school of fish, a flock of birds, sensing when turn and moving in perfect harmony.

The Chinese don't need to bungee jump or seek other kinds of artificial adventures. They have enough thrills, spills, scares, dares, rushes and brushes with death every day on their bikes. Riding to work is all of an adrenaline rush you want for a day. The risks are real; much greater than any amusement ride.

Page 94

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

About 99% of the decisions I have to make on these trips are no problem. The problem is I have to make over 3000 miniscule decisions on each trip which means about 30 will be a problem. Hopefully I can deal them by only putting on my brakes and not having any breaks put on my body. Construction is going on everywhere, including the roads, which often requires some kind of detour and obstacle course maneuvering. There are bike repair shops all over, including along the street. If you have a flat tire or need a repair of any kind, it can be fixed for from 9 cents for a tube patched to 40 cents for a total tune up.

Bike riders around are regularly clearing their throats, getting ready to spit. Bus riders above you do the same. You are waiting for someone around or above you to spit or puke on you. A hundred bikers are slowly easing out into the intersection trying to strangle off the automobile traffic. Once they have stopped the cross traffic they pour through the intersection in full force until the cars are able to ease their way back into control. Then a bus noses over in front and squeezes you until you have to stop or get hit. On the next block, the same bus that blocked at the last intersection has stopped and just as you are triumphantly overtaking it a passenger steps off it right in front of you. You fall over to avoid a painful collision as the bus takes off, leaving you to suck in the humiliation of its diesel fumes.

When I get to the main artery in the city and the traffic is more than the road can handle. I take a chance by going against traffic for the last two blocks to my work. I keep getting cut off and freely using the F word, something I very rarely do in America as no one around me understand English and the tension is so high. Mistakes can be fatal and then heads can roll, literally. A friend of mine tells the story about a severed head from an accident on these streets literally rolling to the feet of one of his friend.

At work I pull my trusty bike under the bike shelter with dozens of others, mostly of better stock and higher pedigrees. I lock it to the wall, knowing it will be waiting patiently to take me home in the evening when we will have further adventures of life, love, daring and defying the odds of surviving yet another day fully intact.

Page 95

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Reflections on Driving Across Sichuan

1996

Traveling on the Chinese highways and byways is a harrowing experience. To bide the time I sometimes compose the opening lines to the account describing what I imagine the papers will write about my dying in a Chinese road accident: “His blood was commingled with his translators.” “His body and hers were joined together in one final act.” “It was a dark and stormy night.” I know it sounds a bit dramatic and the kind of stuff one finds in dime store novels, but its mild compared to having an oil tanker bearing down at you and you have no place to run and hide.

It’s not just for myself that I am scared, but for the pedestrians, bicyclists and other motorists. Yesterday while driving through the muddy passes in southern Sichuan, we slid to the edge of a ditch trying to avoid an accident. Even the driver who seems unflappable was shaken. (I did notice him taking an extra dose of his medicine at dinner.) It’s one of those close calls where you just want to sit for a moment to get your composure and thank who or whatever you thank in such situations. When we did finally stir to life, we were afraid to move for fear it might cause the van to slip one more inch and drop us into the ditch. The muddy road was slanting toward the ditch and if you tried to drive ahead, it would just slid in. With the help of some peasants, we were able to push the van back on the road.

My comrade lost his walkman in the water-filled ditch in the process of getting out of the van to help push it. He fished it out and had it back working in no time. A half hour later (the driver didn’t slow up a bit) we rounded a corner to discover a bus coming straight for us. The driver hit his brakes which caused the van to slide sideways (my side) toward the bus. I could see it coming and had enough time to duck and brace myself against the back of the driver’s seat. I waited for the impact and the sound of crashing metal and glass. The next thing I knew it was over. The bus was out of sight around the corner and we continued on our way untouched.

The local workers were preparing to fix the road and every quarter mile there was pile of rocks on the side of the road, and periodically, some right in the middle. Combined with the narrow road, the mud, the potholes, the peasants, the pigs, the ducks, and the little children on the road, it made the trip a life and death adventure for everyone. (No wonder I am so tired at night.)

In spite of these hazards, the area was the most beautiful region I have seen in China. On one stretch of road, 40 of the 45 peasants we passed had a 1-2 children with them. This was very unusual, and my colleagues were not able to explain it. The only sign in the next village written in large letters on the side of one of its end buildings reads (in Chinese): “Mothers who have more than one child must pay a fine of 3300 yuan (about $400. U.S.).” That is more than ten years total income for most of these families. Later I saw a van with a red cross on it. Maybe

Page 96

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

these children were going to get some vaccination? I was told that many of the families have children in secret to avoid the punishment. “How do they do this?” I asked. “I don’t know?” was the only answer I got (and usually get to questions like these).

In this region, tombs built into the hillsides, an ancient Chinese custom the Communist Party has tried to eradicate. Everyone is to be cremated, except for the great leader who promoted the policy of cremation, and is to be preserved forever in his tomb in the main square of the country.

The eighty-two year old lady riding with us doesn’t want to be cremated. She came two hours by foot and truck to the mountain community we had traveled three hours to get to. Four years ago, it would have been a much longer journey for her as they had no road to her area. Her granddaughter, a 22-year-old English teacher who came from Leshan, 3 hours by road to the south, to teach a demonstration lesson and to observe my lessons, is taking her grandmother back to stay with her parents for one month. They are hitching a ride with us.

We make a two-hour side trip to another school where I teach three 20-minute classes. These mountain children have paid their 50 yuan to learn English, and part of the package is a visit by a genuine foreign teacher. In a couple of the villages we pass through, it is market day and the road is jammed with people, carts and stalls. The market has taken over the road and we must ease through the crowd honking as we go, waiting for vendors to move their wares so we can pass.

After teaching my classes we go for lunch. Everyone comes to lunch, the grandmother and drivers sit with the dignitaries and officials. They offer me the specialty of the region, made especially for the foreign guest, a beef dish. (I never did figure out how beef could be a specialty in this remote mountain area.) Beef is not common anywhere, let alone here. As always, they offer the guest the first portion and wait for his reaction. I usually am very polite and often find the dishes quite delicious and excellent, but this beef dish was more prickly ash peppercorn, called wajiao, than it has beef. Wajiao is a very strong, hot and stinging tasting spice, sometimes used for numbing toothaches. It numbs my tongue and burns my mouth. I don’t like it and try to avoid it when I can. I can’t imagine the Chinese really like it, but they do. I couldn’t lie and I couldn’t eat it as it was too hot for me. (I did eat the first bite.) They understood. It seems even out here they can understand that some people don’t find wajiao so appealing. There were plenty of other tasty dishes--wild pig, pigs’ feet, and something called han tong chu pai qu (sweet and sour steak). Another dish, ye shou bie (sweet, boil, white), consists of rice topped with thick slabs of bacon fat sprinkled generously with large granule cane sugar. This is similar to all of the traditional sweet dishes I had in China: a grain, fat, and sweetener. When you think about it that is the same ingredients for many Western sweet dishes, it is just that we refine the ingredients a little more.

After lunch, the officials took us to a local factory that makes a unique shoe with a wooden sole and grass weaved upper. The "factory" consisted of a building out in the

Page 97

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

countryside with an old lady and a gunny sack full of shoes. She searched through the sack for a large pair (42) which I could only put on with some difficulty. When they couldn't find a larger pair they told me it should fit tightly as the grass will stretch. I believe them. They asked me if I wanted a pair for my wife. I did but I knew they wouldn't let me pay and felt greedy asking for another pair. To be polite I told them I didn't know my wife’s size. Then I noticed my 3 colleagues all getting 2 pairs (one got 3, one for his child), so I said I think my wife is 39. The shoes were so beautiful I wanted to get several, but with four children, I thought it would be too much to ask them to give so many and impolite to ask them to let me pay for them.

The officials are wearing their suit coats with the size and information tags and labels still on the sleeves. I've even seen labels that have come loose and been re-sown on as it is a sign of the suit being new. It is prestigious to leave the labels and stickers on all items to show they are store bought and still new enough to have the labels not come off. I remember many years ago, telling a "foreign friend" visiting America to cut the label off the new suit he was proudly wearing at a meeting we were attending. Little did I know I was stripping him of a status symbol, that, although inappropriate in the States, was prestigious back home.

I feel more comfortable with the peasants in the countryside than the upper class in the cities. I am more at home in a hut than in an apartment. I would rather meet under a tree, than in a boardroom. I like being around simple unpretentious people. I am better suited to chasing pigs than chasing taxis. I like country people. I like the country kids better than the city kids. I am sure it’s cultural.

Yesterday I spent 6 hours on the road, 4 hours in banquets, 1 hour greeting with officials and getting pictures taken and 1 hour teaching three 20 minutes classes to kids who had never seen a foreigner in real life before. Today I met 8 classes for 5 minutes each and by noon I was on a bus for the 4 hour ride back to Chengdu. My colleagues will spend the weekend in Leshan, doing who knows what. Getting a bus is an adventure in itself. As soon as you get near the buses, you are accosted by the conductors of some private buses. "Are you going to Chengdu?" If you say yes they will grab you and/or your bag and drag you to their bus. The trick is to find the bus that will be leaving soon and not get on a bus that will take an hour to fill up.

Today while bringing a public bus back to Chengdu (on paved roads thank goodness) we were stopped by the police for passing where we weren’t supposed to. The fare collector on the bus and the driver went across the road to negotiate with the police. Passing where you shouldn’t is the common practice in China. Sometimes two vehicles will pass another at the same time while they are side by side on a two-lane highway (sometimes using the broken down shoulder). They either or unconcerned or do not notice the oncoming traffic, which is racing towards them while also passing someone (illegally). Three weeks ago, the driver of the van I usually travel in was stopped for the same offense. I watched then as now as they tried to talk with the police, to see if they could talk or buy their way out. Neither of these offenders did and both paid stiff fines by Chinese standards: 200 yuan ($25. U.S.).

Page 98

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

I am happy to see some safety laws being enforced and to see at least in the two cases in which I was involved, that the police were not bought off. Ten minutes later, though, both drivers were driving as if nothing had changed. I did note that they seemed to b on the lookout for the police more.

Page 99

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

American Hamburgers and Chinese Boazi

When I am eating my Chinese colleagues often ask me, "Do you like this? Do you like that?" I say "Yes its fine" for everything. I have let them know I don't like much wajiao in my food, a numbing hot pepper; otherwise, I have eaten everything served of me. If I showed even a small preference for something, I would see an extra portion of it at every banquet until I chose something else as a favorite. I have learned to like everything and not overly praise any special dish. Yesterday Li asked if I liked hamburgers, using his broken English, pantomime and some translation.

Li is always asking me what I like and I know if I tell him I will see it, but I know even he cannot find hamburgers in this remote part of China. So I tell him I like American hamburgers, as I pantomime gobbling one up to make it funny. At the banquet that evening LI and the hosts asked as was the custom “Do I like this?” and “Do I want that?” Again, I would be very polite and say yes, thank you to everything. LI then asks again in English if I want a hamburger. He evidently had been practicing saying it during the day. I suspect he is joking like we did yesterday, so I said I would take three to further exaggerate our teasing of one another. We all laughed.

The next morning for breakfast, we had the normal pickled vegetables, rice porridge and steam buns, but there was also something I had never seen before. It was two loaves of a sweet bread on a plate with ketchup poured all over it. I discovered on close inspection that there was ketchup also between the pieces of bread. I didn't say anything, thinking I will find out what it is soon enough. I did. LI presented the plate and said to me with a proud smile.

"Have a hambugga."

I did. It tasted like dry bread with watery ketchup on it. LI, still grinning and proud from his accomplishment, asked if I liked it. I was reminded of a loving child having just triumphantly presented a noble but failed effort for a first breakfast for her mother. If I said yes, I would be pushing the limits of honesty while also opening myself to future meals of these "hambuggas." If I said no, all the love and consideration would be discounted and LI would be disappointed. I smiled and shook my head.

“This is not an American hamburger, this is a Leshan (after the city we were in) hamburger. I like American hamburgers and I like Chinese hamburgers, but I don't like Leshan hamburgers."

I picked up a steamed bun (boazi) filled with meat common in China.

Page 100

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

"This is a Chinese hamburger," I said as I took a bite. The Chinese boazi is the closest thing to an American hamburger I know. Often, like American hamburger, it is long on bun and short on meat. It is rarely dry and best served hot and fresh. Unlike American hamburgers, you normally don't need to add any condiments to it, although my daughters like to dip it in hot sauce. They are delightfully good. The meat is already mixed with vegetables and spices. Every place has a little different tasting boazi, depending on the amount and type of meat, vegetables and spices they use.

Hamburgers are not to be found in this part of China and if you ever see anything advertised as hamburgers or American food, don't order it. You will be disappointed. I went to two places in Sichuan Province and one place in Yunnan Province that served "hamburgers." They catered to the back packers who come through these parts. If you order a hamburger, you may question what is served you. The server will smile and say "Yes, but this is a hamburger." When you humor them and taste it, and again tell them this is not a hamburger, they may look at you quizzically and helplessly, which, like the hamburger, may be something other than what you think it means.

Page 101

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Stranger in a Strange Land

I don’t belong here. The Chinese lady I came with was retained on the street, her papers being closely checked by the Chinese government guards. They looked at my “big nose” and flagged me through. Once inside I feel like someone will find me out and tell me to leave. I look with fascination at the clean modern fixtures, Norman Rockwell prints and well-stocked library. I feel like a spy studying the announcements on the American Consulate bulletin board to discover what secrets they might hold.

After living several months in China, my sense of normal is brought into question as I feel like a stranger at the American consulate in Chengdu. I am also a still a stranger in China as I try to understand what is going on around me. A few days ago, a man stood in the middle of the road with his tiny daughter, the cars, busses, vans, trucks and other motorized vehicles hurling by in both directions. She wore a beautiful yellow dress with white trim. He wore the standard male Chinese outfit: a white shirt with dark pants.

What was he doing and why was he doing it? Was he defying the traffic to hit him and his precious child? I had seen other Chinese men standing in traffic, walking dangerously down the road or crossing a street seemingly oblivious of the cars and busses screaming and honking past them. Are they exerting their power and personhood by not moving when they should? Are they saying to the world,

“Go ahead, make my day”?

Or are they saying “You may have a vehicle and a horn, but just see if you can move me”?

Maybe it is an act of civil disobedience, like the U.S. civil rights demonstrators in the 60’s who knew they had no power but the power of their convictions, and offered their bodies in ransom for some small justice. Were they like the civil rights activists lying down in front of a bus, hoping it wouldn’t run over them, but knowing it might? Was it the face of someone just too tired from work and being shoved around one too many times to care what happened to him? Did he think it was his right as a proletariat, one of the masses, to have preference over those people who could afford buses and cars? Maybe he is a follower of the lone Chinese protestor caught on camera, facing down a military tank in Tiananmen Square in 1989.

But that little girl in the yellow dress was too young to know or think any of that. She was frightened; it showed in her face and her body. That is a natural reaction to having tons of steel whizzing by you with horns blaring at you,

“Get the hell out of the road you crazy SOB”.

Page 102

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Only as you grow older like her father can you learn the other unnatural reactions. It’s only when you have lived awhile, seen some things and had some things done to you that you can stand in the middle of the road with death racing towards you without moving to save your life.

On another day, an old man was running as fast as he could through the city traffic, his sandals flying off his feet. He didn’t stop to retrieve them from the street, but kept on running barefoot. He was a man with a purpose. What was he running from or toward? I watched as he gained on a young man on a mountain bike that had been way ahead of him. When he finally caught up with the biker, he grabbed his bike from behind and then marched him and his bike back toward me. The old man was livid and raging. The young man, obviously embarrassed by all of the carrying on, was looking down.

What had happened? I watched all of this from the car I was sitting in, waiting for the traffic to clear so we could move on. I thought someone might see the old man’s sandals in the street, decide they were abandoned and claim them for their own, but no one even seemed to notice of them. The old man paused as he slipped on one and then the other as he passed our car holding tightly to the young man. The Chinese women in the car with me were no help to explain what was going on. As we inched ahead in the traffic, we passed the old man who was showing the young man a damaged bird cage he had on the back of his old Chinese bike that he must have abandoned as he pursued the offender on foot. The birds seemed unharmed. They, like me, seemed to be puzzling over what appeared to be but another of the many unsolved mysteries of daily happenings in China.

On another day, my daughter and I were waiting for a bus when suddenly the lady next us shouted something in Chinese and started running away in her high heels. A truck was coming down the street with two men sitting on large water tank in back. The people and bicycles were scattering as it came like snow in front of a snowplow. We followed the lady in hig heels, not sure whether we were in the middle a government sweep to clean up dissidents, capture illegal peasants from the countryside or some other unknown terror. In this case, it was only the government DDT truck spraying down the neighborhood to keep the bugs down.

In another city, I saw a similar truck spraying down the trees along the river, the DDT only partially hitting the small trees with the remainder going directly into the river that thousands of people use every day to wash their clothes, dishes and selves. We lived downstream of this river, but it did not matter much as they were constantly spraying our area directly. One day they would spray the grass, on another day the trees, and on another day our houses and classrooms. This DDT will eventually find its way into the water and streams that joined with the Yangtze River that runs into the Pacific Ocean. It also would find its way into our nervous systems and bodies.

Page 103

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

I could run from the path of the DDT truck and I could try to avoid direct experience with the other poisons sprayed in air, on plants and in homes, but will it eventually find its way to all parts of the world, even to my pristine home in the middle of the woods on the shores of Lake Superior. Why should I be concerned, I had already indirectly experienced these pollutants from far off China its affects along with all of the other pollutants dumped into the water and atmosphere from all the other places on the globe, and they had experienced mine. At least we all share in something.

As I leave the consulate to return home, some individuals are selling flowers in the street. They sell knick-knacks to the people in cars while they wait for the light to change or the traffic to clear. This happens everywhere now days in China, but it’s illegal. The peddler two cars ahead of me suddenly grabs the merchandise from the driver’s hand and runs through a stream of cars into a group of pedestrians on the sidewalk. Did he steal something from the man’s car? Why isn’t the man pursuing him or calling out for help? Before I can ponder what happened further, a police officer comes moving between the two rows of stopped cars on a motorbike. The seller saw the threat and had reacted quickly so he would not be caught or lose any merchandise in the process. As the officer moves on, the vendors reemerge out of the crowds as the tide flow back into the street. Later the police in vans raid the vendors’ stalls set up illegally along the street, destroying them, arresting the owners who have not fled and confiscating their goods. The police will eat well tonight from the spoils of this raid, their wives will get new trinkets and their friends new T-shirts.

Page 104

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Building and Struggling in China

From the roof of the three-storied building where the teachers and staff stay, I watch the laborers build a new structure right next to it. Because I am above them, they don’t notice they are being watched by a laowei, a foreigner. Everything is done by hand. Everybody works together in flowing harmony. A man and a woman load stockpiled bricks in a cart and dump them at the base of the building. Another man then throws the bricks up to the man squatting on the second floor. The artistry, and skill involved in the consistent timing, placement and construction are a marvel. It is as if the man throwing the bricks up was handing them off to his partner, as they seemed to be placed in his hand rather than thrown.

The synchronization of all these activities and the ease with which the building crew worked together was like a symphony, but I couldn’t distinguish the conductor. Each seemed to know his or her part and played it without missing a beat. The tiny women would carry back breaking loads of cement in two buckets suspended to a pole over their shoulders up to the brick layers, then pick up two empty buckets to repeat the process time and again. Each brick a beat, each load a measure until the building is completed. Throughout China this building is going on. Every day it is changing. Such is the growth of China: brick by brick, bucket by bucket, load by load.

The amount of work and suffering that the Chinese live with makes me appreciate how easy my life has been. However, sometimes I think the people I am dealing with have gone through one too many struggle, criticism, denunciation and speak bitterness meetings during the Cultural Revolution. It affects people differently. Some are hunched over peering at you with vacant eyes. Some are short-tempered and offensive, hoping to get you before you can get them. Others are very elusive; every question is answered with “We’ll see,” “Maybe so” or “Mayo”--no have. Some say “Yes, Yes, Yes,” to everything, even when they mean “No, No, No!” I’ve read about the struggle meetings and they don’t sound like fun. Some people never survived to tell their sides of the story. I can’t blame them. I would not have fared very well either. I am not sure what would be left of me to show the world.

I’ve been through baby struggle meetings before in the States, but it is clear that we Americans are in the minor leagues when it comes to struggling. Try seven years of solitary confinement to confess to crimes you did not commit or spending 25 years in exile to the countryside for being branded a rightist. Or maybe daily denunciations in the town hall in front of the citizens you have served and sacrificed for, then paraded through the city with loudspeakers and placards hanging from your neck proclaiming your “sins” against the people.

America is small potatoes compared to China in suffering. So I try to cut them a little slack. My having to wait hours and go from office to office to process inane forms that are filed and forgotten about is no reason for me to take it out on the people. They are just part of the

Page 105

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

system and the struggle continues. Then there are some with a smile and a twinkle in their eye. They have suffered all of the indignities, taken years of torture and come out smelling like, looking like and feeling like a rose. These are the people I want to be around. That’s the camp I want to be in when I finish my struggle.

Page 106

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Page 107

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Karaoke and Leadership

The region is blacked out, but for the first time in about three weeks the sky is clear and there is a full moon. The three-hour drive here today through the mountains was beautiful, the prettiest countryside I’ve seen since being in China, except for the stretch of mountains I saw from the train in Shaanxi province and northern Sichuan province. I am writing by candle light in my hotel room, fully dressed, under all the blankets, and with my stocking hat on. It’s early December and, as is the rule for most of China, there is no indoor heating. It actually works out quite well--you do not have to take off or put on coats when you go into or out of buildings. In the morning, you layer up. This not only gives you good insulation, it also gives you maximum use of all of your clothes. The Chinese don’t seem to mind. I think they have gotten used to cold, and take it much better than us foreigners who are used to all sorts of luxuries such as indoor heat.

I am in the hotel alone, the rest of the foreign language academy personnel I came with, as well as the regional education leaders, are out on the town. I guess they will find some place that has a generator so they can sing karaoke and dance. Karaoke, or KOK as it is called here, is very popular in China. Even in the most rural areas you can find a KOK place. For about 12¢ U.S., but what relatively be more like one dollar to an American, you can sing a song along with a laser disk, which projects the words and exotic scenes on a screen and plays background music over loudspeakers.

Not far from our apartment on the campus where we live is a KOK, and so nightly we get to hear the karaoke singers. I have been surprised at how well the Chinese seem to sing the Chinese songs as compared to Americans singing American songs, and have commented on this to the Chinese. They say just the opposite--all Americans are good singers, while the Chinese sing poorly. I think the difference in perceptions is because the Chinese compare themselves to their popular stars and we compare ourselves to the original recording. Americans are not able to make good comparisons to the original Chinese recording stars and the Chinese lack the American music background to compare American karaoke singers to what the original recordings sound like.

I have been told that the provisional leaders I work with wine and dine the district leaders with KOK and girls as part of their working agreement in exchange for their cooperation and participation in this experimental English program. Part of me wants to know if this is true, but another part of me would be hurt and disappointed if I knew it to be true. I work closely with these people and feel a kinship with them. If I knew they were unethical it would taint our relationship and I would lose respect for them. I have also been told that they don’t want the “foreign guest” at these affairs as it would inhibit their play and be much harder to spend government money on things that it should not be spent on. Others might be more likely to ask such questions, but I feel it improper to do so.

Page 108

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

I don’t care much personally as I am no big fan of KOK, don’t drink, smoke or womanize. KOK has all of those things, and at 12 cents a song plus the extras, the cost can add up. Also, the leaders stay out much later than I like. I am usually asleep by 10 p.m. on these trips. As for drinking and smoking, I have to decline several offers each day. It is polite to offer a man a cigarette when you meet and alcohol when you eat. It is also polite to accept, but these are not customs I choose to support. If I did, as the foreign guest someone would be lighting a cigarette for me as soon as I finished one, and encouraging me to finish my drink so they could pour me another. It is their way of showing hospitality, and the Chinese can be extremely hospitable people.

With drinking, it reminds me of how some Americans are, especially in a bar. They are offended if you refuse to have a drink with them and will sometimes go to ridiculous measures to get you to comply. Some places here, like some places in the USA, they will hold the reluctant drinker down and pour the alcohol down him. I say him, because females are not expected to drink and are rarely offered a cigarette.

I have never seen a woman offered a cigarette, except my wife once when I declined a cigarette after dinner, but informed the person offering that my wife smoked, as she usually liked a cigarette after dinner. Later, my wife instructed me never to tell anyone she smoked, as she felt uncomfortable being the only woman smoking with a bunch of Chinese men. I have seen women offered a drink, but only once have I seen one accept (it wasn’t my wife), although it is said that Sichuan women can hold their alcohol better than most men.

Today I thought the district education Director was crying at the luncheon, but when I looked again it was just that he was sweating from his eyes to his mouth. As the local leader welcoming the provincial leaders, it is his role and responsibility to encourage everyone to drink and to lead in the many toasts. He was making a noble attempt, but the sweat running down his cheeks like tears suggested it was having an adverse affect on him. The alcohol is like jet fuel I am told. It smells like it and yesterday our driver set a saucer full on fire. It made a beautiful blue flame. A rule of thumb I follow is to not drink any liquid that burns when a match is put to it, no matter how beautiful the flame.

Today was like most days out on the road. We are served more dishes and more food than anyone could possibly eat, although the Chinese make an amazing stab at it. I consider myself a person who can eat with the best of them, and feel I have proven myself on many occasions, but many of the Chinese, much smaller, lighter and thinner than me, can eat circles around me.

Page 109

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Chaos Theory in China 1996

"It was once suggested, to illustrate the chaotic and unpredictable way in which natural systems behave, that the beat of a butterfly's wing in China can eventually trigger a hurricane in the Atlantic." The Economist, September 8, 2007.

Chaos theory, sometimes called the “buttery fly effect,” can be described in the flapping of the wing of a butterfly somewhere in China later leading to a tornado somewhere in America. This new theory in physics is used to describe the relationship in the physical world, but it can also be used to describe happenings in the social world. We have seen the metaphorical small flap of a wing in China create seemingly unconnected tornados elsewhere.

We never know when the flap of a wing will affect the world or just stir the air molecules around it. Nobody could see the flap of communism in the early 1900’s changing the entire landscape of China by the 1950’s. In retrospect we can see how small early actions can led eventually to a nation or the world being changed. We can look back and see how some false start in some obscure room, a truck backing over a soldier or a disillusion young man affected China. You never know when the next flap you make may change our lives or the lives of millions. You may fly into the path of an oncoming truck or your savior.

In the past, it was easy to see how the flap of some emperor butterfly in Peking could create tornados across the land, but hard to know which flaps in the countryside would lead to the destruction of the empire. Today one butterfly flies from Taiwan in the Pacific to North America and causes an international storm or another pesky butterfly tries to sneak into his Chinese homeland without creating a flap, but which results in a typhoon. On the other hand, countless flaps everyday seem to affect no one other than the butterfly. Apparently, billions of these events occur every day in China.

The streets of China are an excellent place to see chaos theory at work. The streets of China’s cities are teeming with millions of people. Whether as a pedestrian, biker or motorist, you are constantly engaged in the workings of chaos theory. If a pedestrian misjudges the trajectory of a bus, if a bicycle turns at the wrong second, or if a vehicle misjudges the space by one inch between it and an oncoming vehicle, thousands of other people will be affected. The traffic patterns for the rest of the day, maybe longer may be affected.

As a pedestrian, I must be constantly judging the ebb and flow of the other people, bikers, and motor vehicles when I cross the street. Walking down a crowded street, you must judge how the flapping of the other pedestrians will affect your progress. What obstacles are up ahead? Will we be bottlenecked? If I get behind this person now, will I be able to pass them later? If I speed up will I make the stop light, will I make it or cause and accident that will make me later? Does the stop light work, and if it does, does it mean anything to the others looking at the same light?

These decisions become more crucial and have greater and quicker impact on you and others as you move up to a bike and a car. You must factor in speed, weight, size,

Page 110

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

maneuverability and number of others vehicles and their characteristics and inclinations to make choices on what you should do. Many other variables also need to be considered—size of the roadway and the amount of rain, fog and pollution. The volume and irritability level of the all horns multiplied by the number of times and length of the blasts need to be considered, as does the rhythm and spacing of the blasts.

What happens when you are responding to a butterfly effect as when a driver has just swerved to avoid an accident you didn’t see and coming straight at you? What happens when the butterfly next to you is forcing you into the next lane or car? What about those absent - minded butterflies who just step in front of you, stop for no reason at all without warning or decide to turn in front of you. They contradict all of the laws of expected behavior and then look at you as if you dropped out of the sky like some disoriented butterfly.

The skilled practitioner of chaos theory in China must be particularly skilled because after the thousands of people, bicycles and cars on the street. Bicyclist must maneuver between the traffic and pedestrians. They must maneuver around potholes, debris and all sorts of parked vehicles weighed down with an amazing quantity and variation of merchandise. Will the bus in front of them pull out or will some passengers step off in front of them? Is the biker in front speeding up, slowing down, training or just daydreaming? Will the cross traffic go in front of the still moving traffic until it stops or will the traffic stop them?

Should you speed up and turn out to you beat the vehicle that is cutting across your lane or should you slow down and turn in? What if they decide to speed up or turn? What will the people, cyclists and vehicles around you do? Will they allow you to ease over? What about the pedestrians stepping into your way? Will they stop, go on or go back? Will the cyclist coming at you go left or right, or will you? Are they waiting to see what I will do before they decide what they do?

Page 111

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Arrested

After I had been arrested just after getting back into China from going on a new years break with my family to Thailand, I learned a good friend had a similar problem with the same man (second floor, first office to the right, the man sitting in the desk facing the door) later that week. He evidently is the one who handles these “difficult” cases involving “terrorist” foreigners. Judy (name changed to protect the innocent) had corrected the Chinese character for her Chinese name (withheld), which had been written wrong in her resident permit. The penalty: 10,000 yuan.

Her case took two days involving video-taped confessions and threats to jail. It seems that in the afternoon of the first day the official agreed to drop the fine to 1000 yuan which my friend (and/or her school) would have been willing to pay. The problem was , nobody told them that the fine had been lowered. When she failed to appear that afternoon (she was still waiting for help and a decision from her school), they increased the fine to 2000 yuan. The next day they wouldn’t let her leave or give her passport back (which she needed to leave the country) until she paid. She paid, she left, and she never came back to China. Like me, it must have been the last straw. She liked China, she had a good job which she liked, she had many friends, she had no intention of leaving China for several years, but she left. Why did we have the same, dramatic, emotional, gut-wrenching reaction?

It seems the official had learned from me. He had told me when I left that the fine would not be less than 1000. I came back with a letter from my work unit saying I would be willing to pay 100, to honor the Chinese government, but that I did not think it was fair as I didn’t feel as if I had done anything wrong. By that time I would have felt relieved to only pay 100 whereas if he started with 100 I would have felt it extreme. So with Judy he started at 10,000 (can you believe it) and then in the afternoon lowered it to 1000, thinking she too would count herself lucky. He pushed too hard and she couldn’t contain the outrage at the injustice and absurdity. And when she didn’t come back in the afternoon (where did he think she would get 10,000 yuan in a few hours) he struck back at the indiscretions. He may have also been striking at her work unit, a private school that catered to wealthy people; either because he disdained them or he thought he could get it from them.

Page 112

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Honking

The driver has rigged up a wire on his gear shift so he can easily and regularly honk his way through traffic. By pushing the wire against the metal gear handle with his finger, he can make the horn blare. Because it is activated by his right index finger, he can with little effort or thought make a series of rapid blast. Every time his hand is on the gear, which is often because he is constantly changing gears through the traffic, the finger naturally hits the wire and engages the horn. It is a wonderful ergonomic design and might well make the inventor wealthy in a country like China where such a device could greatly ease the effort required to use the most exercised part of the car: the horn.

The horn is like the voice of the driver. Whoever shouts the loudest with the most bravado wins the argument. “I am coming through!” blasts one. “No you’re not!” retorts another. “I was here first!” “If you don’t move I will run over you!” “Get out of my way!” All day long until one becomes insensitive to the shouts and threats. Until one wants to shout back with his and her whole being “Oh yeah! Who says?” “I don’t give a shit if you want to pass, I’ll move when I am damn good and ready, and not a moment sooner! And, if you keep that fucking blasting up, I may not move at all!” Is this the result of a people who have suffered for too long the indignities of having no power or say in their lives? People who stand up to a truck and to exert what little power and say they have.

My driver honks, even if there is no one in his way. It’s an affirmation saying “Here I am world. I am alive.” Because he honks by pressing the bare electric wire against the metal gear shift, thus creating a ground, he is able to rub the frayed wires to get different effects. His right hand on the shifter, on the ready to let everyone know. It is as if he gets a rush when he touches the wire, like mainlining power.

I was riding a bus the other day that had two horns, one a regular bus horn and another that sounded like screeching brakes that were failing. I thought is was the brakes being strained as we roared down the mountain roads. Every time a vehicle pulled out in front of us or a bicycle did not get over fast enough, the driver would resort to this second horn. It must have been operated by air as it would start as a high pitch and gradually change tones as if the brakes were grabbing, but may not hold much longer. It is a clever device, but it did not seem to move the traffic anymore than the regular horn. I did enjoy the ride more after I figured out it was not the brakes groaning under the weight of the bus, but rather another ingenious device to let the world know to look out.

Page 113

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Looking at Chinese Education

When I visited South Africa some years ago, I went looking for evidence of the horrors and injustices of apartheid. What I found was a society very much like the one I had left in the United States. When I went to China, I expected to find many differences in their education from the United States. What I found was how very much alike they are. In fact, in all the schools I have visited in different parts of the world where I have gone to look for differences I have been more struck by the tremendous similarity of curriculum, practice and process. The students are studying the same things all be it from different cultural perspectives in pretty much the same way toward the same end.

Ideas for Teaching English as a Second Language to Primary Students

Note: This article was originally written for Chinese teachers of English as a Second Language in 1996. It has been revised for a more general audience.

Abstract: This article contains some general ideas that teachers might consider in teaching English as a second language to their primary students.

Teaching is a challenging and complex activity that must be adapted to the changing contexts of the classroom. While teaching demonstration lessons in China in 1995-96, many teachers aske for my advice on how they might improve their teaching of English as a second language to their primary age students. Some of these ideas came from my past experience teaching Native American and African children, some came from my experiences teaching English as a second language to primary students in Sichuan province in the People’s Republic of China (PRC), some from watching the Chinese teachers teaching these same children and some from my years of studying and teaching teachers. Not all these ideas have been tried by me personally, so if you use them, let me know how they worked with your students so I can learn from you. If you have other ideas, please share them with me and I will share them with the other teachers. We all are different and every situation is different. As you develop as a teacher, you will find approaches and activities you are comfortable with and that work for you. At first you may imitate what models you have seen or experienced your self as a student. Gradually you will find your style and effective techniques. As you become more effective you will be able to become more of your true self and help your student to do the same. The ideas presented below have been categorized for your convenience.

Use Games Children love games and play. They can be effective and efficient ways to learn. There are many ideas for games and play that can be adapted in many different ways. The best way of knowing what will work with your students is to try it and observe what aspects are effective.

Page 114

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Most children like challenges, working/playing together and team activities. Some ideas for games are listed below. 1. What am I? Have a student come to the front of the class. Show the student a picture or give them a word and have him/her try to act out the picture or word without words to see if the class can guess what it is . 2. What is it? Have two team members come to the front of the room. The teacher tells or shows one a word and one student has five seconds to draw a picture so the others can guess what the word is. 3. Simon Says. Every time teacher or student precedes a command (e.g., raise your hand, stand up) with Simon Says, then the students must do what is said, but if the leader does not say Simon Says first, then they should not do what the leader says. 4. Tic Tac Toe. Have the group divided into two teams. Have exercises or questions to develop or test the students’ skills. The team that gets the answer right first would be allowed to make a mark on the Tic Tac Toe board where they like. The team that completes three marks in a row wins.

Ask Questions This is a common and useful technique. What color is your (e.g., shirt, pencil, sky, etc.)? How many (fingers, arms, books, etc.) do you have? Hold up an object and ask, “What is this?” Give a word in the native language and ask, “How do you say/spell this in English?” Ask a question in native language and have the students answer in English. Ask a question in English and have them answer in the native language. Have students ask one another questions in pairs or groups.

Mistakes Everyone makes mistakes. Mistakes are part of learning. It is more important that the students are encouraged to communicate than to correct mistakes. Think about how very young children learn a language. They hear the noises and voices around them. They start by making simple sounds which are reinforced by people around them. Gradually they imitate sounds and begin making themselves understood, very gradually learning to talk after much practice and encouragement.

Understanding The standard should be understanding: Can they get the meaning from listening or reading? Can they convey meaning through speaking and writing? As an adult learning Chinese, my objective is to understand and be understood. The Chinese are generally very encouraging of my efforts. If they constantly criticized and corrected me, demanding perfection from me, I would become frustrated and might not be motivated to even try. Sometimes we are kinder to outsiders than we are to our own family or students. For example, my children, who know Chinese better than I do, are always correcting me or they do not allow me to make my own mistakes. When we are learning something new and difficult, we need the love and patience we would show a baby. When it comes to learning a language, we may even need more love and patience than we show babies, as they have a greater facility for language learning.

Motivation For me, learning Chinese is important if I want to communicate with those around me. Like a baby I want to communicate my needs and desires so that they can be satisfied. If a baby

Page 115

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 wants something, it must learn how to communicate it to those who can help it. We need to learn the language to communicate. Most Chinese students learning English do not have such basic needs or motivations. It was hard for me to learn Chinese in the USA though I knew I was coming to the PRC. I had more pressing and immediate concerns. I was lacking the needed motivation. The more we can create such motivational conditions, the greater should be the learning possibilities. This is a challenge as the natural motivators for learning a new language that are present for a baby or a person visiting a foreign country ae generally missing. Other motivators need to be found. Praise, encouragement and rewards can help. If students have to use English to get what they want or need, their motivation to learn it will increase.

General Learning Principles Go from concrete to abstract, known to unknown, extrinsic to intrinsic motivation, disequilibrium to equilibrium. Be active, use play, make relevant, use interests, meet needs, be socially proximate, be physically proximate, use novelty, use praise and encouragement, actively involve as many students as possible, tie into previous learning for maximum transfer, use mnemonic devices to help students remember, use humor, use peer tutoring and group work

Learning Modalities Use as many modalities as possible; for example, write the letters of numbers on the board while you are saying them so they not only get an auditory message, but a visual one as well. Have students write on paper or in the air while hearing, seeing, saying to further reinforce learning. Have students draw their own pictures to go with the lesson. Teach and use classroom instructions in English to help learning, like “open your book” or “put your hand up.” Sing songs and do activities at every class. Be careful about overusing stock phrases and recitation exercises. The more students talk/do, the more they will learn.

Reinforcement Principles Effectively use repetition,

Lesson Planning What is your objective?

Page 116

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Notes on Meeting with Leaders and Teachers in Leshan

Rodney H Clarken

2/4/96 4:30 pm

Earlier this day I presented books to the Education Head of Leshan District and to Tong Liang Primary School. I also taught three classes and greeted a couple of others. Now I am in a meeting with officials and teachers. It has been going on all afternoon while I was out teaching in schools, so I don't know what is happening. I wouldn't know anyway as it is all in Chinese and no one ever bothers to translate. I've never seen so many notes at meetings before. People have written pages and are still writing. To understand what they talk about would give me some insight. Maybe I can get the young (22 years old) translator to tell me later in synopsis form. It is also hard for me to read the body language, except with all the note taking and straight faces, they evidently are attending to what is going on. As normally happens, I assume I will be expected to say a few words without knowing anything that has gone on.

The leaders sound like they are lecturing in a condescending way to the teachers, but I can't trust my reading of their tones as the Chinese speak louder and in harsher voices than I am used to. I have seen and heard friendly conversations that I thought were arguments. They have been at this for over two hours. Now there is some laughing as the leader seems to be bringing his remarks to a close. I was right. Now they are introducing me, but they must be saying more as the talking goes on and they still have not given me my cue, though I hear my Chinese name being mentioned several times. When the leader comes back, I give my comments which are then translated. Basically I say there is too much to tell you but I have written some articles, have a book and will write another article on ideas for teaching the Primary School English books. I also am happy to give advice if they are not too shy to ask.

The meeting is apparently over, but no one moves. The leader appears to repeat the meeting is concluded and stands, still no one moves. It is cold out but all the windows are wide open.

The Leader Speaks

3/4/96

Note: I take notes during these meetings as I have done it from the beginning. As I am only making notes about my travels and teaching, they are not bothered. Also because my Chinese is so bad and what happens in the meetings so standard that there is to be worried about. The big leader is speaking to the assembled group of 20 teachers. I can see just by his delivery he is the big leader. I can also tell because he is sitting next to me. He speaks with power and authority, his finger pointing and waving while he gives his spirited delivery. Also when he starts to talk, right after my brief, kind, loving and supportive remarks, most of the teachers pull out their note pads. The teachers tell me that these talks are boring, but they must pretend to be interested. The leader is a pleasant, even kindly, looking fellow with his bangs, the front top of his hair, permed into a nice curl. It is unusual to see this in a society where many men look like they have just gotten out of bed.

Page 117

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

In the meeting they serve bananas. I have noted that most people here peel their bananas from the bottom to the top, which strikes me as unnatural. In the spirit of independent investigation of truth, I do a quick survey. Only 3 of the 21 Chinese eating bananas peel from the top.

The second leader, sitting on my other side, starts looking at his watch. Then he leans ahead and more obviously looks at his watch as an obvious sign that we have gone over time. But the leader has not finished with his notes. Finally the number two man says “Leader” and points to his watch. But the leader has more to say. Finally, I hear my name and, he is gesturing to me. He must be wrapping up. It’s a final thank you for my teaching and for the gift of a book I have presented to them. We leave the meeting, but all the teachers stay. I don’t know why. The kids outside are wearing their 14 X 6 inch abacuses on a string around their neck. A crowed follows me down the street to the waiting van.

Page 118

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Visiting with an American Comrade

Rodney H Clarken

The four Chinese comrades and I eat our fill of noodles, boazi and rice porridge for breakfast. The cost is less than 90 cents, but the leader and others still question the bill. They demand a receipt. The owner does not seem to have one or understand why the need it, but he goes away and triumphantly comes back shortly proud to be able to produce an official receipt. When the owner gives them the receipt they require so they can be reimbursed, it is not acceptable to the group because it doesn’t have a “chop”, a stamp, to make it official.

If it didn’t have a chop stamp, they could not be reimbursed by their office, so the old man with short grey hair and dark blue Mao jacket walked down the street to another office to have them put their chop mark on it as he apparently did not have one. This time they accepted it and paid the bill. I guess it doesn’t matter who makes the chop as long as it is there. We finish breakfast.

It is 9:16 am and the American who had set up this visit and who said he would meet us at 8:30 am still has not arrived. My comrades are angry. Not know what else to do, we go back to hotel. He is there waiting for us and seems very conciliatory, but the group is not easy on him and lets their displeasure show. The American seems to have forgotten about us and he is in trouble with lots of folks. X doesn’t hide his displeasure and brings it up at the meeting with the leaders and teachers and also at lunch later that day. He tells them that I am also angry. It seems I am being used more and more to endorse and support their point of view. I feel sorry for the American, but maybe he deserves it. It seems that have had other unpleasant experiences with him.

As we approach the school, I ask the translator if I should put on my tie which I usually do not wear until I need to. She usually says it is up to me, but today she says yes. I wonder why the big deal. When we arrive at the school, I better realize why they are angry. The ceremony was to start at 9:00 am and over 800 students and guests have been waiting for us. The head English teacher is waiting in the narrow market road leading to the school clearing the way for our van. When we turn the corner, the band, which has been waiting almost an hour for our arrival, strikes up as the trumpets and drums greet us. Now I get it.

Nobody has bothered to tell me that I was the guest of honor at a large ceremony. I grab my camera, but don’t feel it is appropriate to take photos as I lead the way down the facing rows of drummers and buglers in full uniform. I do my Chinese bow as I walk with three video cameras and many other regular cameras recording the event. As soon as the over 700 children see me come into view they begin cheering. I wave and they wave back.

I walk down the middle of the seated students greeting them as I go, much like a Presidential candidate might do. I am introduced to the dignitaries sitting in the front and then take my seat. It appears the American was so involved in setting up the ceremony he forgot to get us. Large cups of tea are set in front of each place and someone is making regular round to see they are filled. Someone brings me a large glass of hot milk. He is shaking with nervousness when he gives it to me.

Page 119

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

The leaders speak. The school bells for class and recess continue to ring on schedule during the ceremony. During the different talks, the leaders in front smoke and talk as if it is free time. These are the role models for all of the children. Last evening X told the American to make his comments very short, but today his is droning on about how his school came to be recognized as an English experimental school. He wants to blow his horn and have his fifteen minutes of glory stretched to an hour. X is angry at him and tells us in a funny way how the American is saying “and then someone did this, and then someone did that.”

Everyone seems bored, even the children who are normally very disciplined and respectful are fidgeting, talking and playing. When the American finished his talk he is literally foaming at the mouth. He is a kindly, but goofy looking sort of fellow. His suit is nice but much too large, closely resembling a clown suit. He sports a close cut flat top, graying hair, a gray shirt two sizes too large and brown teeth from too many cigarettes and constant tea.

The child emcee announces, “Now Dr. Bahai will teach us a lesson.”

Bahai is my Chinese name, and whenever I hear it I expect I will soon be called on to do something. I look to X, my leader and keeper, to get some clue as to what I am supposed to do.

“I have to teach a lesson? Now?!”

There are 780 students who have been sitting over an hour staring expectantly at me. I have no teaching aids or chalkboard and the public address system keeps cutting in and out. I am normally very calm and collected, ready for anything, but not for this.

“Yes,” he says smiling as if to say, isn’t this wonderful.

“How long?” I ask thinking maybe I can lead them in a song and do a couple of things with them to keep them entertained for a few minutes.

“Forty minutes,” he replied still smiling as if nothing was wrong

I have taught classes with more the 400 students, but that has been in an auditorium with a board and props. We are outside in the courtyard in front of the school with nothing. I won’t be able to do a good class under these conditions and I am not sure what they expect me to do, so I turn to X for guidance. He says to do boys and girls and circles, part of my regular routine.

“How? There is no blackboard.”

“You will do it in the classroom.”

Now did not mean now, it meant later after the ceremony. I ended up teaching a regular size classes of about 64-80 in a regular classroom, then watched another lesson in which the students did everything, while the teacher just sat there. It was quite good, but a bit too rehearsed.

Page 120

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Page 121

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Teaching Middle School English in Guanghan and Deyang

3/12-15/96

My job is to teach demonstration lessons to what the Chinese call middle school students and Americans call secondary students. The Chinese divide their middle schools into two levels - junior middle and senior middle. There are three grades in each level, which makes it very similar to our middle schools and high schools.

My problem is that the material that I have to teach is not in line with my pedagogical views. I must admit that I have spent hours, apparently fruitless, trying to convince the publishers and authors to change their material and have even collaborated with a Chinese professor and writer of such materials to improve it. Teaching such lessons at the primary level where teaching English is new and experimental is one thing. There I was given great flexibility which allowed me to teach dynamic and pedagogically inspiring lessons. On the secondary level, English has been taught for decades and the materials and methods are quite ingrained. Not only that, the society and party strongly reinforce following the "party" line.

The circumstances under which I am to teach these demonstration lessons also does not conform with good pedagogical practice. A few minutes before the class I am handed a book and told I am to teach such and such a lesson. I am also told I should follow the text, complete all the materials and not add activities outside of the lesson.

In one of the books I am given, every lesson begins with a song, then covers the new words and expressions, follows with a set dialogue and finishes with a proverb with translations and explanations given in Chinese. Unfortunately I only know a couple of the songs, which I learned from teaching the primary students. The dialogues are inane and the English proverbs sometimes hard to understand or take too seriously--“Love me, love my dog!” “A foreign language is a weapon in the struggle of life (Karl Marx);” “I came, I saw, I conquered (Julius Caesar);” “Art is long, life is short.”

Teaching in Guanghan Middle School #1

I taught four separate grade 1 jr. middle school classes today: one in the morning and three in the afternoon. After the classes we met with some of the English teachers to discuss the teaching of English as a second language. There are about eighty 12-14 years old students in each class. This is fairly common. I taught the lesson in the book they are now studying. In the fifty minute class I covered from four to eight lines of dialogue, about 28-50 words. I used a lot of activities to make the dialogue interesting, such as introducing drama and actions into the reading of the dialogues. I left the last ten minutes of class for open questions, which I though would be the most popular part of the class, but their English is still too limited to ask many questions. When I ask if they want to go back over their lesson one more time they give an enthusiastic yes.

Sichuan Educational Development Research Center 13/3/96

Page 122

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Guanghan - Experimental Primary School T-Xuxiao Ling - F, 64 students, 3 grade, 8 year olds

While waiting for class to begin the girl monitor leads the class in a series of songs and sayings. She will start them by singing the first bar then say “begin.” The school turned into a mob scene when I arrived, with groups of boys getting their kicks by trying to push so hard and fast from the outside that the crowd falls down. It seems to be a popular sport at many of these primary schools. I maneuver myself to minimize their effect. All the balconies around the school are filled with students watching. I direct my attention to them, waving and blowing kisses. They love it.

It takes a long time and the repetition of many songs before the teacher starts her lesson. She starts with the same songs and proverbs that the students were reciting while waiting for the class to begin. "Try, try, never say die;” “School is over / Oh what fun;” “well begun, half done;” “lesson finished; play begun.” When the students successfully recite the proverbs she gives them a paper cut-out of a star. Almost every student has his or her hands up. Teacher keeps repeating "don't be nervous," “try, try, never say die."

44 adults are watching from back and through windows. Now she is giving out big stars (9") and the students are shouting (owwww) every time one is given.

Teacher asks questions "Are you Chinese, etc." “What is this? What color?” (pronounces “greon” for green) while showing objects and pictures. All activities are teacher-centered with teacher front and center. The kids near her get most of the attention with the ones on the periphery becoming less and less involved. Rewards like this would have little effect in U.S., but very motivating here. She gives every right answer a star and has a large box of them to satisfy the demand. She could vary the routine, mixing some group activities with all the individual answering, but doesn’t. Some pictures hard to know: “Is she a girl? No, she is a mother.” “Is she a teacher, No she is a pupil” to pictures that could have easily been yes. T-"Now please open your books" - Nobody responds as they are so into the question/answer routine.

About 22 of the 64 didn't get a star, then totaled up points and gave rows with most points paper flags in Styrofoam. I gave a short presentation.

Guanghan City #1 Primary 13/3/96 - 20 adults - Book 3, Lesson 12 T- LiQing Ying, F, 90 s, Grade 5, age 11-12

The teacher, class, and cadres are waiting for us to arrive and begin as soon as we enter.

She is teaching the seasons with pictures and sayings about each, having students repeat after her. (T says “Autu(r)mn.”) Students respond to what they like best by repeating the saying given to the class, i.e., "I like autumn. I like fruits. Summer is good for us swimmers. Winter brings snow and snowflakes." Even though these are not realities to these children; yet they imitate it as mindlessly as it is taught, but much more responsively. How can they produce such material to teach English to these children?

Page 123

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

This teacher is also giving out stars to students who recite a verse in response to "Which season do you like best?" Red stars are a popular reward in China because of the Chinese flag and national symbolism of the red star.

Students, sitting on benches six abreast, keep repeating "I like_____, then finally play a tape Edelweiss." Its moving to hear the kids singing along with the recording.

The teacher shows picture and asks students to make up a sentence "The cat is (a) thirsty." The sentence they "make up" is the one they memorized, and that is the only sentence accepted by the teacher, not even any reasonable alternative. Teacher goes through the pictures and sentences, all taken from the text, several times.

Teacher had students one at a time introduce themselves and tell about themselves in a standard fashion. My name is , my mother teacher, my father worker, I love my mother and father. I am tall and fat. My teacher is short.

I greeted the children and talked with them. After class they gathered around to talk with me individually.

Then had a meeting with teachers and leaders. It is interesting that a country that promotes the voice of the common people and their rights, practices so little consultation and so much dictatorial authority. The teachers are giving their criticisms of the PSE text. Our leader gives a spirited response. He's eloquent, spirited and convincing. The leaders are almost all men and the teachers are almost all women: the norm both here and abroad.

Guanghan Reform School - 50 students 3/13/96

This school uses a different book than we and teaches English from grade 1. We visited the Vice Principal of the school’s apartment. It is one of the nicest I've seen, much nicer than ours (and larger).

“What colour is/are... Students put up their hands with their elbows on desk to be called on and clap 3 times to reward the answers. Teacher has students follow, then students do on own. I like their book by the Shanghai Foreign Language Ed. Press, "English for Children." Class follows imitation/recitation format. Has 2 students do dialogue - 1 What color is it?, 2 It is _____.

Guanghan 3/13/96

Taught four lessons to four classes of junior middle/students (lesson 10 "Examinations"), observed three primary English lessons, participated in one teacher's meeting to discuss teaching English, attended two formal banquets with education leaders and played 40 minutes of ping pong with teachers and staff (during rest period). I presented two books and several book marks to officials as gifts. Night before was asleep.

Page 124

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Deyang #1 Middle School 3/14/96

Left Guanghan at 7 am

At Deyang, went to middle school #1 teachers apartments where they have a guest apartment for us 3 men. I taught 2 English classes in morning (“Examinations,” lesson #10 from English Conversation for Junior Middle School Students) to grade 1 junior middle school classes. I observed a grade 1 senior middle school class studying "The Tailors Shop" by Mark Twain. The class of 51 was quite traditional. Teacher plays tape with new words/expressions, has several students recite them, teacher gave background to story, played story on tape, students did exercises, then two minutes of study. Tomorrow they will take dictation.

Taught two classes of two combined groups of over 120 each in afternoon. Teacher Yang-F.

Deyang #2 Middle School. 3/15/96

In an old building to be torn down this year I taught four classes of English to 12-14 year old students then took bus home after lunch with Xiao Fan. Gave "Foundations of World Unity" to both headmasters of #1 and 2, plus a copy of my language teaching suggestions. Country is beautiful with bight yellow rape seed fields. Sky to the left very dark, like dust storm or dirty rain mixed with grey fog.

The English head with her western hairdo, clothes, fur lined coat, and manners, blows her nose onto the floor behind her chair. Well, she did turn away from the table!

Begin and End of Class in China/Teacher respect

"Class is over." The class monitor says "stand up." The students stand in unison and in one voice say "Thank you, teacher" then bow. So ends most classes in China.

Class begins with the students all standing up and greeting the teacher when she enters the classroom.

When a student is called on he stands up to answer, even if it is to say "I don't know." Teachers are respected.

Page 125

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

My First Observations of Teaching

Chengdu, China October 1995

Note: My first observations of teaching English to primary aged students in China were of Gavin. We traveled together for about three weeks before I took his place after he was fired or quit, whichever way you look at it. He had a background in the theatre and used those skills effectively in his teaching. I later adopted many of his methods. Below is one of my first accounts of this teaching and the standard follow-up meeting.

Gavin taught a class introducing new ideas using the towel he carried to wipe off his profuse sweating for a hat, scarf, handkerchief and other props. He acted out flying, laughing and other English words while he had the students say or guess the words. He used students as props to teach he/she/you/they and other concepts. He was very effective in keeping the students engaged and entertained. Afterwards we attended a meeting with the big boss giving his thoughts on teaching English as a second language to the assembled teachers and leaders. After he had given his lecture, then others according to rank gave theirs. Almost every male in the room is smoking, but not one female. The standard complimentary tea and fruit are set out in front of us around the oblong table with its center cut out. At this meeting we have and added treat: sweets. Beside the plate of sweets is a plate of cigarettes, and I am offered a cigarette several times during each visit I am on. I always decline as I notice some other males do (but few).The table is too low: it does not allow a larger person, someone 5'6" or taller, to sit comfortably with your legs under it.

As has been my experience in other meetings, no one talks to me, but they do offer food and drink. I usually sit out these meetings with Gavin and we talk, but today we are apart so I am sitting in. The people are attentive to the talks. There is also a real attentiveness to the comfort of the guests, especially to me as a foreign guest, but on the other hand there is a distance. The speaker is holding her glass jar filled with tea leaves that many carry from place to place, like someone in US might carry a coffee cup. She is using a tapered fruit drink bottle, not the straight jars I've seen everyone else use. Maybe it is a touch of femininity or class on her part.

We are now on our fourth speaker so far, but no one has applauded or given much sign of any kind of positive or negative response to the speakers. Everyone is listening quietly, politely. Some, like myself, are taking notes, although I assume their notes relate to the content of the talk, not the meanderings of a foreigner trying to make sense of what is going on by reading only body language and other clues outside of comprehensible language. I can sometimes pick out a word, generally because they are talking about English teaching and sometimes an English phrase comes out: "Read your book, class".

Page 126

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

The speakers all sit and speak with little emotion or gestures. Four of the twenty listeners are smiling at something the speaker just said while some whisper to one another. I worry that my taking notes will disturb them, but no one seems to take note. I am discreet, but am waiting for someone to challenge me, "What are you writing about anyway?" They do not.

The eight women in the audience are taking notes and nodding in response to the speakers. They are all more responsive than men. The speaker tells Gavin and I in English ,

"I just told them we should learn from the foreign teacher."

This sounds like the Maoist slogans which took the form of "learn from so and so" and also the lead in to have us speak. I am right, at least, on the introduction part of it. Gavin speaks praising their work. He gives words of encouragement and his appreciation. He speaks with self- effacement, sharing sentiments of his world embracing and world uniting beliefs. We've now been at the school from 8:30-12:00.

It is the end of the meeting and they are again offering us more sweets and cigarettes. Gavin, an old hand at this, accepts both. If the offer you a cigarette, and you accept, the next offer is for a light. Gavin accepts both and is now the only one smoking in the room. I am still not sure whether it is more polite to decline their very gracious generosity or to accept. Which would make them feel better? I do not smoke, so the cigarette is easy, but I do like sweets. I decline both, but as people filter out of room, I take some hard candy, placed in front of me, into my pocket for my family when I return home that evening.

Page 127

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Going to and Observations of Guanghan School

The main street is jammed tight so we turn around and try some side streets. These are also very slow going. We are forcing our way through and around traffic as we can, but eventually we too are only stopping and sitting in the stalled traffic. The three people from the office are commiserating over their problems with their boss and are laughing. When I ask why, they pause and look questioningly at one another. Then one says,

“We are laughing”.

When I to ask why again, they said,

“We are angry.”

I give up trying to understand what is going on and go back to my writing and thoughts.

The streets cannot handle the growing traffic, especially when an accident occurs in a crossroad and ties up traffic for an hour while they wait for police. Vendors at stoplights are selling jasmine flowers to be used as decoration or fragrance for 15 cents.

It has taken an hour and half to go about 7 miles: that’s less than five miles an hour. A fast walker could have done better. In that time we have passed five accidents, one flat tire being fixed, one bus stopped by police and one tollbooth. Everyone, including our driver is honking, as if that would make others move faster. After 10 months of living here, I am no longer bothered by or even much notice the constant honking.

The young woman from Leshan riding with us spent the weekend at Lo’s and will stay there next weekend as well. She is only 22, shy and pretty. She is an English teacher, the daughter of a high party official in her town and a nurse. She finished two years of education at Leshan Teachers College and has been teaching for one year. As a little girl she wanted to be a translator.

The first school I visit is Guanghan Primary School, Loo Cheng #4. Many students were sweeping the yard with straw and stick brooms when we came in. After sweeping the yard, they sprinkle it with water to keep the dust down. There is white tile three feet high along all of the hall walls that are kept clean. The school is cleaner than most other schools I have visited with cement floors, 12-foot high ceilings and interior speakers in each classroom.

I observe a Grade 2 class (about 8 years old) with 70 students. There are six other observers in the room. There is an eye chart on the front wall with a poster on how to do eye exercises, which is a daily activity in all schools. The pictures of Mao, Marx, Stalin, Lenin and

Page 128

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Deng Xiaoping are above the front board, like most every classroom I visit. This room is well lighted with many windows along the sidewalls and seven fluorescent lights in the room. There are rows of wooden desks that sit two students abreast. Each student has an individual wooden chair without a back, something like a partial stool. In the in back corner of the room were 18 grass brooms, two waste pans, three wastebaskets, three plastic sprinkling cans. The students were well and colorfully dressed, some girls in fancy lace dresses. I am guessing this is a big day for them and they, their teachers and their parents have gone to an extra effort to make a good appearance.

When I enter, the students sing songs and recite proverbs. They then point to the body parts identified in English by the teacher: head, shoulder, knees, toes, etc. Then the teacher asks the class, “What are these? What is this?” pointing to different body parts. Later she asked, “Is it your hand?” going again through the vocabulary of the body parts.

The class is attentive and participating. Then the teacher has students say things in class. Every student has pencil box and ink on his or her desk and the teacher asks them to identify each by name. They identify their right and left hands. The teacher shows a toy robot and says, “It’s a robot”. Then the teacher tries to point out the robot’s facial features, which is very hard to do on a two-inch toy with 70 students, but there are no wondering eyes. The students sit attentively and all respond appropriately, though from my vantage point it was impossible to determine what she was pointing at. The teacher has good pronunciation is very cool and collected and is doing some challenging things with class.

Even though little the lesson was probably well-rehearsed and a little boring to the students, there was never an incident requiring students to be disciplined. Mostly students sat with straight backs, arms folded and looking ahead at the teacher. Even having several observers in their classroom along with a foreigner, which many of these children had never seen before, sitting in the back of the room, they rarely turned to sneak a peek during the lesson.

After observing other classrooms, I had several meetings with leaders and teachers. In one in a head masters office with two teachers, I am asked to give suggestions about teaching in class. I tell them to use more concrete examples and activities, to review and to do fun activities to help them remember. In another meeting with twelve people in a small office I am talking with people about using props, like a banana for a telephone and then for a reward.

I also taught some demonstration classes. I would draw a circle on the board and ask what it was. Whatever they answered I would fill in the circle to identify it and draw another circle until we ran out of things we could name in English. At one lesson, I gave out my business cards near end to reward the students who contributed. As soon as I did hands were going up everywhere, while they were not before.

Page 129

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

In the schoolyard after school, the children did a circle dance and exercises to music and instructions over a loud speaker. The kids kept looking up at me as I watched them from the second floor window. I imagined how Mao felt on the platforms in front of admiring masses. Later I made the mistake of signing one autograph and was mobbed. I thought it would be safe, but as soon as I did it for one, everyone was crowding around to get my autograph. I have done lessons at each school. The kids all want to shake my hand and don’t get tired or of saying bye which I do mostly from my perch on high.

Page 130

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Rock Star Receptions

My day in the school was also fairly routine. In these rural places the arrival of a non- Chinese is the cause of great excitement, especially for the children. They gather around the van when we pull into the schoolyard. Everyone is shouting “laowai” (“foreigner”) after a rock crowd fashion. It would be comparable to bringing a trained panda that does tricks and talks to an American school. It is as if I am rock star. If they don’t escort me to a waiting room, I am engulfed by a sea of children trying to touch or get close to me. This could be a touching scene, if it didn’t turn into an uncontrollable mob. I and the children closest around me get crushed in the shoving back and forth. At this point, neither the authorities nor I are able to stop it. The children are so loud and so intent on getting to me they don’t hear or care about anything else. Even if I could break free, by the time I got to the steps there would be 100 kids there to stop me.

I am beginning to believe that there are kids who push into the crowd trying to make the group fall like a bunch of dominoes. They seem to get some delight out of this, because instead of horrified or concerned “ahs” when it happens, I usually hear laughter. In all this pushing and shoving, someone is bound to get hurt, but no one seems to mind much. After all, it’s the kids only opportunity to see a foreigner/panda/rock star, and he doesn’t seem to mind too much.

When I go into a class, they either burst into applause or stand up to greet me. Because they want to get maximum exposure for the students, they will often parade me from class to class to do a few tricks and say a few words. When I teach a forty-minute class, they often have me do it in the largest room or even the playground, so more students can get the “benefit of my instruction.”

Today one of the classes had only seventy students, but there were also close to forty teachers from the region to “learn from the foreign expert”. They stood along the back of the room and every window and doorway was filled with faces trying to see the lesson. It is nice to be back in the classroom teaching young kids again, they’re such fun, but my lesson probably wouldn’t play in America. These kids are so wide-eyed and wonderful. I would have to be a panda or a rock star to get the kind of responses and attention in America that I get here. Some kids are so excited when you say hello to them that you think they might wet their pants. Some kids can’t say their own names when you ask them. Just shaking hands with a child in class can get the rest of the students laughing. Do something a little funny and you bring the house down. No, it’s not the same in an American classroom. If a Chinese teacher came to an American classroom, she’d get nothing like the reception I get in China. And if I want to get this reception in an American classroom, I would have to become a talking panda or a rock star.

Page 131

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Observing and Speaking at a Middle School

Visiting Middle Schools -- At Deyang with 3 professors from SUU, Fong, Zhang, and Zhu, all from the Foreign Language Department, we are visiting some middle schools and auditing junior middle school English teachers. We visit the experimental schools affiliated with the Foreign Language Dept of SUU. They are testing some new materials developed by some professors at SUU. The first teacher our group observed is the worst I've seen in China. She is the first middle school teacher I've formally observed, so maybe my bias toward primary teaching is coming through. Afterwards one of the professors also acknowledged it was not a very good class.

It was in a language lab with sixty carrels. Everyone must remove their shoes at the door. We visitors are given funny fluffy bedroom slippers, the students are given plastic bathroom sandals common in China. The lab is carpeted with outdoor carpeting. The temperature is in the 40's and it goes without saying there is no heat. My feet are cold with two thick pairs of socks and my furry slippers, but the Chinese students didn't seem to mind. The second class was better, but certainly not inspiring. It seems a case of trying using the lab because it is there, but it does not work. The classes could have gone much better in a regular classroom. The next day we observe another class in a regular classroom in another town and school. It was much better than those in the language lab.

After the class, I speak to the senior middle school students. About 300 students have come for this optional lecture after classes. After introducing and telling a little about myself, I ask the students to come up with a question or topic they would like me to address. With the Chinese cultural reluctance to stand out, no one volunteers. Their shyness is exacerbated by being among 300 of their peers and many outside quest looking on. On top of that, they must get out of their seat to come down front of the auditorium so they can speak into the microphone. Finally, I pick a couple of "volunteers" and then I have more questions than I can answer.

One girl asks,

"How does it feel to look into a sea of yellow faces?"

Where did she get that question from? I remembered later that expression was used by George Orwell’s in his essay on shooting an elephant. I had to have her repeat herself twice to make sure I heard her right. A girl in the front row has on a bright yellow jacket. I had her stand and face the audience.

"This is yellow," I say pointing to her jacket.

Page 132

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

"This is not yellow." I point to her face.

"This is white." I point to my shirt.

"This is not white," I say pointing to my face.

I stand beside the girl putting my face next to hers.

"See how much alike we are? You are not a sea of yellow faces to me. You are my family. You are my brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, nieces and nephews. The world is one country and we are all citizens of that country."

There were other questions.

"Can you sing?"

"Can you draw?"

"No" I answered to both questions, but then I did both.

First I sang a Christmas song, as they were interested in Christmas, and then drew a smiley face self portrait on the blackboard with a very exaggerated big nose on it.

“Dabizi” I said as I pointed to the long nose.

The students all laughed. Dabizi , which literally means “big nose,” is a slang term used to refer to foreigners, because of the stereotype that white people have very big noses. I think the students get the humor of my poking fun at this vernacular Chinese name for foreigners and hope they can see the falseness of this stereotype. What may be more funny, or sad as the case may be, the artist who drew a picture of me to go along with an article I later had published in for China Today, drew a much larger noses on me than the one I had drawn. I would not have been able to touch the end of it with my outstretched arm. Interestingly, China Today is sent all over the world as a way of promoting a positive view of the People’s Republic to people outside of their country.

They students asked how old I was. I had them guess. When one student guessed 50, I hobbled to the board and wrote 44. They were interest in Christmas, which was coming up shortly.

“Are you going home to America for Christmas?”

“No, I am not going back to America for the holidays.”

Page 133

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

“How many children do you have?”

“Four.”

A united gasp of shock emerges from these students who only know of a one-child policy that is strongly enforced.

“Yes, four children are a lot,” I agree.

At the end of my talk, I have all the students repeat in unison several times after me,

"The world is one country."

May they carry that message in their minds and hearts.

Page 134

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Learn from Yang An: A Model School in China

Yang An P.S. 5/20/96 morning

This is the most beautiful, clean school I seen and in the middle of countryside. I am told it is the best countryside school in Sichuan, others say it is the best in China. By best, I guess they mean all-around for its students, teacher and facilities. I am impressed and feel it is the “best” school I have visited. The cement grounds are spotless. I see a teacher clear her throat to spit on the ground, which is normal in China, but when she saw how clean it was where she was going to spit, she didn’t. The tiled walkways show our footprints as we walk in and terrazzo floors are in many rooms.

The buildings are simple, but elegant. There are lovely tile roofs with no ceiling so the logs and support beams show. The fluorescent lights hang by wires from the two cross beams. Every classroom has an overhead projector and tape player. There are sight TV’s for the school and a well supplied library with 400 to 500 video tapes. They have a library with about 100 magazines and periodicals and about 500 to 700 books, all which can be checked out for a week. There is seating for about 40 students in folding type wooden chairs at tables in two long rows. This may sound normal for an American school, but it is unusual in China.

I walk by the class rooms, and can tell the students are excited to see the foreign teacher, but dutifully continue studying. In one class, the teacher is walking around giving help to individual students. In another classroom, the students are around the teacher’s desk giving in books. In a third class, the teacher is walking down rows as she is teaching. All of these are common in America, but unusual in China.

The school is very neat and has a nice feeling. There is a room set aside for talking to visitors and I understood they get a lot because of their high

Page 135

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

reputation. There are 600 students in grades 1-6 and 800 in an attached preschool. The students salute me with the Chinese young pioneer salute, right arm slightly bent over the head and greet me.

Even the countryside restaurant we go to for lunch near the school is clean and efficient, much like the school. The headmaster and the assistant headmaster with their pencil necks, look like brothers in their country dress. When we came back to the school from lunch, boys were picking up leaves and seeds that have fallen from the large trees that completely shade the school yard and girls were sweeping classrooms in teams. I note that someone has cleaned the entranceway of our footprints made one-hour ago. The school song posted at entrance instructs the students to study hard and climb high. Students wait at the door of the classroom to be invited in by teacher.

I tour the pre-school. What beautiful souls. They are clean and bright-eyed. These three to five-year olds gently and sweetly greet when I pass. I love them all. We pass a small room with only nine students. Most classes I see have 40 to 70 student. My translator tells me it is a special education room for students who have something wrong with them. She does this while pointing to her head and walking like a cripple. There is such a good feeling here. The first school I feel is focused on the children and learning. I wonder if it is a reflection of my own biases based on my American worldview.

The feeling of the teachers, students and school is alive. Like most other schools, it has 64 students in a classroom. I enter several classes and it does not disturb anyone. The must get lots of visitors. In one classroom, the monitor sees when I enter the back of the classroom and tells class to rise and greet me. I return the greeting, but I am never sure if I should do more or just leave and not further interrupt the class.

It is 1:45 p.m. and everyone is in his or her seats working am, though I am told school doesn’t start till 2:00 p.m. The children have their juice and milk drinks along back wall in all sorts of bottles, including whiskey, canteen and oil. Many of these have some strap attached for carrying it to school. When the class begins, the students all grab their pens at the same time and begin working.

Page 136

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Classes are all bright with large windows and skylights. The bathrooms are smelly, which is normal, but they are clean with the same high open ceilings of the classrooms, which helps keep bright and airy. They are building a new building in school grounds, which normally means dirt and construction material will be all over, but not so here. They have constructed temporary walls between the school and the construction—on one side mounds of dirt and on the other the immaculate cement school yard. Even the part that spills into walkway of the one new building being built is clean.

Their English program presentation is conducted under the shade of trees in the front entrance yard. Fifty children are sitting in a U shape on matching plastic footstools they keep under desks. Their performances are crisp, as are the announcers and song leaders. It must be 80 degrees Fahrenheit, but the kids are all in winter clothes. Each group salutes before beginning their presentation. I love it. One class, all in blue & white jogging outfits, does a skit. Others are dressed in various costumes. The announcers, leaders and performers are great, so confident, strong and wonderful. In the end I am asked to I get up and offer some entertainment. I have five male and eleven female teachers join me while I do some boy and girl skits with them. It is quite funny, but the women are a bit shy.

Afterwards we have a large meeting with the teachers and officials. My supervisor is praising me to the sky and the audience is looking approvingly at me. I have been so impressed with everything about the school and share my praise with them. The headmaster is so unassuming and geeky and I marvel at what he has done here. I have visited one-hundred schools and been in hundreds of classrooms and I believe the country could “learn from Yang An.” I think they have something here, but maybe I am just so happy to see beauty and cleanliness that I am not seeing other problems that may exist. Maybe it is the trees, sunshine and good feelings. Maybe it is that this is one of my last school visits, as I will be leaving China soon. If I had been brought to this showcase school, at the beginning of my visit, I doubt I would have been impressed, as I had nothing else to compare it with in China.

Page 137

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

At 4:30 p.m., we make a quick stop at another school about three miles from Yang An. It has about 600 students. The best-dressed and cleanest student in this school would be the worst in the school I just came from. At 4:45 p.m. we stop at Quan Sui primary school. The students find me a curiosity. The headmistress is a lovely, immaculately dressed older woman. The teachers are also well dressed, but the classrooms are dirty, dusty and dark.

By 5:10 p.m., we are driving home through the fields of harvesters while Liu sings a folk opera type song for the 18 of us riding on the bus. The group appears to love it, so a woman sings what sounds like an American song. The people in the back of bus remind me of high school students with Liu leading them in a group sing along. Ms. Cai is sitting next to me as I jot down my thoughts. She asks if I will report what I write about to my government. I assure her that they are not interested. She is very interested in how much money I make and how I spend it. She is almost thirty years old, but is like a teenager in many ways.

Students on foot and bikes pouring out of schools we pass. School uniforms are not common in China, but these boys are all wearing in white tops and blue shorts and the girls are in white tops with pink culottes. I think they look much smarter than those without. We pass fires burning some of the stalks in field around where the harvest is taking place. Our last stop before town is the familiar by police check of vehicles on road. After some brief exchanges, we pass.

Page 138

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Ceremony for Bilingual Education and Experimenting English: Chengdu 10/25/95

There are 80 children and 80 adults in the small auditorium. The 5-10 year-old school girls have on makeup, mostly lipstick and rouge and maybe some eyeliner. All of the children’s hair is neatly combed. Their bright faces remind me of the Revolutionary posters of the young pioneers of China. The ceremony honoring the accomplishments of these students learning English begins with speeches and the introduction of the dignitaries, including myself.

The children speak in good English, but all of the adults except me speak in Chinese. There are three video cameras roaming the room trying to capture all angles of this occasion. They all get several shots of me as the visiting foreign dignitary. On the sideline, the mother and the teacher pamper and primp the 9 year-old girl master of ceremonies. They fawn over her as she sits waiting, like she is a spoiled movie star. She appears disinterested and a bit bothered as they go about fixing her hair, tying her shoes, patting her dress and covering her with sweaters they have taken off themselves. The girl emcee is like an empress. She now has three additional aides looking after her. She allows the attention, but does not acknowledge it. It is as if she is playing a role in which she secretly disdains those who care for her. I wonder to myself how this kind of attention will affect her in her later life. I also wonder how the love and care the Chinese give to their single child will affect their later lives.

As the children’s program is about to begin, the girl goes to the front of the room holding hands with a 10 year old boy who is much larger than her. Together they will serve as the student masters of ceremony. They introduce the program and each act in both Chinese and then English. The first act consists of several children in matching outfits pantomiming to a recorded storyline in English.

In the second act a little girl has several animal friends who sing songs. I think there are two boys in leotards and tights. It is hard for me to tell the boys from girls. The hair and clothes are normally the main clues, but with everyone wearing makeup and costumes it is hard to tell. What I am guessing as girls with short hair portraying boy parts and boys in unusual outfits could easily be wrong. I generally find the Chinese more androgynous, especially during the preadolescent years.

The third act has the little ones singing accompanied by the piano. It is directed by cute little 7 year-old girl. It appears her parents have come with cameras to capture this moment. A petite girl sings "It's a Small World after All" accompanied by an equally diminutive classmate on piano. The audience calls for an encore, planned it seems, and the children sing the "ABC" song. The teacher is beaming with pride for her students.

Page 139

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

As the next teacher is directing her classes, readying them for their turn to perform, the program is interrupted to introduce another dignitary who has just arrived. The teacher ushers the students back to your seats. I know some of this dignitary’s story, having worked with her on some projects. She lived through the Cultural Revolution as had every adult in China. This older lady had watched her parents, prominent intellectuals, be severely persecuted. An intellectual herself, being gifted in English and classical music of the West, also suffered in ways I cannot and do not want to imagine. Among other things she watched her piano hacked to pieces by the Red Guard.

Today she isn't going to give a long speech to these assembled children and their parents about her suffering or the merits of hard work. Without a word she bounds to the piano and plays a lively tune with great verve. The audience asks for an encore, well deserved and unplanned. Now she takes the microphone. Maybe she had just given us the introductory music for the long talk that she is going to give now? Instead she begins singing a beautiful song with everyone clapping at the end of the verses. At the conclusion she politely bows and sits down. Now that was different. And refreshing.

The kids reassemble for their well-rehearsed skit: "Five ducks went away one day". Everyone seems to love it with their little animal hats to indicate which animal they are. One ugly duck no one likes. He is really cute with his makeup and kind of hurt look. The narrators tell the story to background music and the singing of songs. They are mixing all sorts of songs that don't seem to go together as a story. It seems they are trying to make some story line that can accomodate the songs they know or have recordings of such as "Old MacDonald had a Farm" and "When the Saints Go Marching In".

All of the children are all decked out as are their parents. It obviously is a big performance and event for them. Out comes a large cake and the children begin singing “Happy Birthday” while a leader, obviously the birthday person, is escorted out front. Chopsticks are brought to the front table while the honored birthday guest gives some thank you comments before cutting the cake. Children come forward to deliver pieces to the other guests, dignitaries first. The head mistress has the children sing “Happy Birthday” over and over while this is going on. The kids are served cake too. It is a traditional Chinese cake, very beautiful, but the frosting is colored lard. I have learned to approach Chinese cakes with care, a large bite of that frosting could gag you.

After having cake everyone starts to disburse, the children carrying their chairs with them. I am left on my own, I will wait until they need or miss me, writing and observing. They eventually come to get me to take our ceremonial picture with a class and dignitaries.

Page 140

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Page 141

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

My Last Trip Out: Tuesday, May 28, 1996

Smoke is tumbling out of the stacks of the factory as I make my way to work at 6 a.m. It is like a volcano spewing out ash carrying more material than it can force into the air. I imagine it pouring down over me, as it slowly and ponderously lifts itself up into the sky, only to settle on me later, along with millions of others around the world.

This is my last trip out to visit schools as a demonstration teacher. We are on the Chengdu-Chongqing expressway, which is like an American freeway with middle barrier. Unlike the regular roads, there is so no oncoming traffic in our lanes. People are sweeping off the expressway with stick brooms. I didn’t notice it until the freeway ends and we merge into oncoming traffic in what was the passing lane that we had been honk free as there were not oncoming cars to honk at or move over. The honking begins immediately in earnest.

To go from Chengdu to Chongqing by rail takes 11 hours. To go by bus is about four hours. It is about 350 kilometers, about 217 miles. It takes us about four and one-half hours, 7 a.m.-11:30 a.m., on a combination of Sichuan’s best and worst roads to get to our first destination. Among the near accidents were some young men run in front of our van pulling an old man across road trying to get him on their bus so they can get enough passengers to leave.

I am at An Shi Fu Xiao Primary School ready for an English lesson at 3:00 p.m. Sitting in 5 rows at single desks are 50 neatly dressed students from 8-10 years old. In the back of the 25 by 60 foot classroom sit and stand 30 observers who have come to see the teacher and I do demonstration lessons. The teacher, who I met with others earlier in the school reception room, appears to be like so many of the teachers I have met—young, sweet, shy, attractive and radiant.

She started the class by asking the children ”What do you like?”

One by one the students would be called upon and would stand and say, “I like _____.”

Both the teacher’s and the students’ English are better than normal. This is the first school where each student had an individual desk, which is handmade from wood. The school floors are tiled and the windows have orange satin curtains, much like a cheap hotel trying to appear fancy. The ceiling with fancy colored lights, a ornate chandelier and ornamental cross beams looks like they belong in a karaoke bar. As this town is more remote than others I have visited, I get a lot more stares and wonderment from the townspeople and children. As I walk down the hall by each class, the students erupt in applause. There is much from excitement that spreads down the hall as they see me coming. The students have all enrolled in this special experimental English program. They are clean, neat and well behaved. Their parents have paid about $8 to be in this extracurricular program—a substantial sum for most of them. Learning English is perceived and a vehicle to a better future. Both the teacher and the students bounce up to rapidly pronounce words or answer questions.

I taught for one class for 10-15 minutes then did a forty-minute class. Later I was presented a gift of some cloth flowers in meeting room. Liu explains how my using a circle on

Page 142

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

the board to get students to make up in English of what it could be worked in other schools, and recommended it to them.

Later in the evening, I take a short walk with Liu. What appear to be prostitutes are looking and talking me over as we leave hotel. Liu is quite upset at their behavior and lets them know it. We pass by many small shops and houses, with many stores filled with young people. At one store they gave me six cans of a lemon drink that they manufacture, called Lemon King, as a gift. (I hope my mention of them here many years later is a proper thank you to them.)

The television is on in most of the darkened homes we pass. Later at the hotel, I flip through channels to see what they are watching. Some stations are showing the same thing you see at karaoke places, background music with the words appearing on the screen over misty, romantic scenes of nature, beautiful people and lovers. Then there are the soap operas and situation dramas along with the American shows Chinese dubbed in Chinese. Their Qing period shows seem to play a similar role to our westerns. They all have plenty of commercials, many promoting the virtues of alcohol, tobacco and the “good” life of things, which like America, come on loud and strong, and use sexual suggestion to sell their product. The TV will have a large influence on China, as many people watch it. I am worried that its influence will not be positive.

I find an English language program with a teacher teaching class of 9-10 year-old children, one of them being a white girl. The teacher is doing a stand up and sit routine while the student obey. They read, write, sing, dance and play on cue. A different teacher is teaching letters an alphabet flip chart that shows a letter along with a picture of something that starts with that letter. It’s good, much better than the material we are using.

The next day at An Yue Dong Feng Huang the teacher and students are quite intense and expressive. In spite of their limited English and doubtful techniques, they are making a good show of it, especially if you do not understand the English, as the students often give wrong answers while the teacher soldiers on without pausing. For example, the students are wearing headbands with pictures of different occupations on them. When the teacher asks, “What is your job?” the students are giving answers to different questions, such as “ice cream.” The teachers desperately tries to cover for their lack of comprehension and performance by over responding with outstretched arms and a sing-song “very goodeh.”

The next school has two video cameras on tripods and a karaoke setup with flashing colored lights and many fake red flowers. A teacher in what appears as silk slacks and blouse set off with a diamond brocade necklace leads a well-rehearsed lesson with singing, flute and other demonstrations of talent. I teach mini lesson that is recorder by one video camera to be shown to other teachers and by the other to be on the evening news telling about the American visitor and the schools progressive activities.

After the class, I go outside to watch the kids playing. Many of them who were just in my class are pointing at me telling their friends who not in the class about me. The headmaster reminds me of my father and another man I admired, Dr. Rahmatullah Muhajir. Both had a great influence on my life and have passed away. I am taken by how my love and feelings for them get transferred to this man

Page 143

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

As I have been doing last visit to schools during this last month, I am leaving books as gift for the teachers. One is on moral education and the other on the prosperity of humankind. People express great interest in the book with prosperity in the title, but little interest in the one on morals.

In these two days of visiting these remote schools, I have helped over 6000 farmers harvest their wheat. As we head home today, I look like it. The road is paved with wheat. The farmers lay their wheat on the road so when the vehicles go over it, the grain breaks off the stem. We are their trashing machine. It feels like driving in sand or snow. When you first hit a patch of it, the van rocks and you feel like you are floating. The farmers wait until the last minute to get out of the way of the passing cars as they continue spreading new wheat on the road. I fear we will hit someone as an old lady walks right out in front of us. She acts as if she doesn't see or hear us. As we swerve to miss another person, he to decides to head to the side of the road we are swerving to miss him.

We left An Yue at 1:40 p.m. and are now in Jian Yang on the Chengdu to Chongqing freeway at 5:40 p.m. where we sit. In this section of the highway there are only two lanes and they have torn up one lane so that only cars going one direction can pass at a time. If there were no police here, we would not go anywhere, as each direction would force the passage shut refusing to back down to allow the others to pass. It is unusual that the police are directing traffic, letting about 200 cars come through at a time. Its normally every person for himself and the tie up is much worse. I figure there are over 500 vehicles wanting to pass. It will take us 6 hours to get to Chengdu.

Aftershocks

At 4:41 a.m. on June 5, 2008, I am awakened by a 5.3 aftershock whose epicenter is somewhere over 100 miles away. Every day there are up to 300 tremors and aftershocks. There have been over 11,000 since 2:28 pm, May 12, when the 7.9 earthquake in the Sichuan Province of China created tremors that were felt thousands of miles away in nine different countries, including India, Pakistan and Russia. Tall office buildings in Beijing, Shanghai, Bangkok and Hanoi swayed for several minutes, and many were evacuated. Close to 70,000 people are dead, 374,000 injured and over 17,000 still missing.

Geophysicists say that, although the immediate effects of a major earthquake may be devastating, in the long term they are good for life on earth, renewing and recycling the planet. The people here are dealing with the immediate effects, and they are devastating. They also say that aftershocks from an earthquake of this magnitude will be strong, frequent and last a long time. This has proven to be true and will probably last for up to a year.

The earthquake has not only changed the physical landscape, creating landslides and destroying man-made structures, it has shaken the interior landscapes to their core, creating

Page 144

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

emotional landslides and destroying many of the psychological defenses and structures built to make sense of and protect us from the world. It has shaken the character and constitutions of the people who have lived through it. Some have been found weak and wanting, and others have proven strong and stable.

This earthquake on the opposite side of the globe from me in the United States shook me from my bed of comfort. Though they lived in a different world from mine, our worlds were connected and the quake there created a tremor in mine. The fault line between our worlds has slipped, fractured, shuddered and quaked. The colliding of their world with mine has compromised the structures I have built to deal with life’s changes and chances.

Like the aftershock I felt this morning that woke me from my sleep, the coming together of their world of suffering with my world of privilege has roused me from my half-sleep of detachment and denial. I continue to have strong and frequent aftershocks in me as well, and while I may not see it now, the effects of my suffering from this earthquake have the potential to renew me as well. To help me deal with the incredible sense grief and loss I felt, I went to Sichuan to see what I might do to help both the survivors and myself.

Several of the one-hundred schools I taught in from 1995-96 were transformed into tombs in a matter of seconds. Each teacher and child whose classroom did not become his or her coffin, has a story of terror, loss and grief. I have come back here to bear witness to their lives and give meaning to mine.

The first person I saw upon arriving were Liming and Dennis.

Yesterday in Dujiangyan Yesterday when I arrived in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan Province, I went with my friends Liming and Dennis to visit Guang Ya School in Dujiangyan, where my family lived in 1995. Liming is a native of Sichuan Province. I first met her when she came to Marquette in 1994 as an exchange scholar between Sichuan Normal University (SNU) and Northern Michigan University (NMU). While at NMU, Liming met and eventually married one of my students and a native of Marquette, Dennis Le Boeuf. Liming helped my wife obtain a job at Guang Ya School in January 1995, six months before I came on my sabbatical as Liming’s counterpart in the exchange agreement between our universities. Since then we have remained friends. I was mailing two boxes of books to Liming and Dennis when the earthquake struck.

Dujiangyan is most famous for its still-working irrigation systems built in 250 BC. This remarkable engineering accomplishment continues to successfully prevent flooding and provides valuable irrigation and shipping to the region. It was widely featured in the news coverage of the earthquake’s devastation. Unlike the irrigation systems, however, several schools in Dujiangyan collapsed, including one that trapped and killed most of its 1,000 students

Page 145

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

and teachers. These schools are now piles of rubble that have become their tombs. Several times since the earthquake, I have gone over my notes and the pictures of my visits to these schools twelve years ago, trying to come to terms with this tragedy.

Today with Yingxiu teachers Today, I introduce Liming and Dennis to Jesse Irish Burnett, a Marquette native, recent NMU graduate, returning student of Chinese at Sichuan Normal University, and an organizer of the Marquette-China Earthquake Relief group. In fact, Jesse is living in the same room where two of my daughters stayed thirteen years ago, which is about 30 feet from the apartment where my wife, son and I stayed. Although Jesse has been living in the same guesthouse as Liming and Dennis at SNU and they all have strong Chengdu-Marquette connections, they have not previously met.

After a brief discussion, we agree to give $500 from the Marquette-China Earthquake Relief fund to surviving children of a Yingxiu school, where a former student of Liming’s was teaching when the school collapsed. We call the wife of Liming’s student, who is temporarily living with her fellow surviving teachers at a university in Chengdu, and then we call Zhuang Zhong (“ZZ”) Lehmberg, the manager of the Marquette-China Earthquake Relief effort, to consult. All agree that this is a good idea, so we arrange to personally give the donation this afternoon.

Many of the surviving teachers are temporarily living in tents at a university across town until they can either return to their community or go to another area. The surviving children from this school, who were also living in tents there, have gradually left to live with relatives or others, though hundreds of students from other schools are still here. When we arrive, we are ushered into a small plain room with chairs along the walls. Jesse and I are given the seats of honor, two wicker chairs, separated by a tea table, while the leader of the school, Tan Guoqiang, and a teacher, Li Mao, sit on either side of Liming directly opposite us in folding chairs. The assistant head of the school sits in the corner on our side. Liming is talking in Chinese with Tan and Li. I am the only one in the room who does not speak Chinese. Every so often, Liming stops to explain to me what is being said.

Yingxiu is very near the epicenter. Their school collapsed in the first seconds of the earthquake, crushing to death 20 of its 57 teachers and 260 of its 579 students. The rescue team that first entered the town two days after the quake reported that they found only about 2,300 survivors of its approximately 7,000 inhabitants, and that 80% of its buildings were destroyed. In the whole county, over two-thirds of the population are dead or missing.

Li’s husband was Liming’s student thirty years ago in the remote mountain areas of this region. Li and he were married some years ago and they were both teachers in Yingxiu. Li was in the teachers’ room in the office building and had just gotten up from correcting her students’

Page 146

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

papers when the shaking began. She fell down twice trying to get out of the building. Later when she awoke and saw the basketball hoop above her, she realized that she must be in the schoolyard. Her husband, who was taking a nap in the teachers’ apartment building, never awoke. Rescue workers found him lying on his cot several days later, when they removed the tons of cement and other building material that crushed him.

Liming leans over to show Tan and Li a text message on her cell phone that she received from Li’s husband last Chinese Spring Festival. I am thinking how hard it must be for Li to see this, and how it must reopen the wound of mourning. Tan and Li nod and smile in courteous appreciation of this gesture, but as Liming puts her phone away and continues to talk, Li looks down at the floor and shields her eyes with her hand. Her face shows subtle signs of her struggle to wrestle down the overpowering force that threatens to crush her. I imagine one part of her wants to go on, to let it be, to get over it, to believe there is nothing to be gained by wallowing in what cannot be changed, to be strong and brave, to believe that tomorrow will be a better day. I imagine an equally strong part of her wants to be free to let all the feelings and trauma out without fear of judgment, to wring every ounce of sorrow from her being without restraint, to release the tears and sobs bound up inside her without worry of repercussions, and to find solace in her grief without feeling guilt.

As I watch her struggle with her pain and try to imagine her anguish, I feel myself becoming overpowered by mine. How can one bear witness to such loss and not be overwhelmed by sadness? As my eyes well up and my nose begins to run, I feel the fault line between my inner emotions and my outer being split. I cover my face with my hand in an attempt to contain the tremors that are coming to the surface. Although the emotional part of me wants to let the pressure that has built up inside me spill out, my physical body tries to remain unmoved. My lips and breathing alternately tighten and relax, trying to contain the heartache I am masking, while at the same time attempting to discharge some of the tremendous stress that is building up inside me. Though I know I cannot and should not mollify the genuine sorrow I feel inside, I try to resist it. But the force is too strong. A weak point in the surface fractures. My body trembles as the structures I have created to protect me from feeling and expressing my feelings break down and collapse. I cry, and then sob with waves of grief.

I cry for the father who lost his daughter, the wife who lost her husband, the child who lost his parents, and those who lost everything. I cry for every lost child I touched and smiled at, and who touched me and smiled at me. I cry for every child who lives lost in a state of misery and grief. I cry for my own father and sister, whom I lost through death. I cry for the marriage and loves I have lost. I cry for my house that burned down when I was nine, in which everything was lost. I cry for the dreams and hopes that I have lost. I cry for a lost world that suffers on thoughtlessly and needlessly. I cry, because I, like the Chinese, was raised to be strong, to endure hardship, to keep a stiff upper lip, to carry on in the face of difficulties, to hide my hurt, to stuff it inside and nobly bear our pain and suffering in silence. I cry now, because I did not cry

Page 147

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

then, when I thought to do so was a sign of weakness. I cry, because they, like me in the past, cannot. And because of all that, I cry harder and deeper.

As the waves of emotion subside, having spent themselves and pacified the hurt that pressed inside, I feel Jesse’s hand on my shoulder. I know he and the others must be feeling helpless to succor me, but I am so lost in my own grief that until now I have not thought of them. His act of kindness and thoughtfulness causes the colliding plates of my inner and outer being to shift once more and frees another wave of pain that moves outward from its epicenter.

I have suffered no personal loss or pain because of this earthquake. The survivors at this school have suffered both. Many have lost everything—their homes, possessions, families, students, colleagues, friends and community. They dug out the survivors and the dead with their bare hands. They went days without sleep, shelter, food or drink. They are homeless and hopeless. Not only have I not experienced what they have gone through, I cannot even imagine it, and to the extent that I can, I cannot bear it. I weep for how much I have been given and how little I have done. I weep for all the past pains and losses that I have yet to reconcile and grieve. I weep for all the suffering we inflict upon others and ourselves. And I weep for all that we could do and could have done, but have chosen to leave undone.

Tan is 48 years old, but looks much older. Li says he has aged ten years in the last twenty days. He was in the school office building at 2:28 pm. As he rushed out, he saw the school classroom building collapsing on his children. He cried out across the schoolyard, “My children, my children! I am sorry, I am so sorry!”

He spent the next three days without sleeping, digging through the rubble with his hands, trying to save his children. They found 57 alive, and three days later, when the rescue teams arrived on foot over the roads blocked by landslides, they found seven more. A concrete slab trapped one girl by her legs for three days, until equipment could remove it. She did not ask for help, but encouraged those who were trying to care for her to assist others in greater need. Later her legs were amputated from the knees down. A girl at another school had to have her leg cut of with a serrated knife to save her life. The man who cut it off has nightmares every night. Many children who survived lost limbs. They will be crippled for the rest of their lives.

Tan also lost his wife and mother-in-law, who were buried in his home, but he first tried to save the children before he went to find them. Twenty of the twenty-seven surviving teachers in the school lost an immediate family member in the devastation. No teacher under 30 years old survived. All the students and teachers from the first floor and the students having physical education in the schoolyard survived. Many of the students on the second floor, some on the third and a few on the fourth also survived, but none of the teachers. They had all stayed behind to try to save their children. Had they not, surely many of them would have survived as well. One teacher died shielding two students he saved with his body. When they uncovered him

Page 148

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

three days later, his hardened arms were wrapped so tightly around the two students that they had to cut them off to free the students.

Liming briefly and with little emotion shares these stories with me. With each story, I am overwhelmed with the loss and suffering that they bear with such resolve. I find my soul crying out for some solace for them and for me. I look into their eyes, trying to convey my love and sorrow for them. They show little emotion. Have they drained their well of sorrow dry, or do they dare not give expression to it?

Tan apologizes that the school cannot officially stamp the receipt for our contribution, as it has been lost in the school. He gives us a handwritten note in Chinese that thanks us and indicates that the school will use the money for the benefit of the 219 surviving children. This contribution and the other gifts I have brought seem so paltry; compared to their suffering and needs, they are paltry. The bright pink NMU tee shirt I give to Li seems out of place, so bright and cheery. I give Tan a fancy School of Education NMU folder, pen and decorative lapel pin along with my business card, the same gift I gave to Ministers, Presidents, Deans and Heads of Education earlier in my trip. This also seems out of place and inappropriate. I asked that an NMU bag full of toiletries, sewing kits, toothbrushes, slippers and other items I have collected along the way from the four- and five-star hotels I was staying in, along with a with a few personal effects, be distributed among the other teachers. Earlier in the day, I planned to take a photo of us giving these gifts to show to the community of donors back home, but now it seems too crass.

The Next Day and Many More to Come The next morning, I am a platform guest at a special graduation ceremony for a group of poor, rural female teachers in Sichuan province, who had the opportunity to pursue higher education through the generosity of a local education leader and philanthropist. They come from remote towns in the region, some from schools and homes destroyed in the earthquake. They may have been students or teachers in one of the schools I taught in twelve years ago. I share my genuine love and hope for them and their profession. My voice wavers as I try to restrain my heartache for their suffering, while, at the same time, I try to give authentic expression to my sympathy and sorrow.

Later, the graduates take the stage to present a program of songs, poetry and thanks for the opportunity they have been given. Parts of the program remember those lost in the earthquake. Though I cannot understand Chinese, I understand the emotion as they give expression to the hurt. One teacher cries openly, while the others sing.

I cannot look into the faces of these teachers or the faces of the children without thinking about the thousands of teachers and children just like them who are not here today. I

Page 149

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 fight back the tears and anguish. How many bright, friendly, shining and hopeful faces like these were crushed on that day? How many others are mourning their loss?

After the ceremonial luncheon with regional dignitaries, Liming and I go back to see the Yingxiu teachers one more time. Several of these teachers are waiting on the curb with their backpacks for a bus that will take them back to Yingxiu to begin rebuilding. The day before, Liming forced hundreds of yuan into the reluctant hands of Tan and Li. Now we leave my clothes and suitcase, along with some money we have brought, so that each of the 27 surviving teachers will have something.

May the efforts of those people around the world who have given so selflessly to aid the victims of this disaster, including the children and community of Marquette, be part of that renewing and revitalizing process. May it move us all closer to the realization that the earth is but one country of which we are all citizens. And may each of us do something every day to make our home a better place for all of us to live.

Page 150

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Postscript

What Happened Next

My family came to China in four shifts. My daughter Ziya, who was seventeen at the time, had graduated from the alternate high school a year earlier than expected and left America for China on her own in July 1994. My wife, Mary Jo, who was worried about her, left for China with my youngest daughter, Lua, and my son, John, in January 1995. I left in May of 1995, and my middle daughter, Rehema, who was a Rotary exchange student in Japan for 1994- 1995, joined us in China in August.

My daughter, Ziya, and I met up in Japan where we visited Rehema and traveled around Japan. Rehema had to finish her final two months of her Rotary exchange in Nagasaki, so Ziya and I left by freighter for Shanghai. We ended up leaving Shanghai by train after four days of unsuccessfully trying to get a boat up the Yangtze to Chongching. After over two days by train, we arrived in Chengdu at 11:00 p.m. Unable to get transport to the town where my wife and two of my children had been living for over four months, we put up in the bottom-end backpacker hotel, Jiatong.

The next morning, by a combination of taxi, bus and pedicab, we arrived at the school outside of Dugianyang where my wife was teaching. Lua, John and she had left the day before for a short vacation to visit the largest Buddha in the world. We may have passed them on the road. They weren’t expecting us for another week as the last information we had been able to get to them had suggested we would be coming by boat, which would take a week. Now after waiting so long, trying so hard and coming so far, I found an empty apartment in an unfamiliar place among people I could not communicate with.

We left China in three shifts. Again, Ziya led the way. Ziya had enough of China early on. She went to India, Japan and Macao on separate occasions with the intention of leaving, but every time she tried to leave, she was pulled back by some circumstance. She finally made it out in January 1996 when, after spending several weeks in Thailand, she left for her birthplace, Tanzania. She came back to the States in July after visiting Kenya, Uganda, Egypt and Israel.

Rehema, Lua and I left Sichuan Province on June 1st. At 4:00 a.m., we walked in a light drizzle to get the bus that would take us to the airport. We flew, to Lhasa, the capital of the “Automonous Region” of Tibet. Though still a part of China, the contrast was striking. The air was so clear, the sun so bright, the sky so blue and the mountains so beautiful. We visited Nepal, India, Jordan, Israel, and Egypt on our way back to Michigan, arriving in late July. During the last leg of our journeys, we met up with Ziya in Haifa, Israel, where we visited the Bahá'í holy places.

Page 151

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Mary Jo and John left China on June 23, visiting her family in San Francisco and Chicago before coming to Marquette. Unlike the rest of us, they were not interested to see the world from crowded buses and trains or stay in cheap hotels after their year and half in China.

We all eventually made it back to our adopted home, Marquette, only to leave and return again several times, each going separate ways. Each daughter eventually graduated from Northern Michigan University and John will do so in 2013.

Ziya, who had finished high school in three years, did the same in college. She continued her world travels (14 European and North African countries), choosing to live in New York City (2002-04) and then back to the Virgin Islands (2004), where we had lived as a family for five years before moving first to Iowa at the death of my father in 1988 and then to Marquette in 1989. In 2010, she and her husband, Tony moved to Austin, Texas, and in 2011, to Kauai, Hawaii.

When Rehema returned to the USA in late July of 1996, she had missed two years of high school. She took her GED and enrolled in college. During her college years, Rehema spent a semester abroad studying the Spanish language and culture in Spain, traveled to Belize on another study program and helped organize another study group to East Africa. She returned to China in the Peace Corps after graduating from NMU in and then spent two more years teaching English as a second language, all in the same region where we lived as a family. In 2004 she returned to Marquette to pursue her Masters degree in English and later her PhD at Michigan Technological University. In August 2012, she and her husband, Jeff, will move to Beijing, China to teach English to students hoping to go to college in and English-speaking country.

Because of her 18 months in China, Lua had missed half of her eighth grade and all of her freshman year. Having studied in Chinese high schools, she had learned the ethic of studying hard so was able to enter into the advanced sophomore honors classes and caught up on her missed time. She spent her senior year in Argentina as a Rotary Youth Exchange student and completed her GED on returning here. After completing her BS in 2003 at NMU, she went downstate to MSU in East Lansing to earn an MSW, returning to Marquette in 2005, marrying Matt and eventually moving to Savannah, Georgia and Portland, Oregon, where they now live with a three-year old son and another one coming in August 2012.

John started kindergarten the fall he returned to Marquette. Of the family, this is the only home he has known. He finished high school here and will finish college next year. He took a year after high school to live and work on St. John in the Virgin Islands and has had several adventures along the way. China was hardest on him as he was the object of so much unwanted attention. China helped us all appreciate our lives more.

I came back to Marquette to resume my work as the director of field experiences in teacher education. In 1999, Mary Jo and I divorced. She has been living and teaching the Virgin Islands for several years. In 2001 I returned to Tanzania, visiting the places I had lived and

Page 152

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

worked from 1975-78, and where my two oldest daughters were born. I also visited Uganda, which was too dangerous to visit when I lived there. I went on my second Bahá'í pilgrimage to Israel. In 2002, I returned to China to visit Rehema and to make several presentations at universities and an international conference and then onto Mongolia to speak to several groups and agencies. In 2003-2004 I spent a sabbatical year in Europe, mostly based in Switzerland and traveling to 22 countries. I returned to China just after the Sichuan earthquake in 2008. In 2012, I spent 5 months in Kauai, Hawaii with Ziya and Tony where I worked on finishing two books on education. I retire in August 2012 after 23 years at NMU, and will be going to serve at the Bahá'í World Center in Haifa, Israel for the next five years.

I have enjoyed living in Marquette. It has been home for our family for 23 years. John was conceived right after we moved here. It is the home he has known in his life. I like being in a community where people care about one another and their community. I like the friendliness of people. I feel a bond of kinship with the people I work with, my community and my neighbors. I like being able to bike to work and drive to anything I need in ten minutes.

Though we are spread out over the world and have taken different paths, China left its mark on all of us. The progress China has made in the years since we lived there is remarkable. China is and will continue to leave its mark us and increasingly on the world. May we all be up to the challenge.

Page 153

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Writing in China

I was reading yesterday how writers, especially travel writers, have their favorite ways to see and write about the places they visit. Some see and write about places from buses, some from trains and some from the little bars and restaurants they visit. I seem to use the backseat of whatever vehicle I am riding in China. I developed this habit early on. The number of near death experiences on the road, both my own and others, are so frequent and frightening, I could not bear to look, so I fixed my eyes and mind on my writing pad. My writing takes on a sense of urgency and importance as the next moment could be my last. This page may be found spattered with blood, along with my pen in a ditch still clutched tightly in my dead hands. This is my way of letting posterity know what my last thoughts were before I was hurled through the windshield.

“No‼‼‼‼‼‼ Don’t try to pass. Look Out! Ahhhhh‼‼‼‼‼!! Argh‼”

I have seen my share of accidents in China. In the last two hours I have seen four and almost been in 100. In one, a gravel truck had smashed into a home, its bottom standing where the wall used to be. Yesterday I passed an accident between a bicyclist and a fully loaded lumber truck. The lumber truck was tipped over by the side of the road, its huge logs thrown into the field. What was left of the bicyclist and his/her bicycle was under a straw mat in the middle of the road. The front rim sticking out of the edge of the mat was flattened like a steam roller had gone over it.

You can tell there is an accident ahead by the crowd. Whenever there is an accident, whether its just a fender bender or a fatal accident with bodies strewn on the road, there is a crowd to see the excitement, and in the case of survivors, to observe and/or participate in the laying of blame.

I try not to look anymore when I am traveling the highways and byways of China. If I am going to go, I’m going to go. Maybe that will be the last words they find on the tablet I am clutching in my dying hand, because now I try to engage myself in writing. Conversation is limited as I generally don’t share enough common language with the other passengers and the sights are limited to similar fields and buildings, and of course the thousands of vehicles, bicycles, and pedestrians you are passing.

Somehow I have avoided an accident, but the close calls are too much-- the bicycles pulling out, the passing two trucks side by side while seeing two trucks side by side passing a bus coming at you. We don’t even have the language to describe such things, let alone the psychological and cultural; experience to properly deal with it. Its like watching a chase scene, or a daredevil, death-defying stunt for three hours straight. It’s like those crash and burn arcade

Page 154

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

games except the vehicles are real and you have no control of the wheel. It is exciting when your life is not in actual danger and you have some influence beyond prayer over your destiny.

It does no good to tell the driver to be careful, because it will only suggest that you didn’t trust him or think he is a good driver, and he will drive faster and more dangerously to prove his prowess.

Your mind cannot take the constant threat, the preparing to die and miraculously being spared five times every minute. That’s why I would never ride with a drunk person in the United States. So you can watch the rice fields speeding by or practice your Chinese or pour yourself into reading or writing, but don’t, I warn you, look up when the driver hits the brakes or swerves. And if you have a heart condition, don’t ride the roads of China.

My final words will leave posterity wondering what kind of a man I was: Why did he waste his time writing such stuff? What was he thinking? He could have accomplished so much, but did so little. He was still waiting to live, to have his say, but before he had completed the rough draft of a life, his pen broke and the much needed revisions were left undone. Reading his work is hardly worth the trouble. There are too many undeveloped and unsupported thoughts, too many rough transitions. Maybe there is a gem amongst the rubble, but is it worth the effort to extract it? Maybe there are no gems at all, maybe only costume jewelry, maybe only rubble. Maybe when it is cut and polished it will still be dull. Maybe it might look good now, but corrode over time like expensive looking gold that turns green with your skin when worn.

Were they empty words badly said? When they hit the windshield will they or the windshield be shattered? There I’ve said it—I am afraid. I have left the best part of my life story unwritten, unlived. What then will I have to recount in my future life? How will I account for my failures?

Page 155

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

On Choosing My Chinese Name

Friends, colleagues, relatives and strangers regularly get my name wrong. I do not know why, but maybe like my namesake, Rodney Dangerfield, “I don’t get no respect”.

My first name is fairly simple with no unusual sounds or pronunciations. To make it simpler, I generally go by “Rod” instead of using my full first name “Rodney”. Rod is pronounced like it looks. I know of no alternative ways of pronouncing Rod, such as rude or rode, although a few Brits I know come close to the latter. The “r” is as in “rat”, the “o” is as in “odd” and the “d” as is “dog”. None of these letters have odd sounds, except maybe the “o” as in “odd”. It sounds the same whether you are referring to a thin stick, dowel, fishing rod, shaft, lightening rod, bar, chastising rod (whipping stick), surveying pole, scepter rod, a measure of length (5 ½ yd), unit of area (30 ¼ sq yd), pistol (slang), board marked with a full-scale joinery pattern, metal bar supporting a railroad car, staff of office indicating standing, plant stem, bacterium, tyrannical power, branch of a family (Biblical use) or nerve ending in the retina. If you are rod less, rod like or a rod man, it is still sounds the same.

Rod said in French, German, Russian, Arabic or Swahili still comes out sounding pretty much the same, except the “r” sound which may be rolled or difficult to pronounce, especially in some Asian languages in which “r” can sometimes sound like an “l”. Therefore I conclude that people do not have trouble with my name because of its phonetic sounds, uniqueness or complexity, but still people continuously and regularly call me something other than Rod. It is not a case of “you say tomato (t -m t ) and I say tomato (t -mä - t ), you say Ron (or Rob, Rog, Roy, Robin, Ralph, Bob, Tom, Don, etc.) and I say Rod”. It seems to be a case of apples and oranges. It more than seems like a bad case of “I don’t get no respect”.

At a small seminar I attended with a world famous author, each participant had a large nameplate in front of him or her so the author could call us each by name. It was more personal and intimate that way, and she emphasizes and epitomizes personal and intimate. Her writing is known for its insightfulness, sensitively and compassion toward others, especially her students. Though I had a large nameplate in front of me that read “Rod”, when she called on me, she clearly and confidently called me “Red”. Most people must miss hear my name, but it seems she had miss “red” it. I was going to let it go, not wanting to embarrass her, especially as she was considered a “national treasure” and an educator whose work I greatly admired and encouraged everyone to read. She was also getting on in years, so I was forgiving of her failing hearing and eye sight. But being the highly literary, observant and personable type she was, and being it was a small group of only about twelve people, and being I was sitting right across from her in our circle, and being every time she called my name I and the others in the group must have been saying in our heads and maybe our expressions, “The name is Rod, not Red”, she must have

Page 156

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

sensed something was wrong so asked me how I came to have the name “Red”, as it did not seem to fit me. I explained my name was not R-e-d, but R-o-d and how I somehow must have made my “o” look like and “e”.

I can understand how people I have just met can get my name wrong, but find it harder to understand why so many of my closer acquaintances, colleagues, friends and family do. A close friend gave me a personalized key chain as a gift, which he thoughtfully picked out for me on a road trip with his wife. In small letters it read “The Blue Grass State-Kentucky” and in large bold capitals “RON”. Maybe they just did not have any Rod’s and Ron was the best he could do, maybe he reached for Rod but got Ron by mistake, maybe he doesn’t care, maybe he doesn’t know, maybe he knew and was making a joke or maybe he was trying to make all those people who called me Ron feel better. I was too afraid to ask. Friends, colleagues and in-laws still get my name wrong after knowing me for more than twenty years. Getting a birthday card addressed to Ron Clarken can be discounted as a typo, a simple writing mistake or a case of poor handwriting, but when the birthday check inside is also made out to Ron Clarken, I begin to get suspicious. At my neighborhood school where my children went and where I know most of the staff both personally and professionally, one profession had written down my name as Ron Clarken on a form for my last child there.

I recently had someone return a call to me in my office. The caller asked if Brad was there. I asked him what number he was calling. It was my number. I then asked what he was calling about and learned he was returning a call I had made an hour earlier. I told him he had gotten the right person, but that my name was Rod. He apologized and began calling me Rad. As I was going to be working with him, I decided to correct him again. Again he apologized and called me Ron the rest of the time we conversed. He was one of those people who like to have your name right and then uses it in every other sentence.

A dear friend and colleague, who does know my name, gave me a gift of one of her favorite books: Hooway for Wodney Wat which she had signed by the author: “Hooway for Rodney (Wodney) Clarken! (A heart shape) & gweat wespect, Helen Lester”. The inside of the jacket cover says: “Poor Rodney Rat can’t pronounce his r’s, and the other rodent tease him mercilessly….This inspirational story will have every reader cheering ‘Hooway for Wodney Wat!’ as he triumphs over and his tiny voice decides the day.” Maybe my tiny voice is the reason everyone gets my name wrong. If I ever triumph, my friends and colleagues will probably shout, “Hooway for Wonnie Clawken!”

The strangest case of getting my name wrong was when I went in for a hearing test. I originally went in to the Ear, Nose and Throat specialist to get an operation to stop or reduce my snoring. One of the questions on the form which I had to fill out before seeing the doctor asked if I heard any noises. I hate filling out any forms, especially these forms, so I try to do it quickly, but honestly. I was going to check no as I had to all the questions about such things as to do I have any of a number of sexually transmitted or terminal diseases, but then noted cricket

Page 157

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

chirping as a sub question asking what kinds of noises I might be hearing. I stopped to listen. I was hearing cricket chirping. So I checked it. As a result, they had me set up another appointment to have my ears checked. When I came back, I had to fill out the same form again. I do not know why. I asked. The receptionists gave a reason that did not make sense to me such as something may have changed in my information or condition, or that form was for snoring and this same form is for hearing. I explained nothing had changed from two weeks ago when I filled out the same form, and how I hate filling out the forms, and could she just photocopy the other form and I sign and date it for today. Realizing this was not going to get me anywhere and that it would easier and quicker to fill out the form than trying to reason with her, I dutifully did as I was told. I handed it in and waited my turn. Only a lady who had been waiting when I arrived and I were in the waiting room, being the first patients of the day. In about five minutes a nurse came out and called for Dorothy. I looked at the other woman, but she did not move. The nurse looked down at her chart again to make sure she had the name right, looked up and called for Dorothy again. We were the only two people in the waiting room and she was there when I arrived. I was thinking maybe this lady could not hear and maybe I should get her attention to let her know they were calling her name. Surely they must have had cases where patients could not hear and know how to handle this kind of situation better than me. Maybe this was the first phase of the hearing test: Did we respond when we were called? Or would we respond to anything pretending like we heard? The other lady looked up from her magazine, but then looked back down making no sign of recognition. Trying to help the nurse, as it appeared that the other lady was not going to respond and I was feeling bad for her calling out for someone and no one answering, I asked if it could be “Rodney”. She smiled, looked down at her chart again, and said

“Oh, I am sorry, it is Rodney.”

I asked how she got from Rodney to Dorothy she said she had her friend Dorothy on her mind.

I have also had many different versions of my last name. Not only do they say it wrong, they even spell it wrong, such as Clackhen, Clarkson, Clarkenen, Clucken, Clacksen, Clerkin or Cluchen. Recently I received a letter from the American Education Research Association, which I have been an active member for over two decades, addressed to “Rod Aarkin”. It does seem to limit the value of a thank you note or statement of appreciation when it says: “To my dear friend, Ron, whose kindness I will never forget.” What do you tell your kids, relatives and tenure evaluation committees when you show them the praise and they point out to you “But your name is Rod”? How can I hang an award in my office with the name “Ron Clarkson” on it? People will ask me, “Why do you have this up?” or “Who is Ron Clarkson?”

At my university computer help desk the young man asked, “How can I help you Mr. Darken?” He had my name and my user name, consisting of the first initial of my first name and my last name, rclarken, on a work order. I thought I had miss heard him in all the noise, until a

Page 158

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

moment later he again called me “Professor Darken”. When I asked him how he had gotten the name Darken, he showed me the print out which put the “c” and “l” so close together that “clarken” looked like “darken”.

To help people remember my name I suggest thinking of me as Rambo Rod (because of our similar physiques—not!) and Superman (Clark Kent, get it: ClarKen[t]) put together. Sometimes I suggest old nicknames used by extended family and friends to tease me about my religious and spiritual leanings, such as “God Rod” or “Rev. Rod”, or even more endearing love names like “Hot Rod” or “Ro-dic-lous”. My father used to lovingly call me the later, but it was not until I was trying to write the nick name out for this story that I got the multiple meanings of it. I thought it was just a made up love name with not meaning. Not only do I not get no respect, I do not even get when I don’t get not respect.

This problem with my name is exacerbated in the foreign counties I have lived in and visited, but there it is more the result of my name being unfamiliar to their culture and sometimes hard to pronounce in their language. In Tanzania I was initially called Jeff, because there had been a white man who had lived in the same town I lived in whose name was Jeff. To the Tanzanians, white men with beards must have looked alike, so they thought I was Jeff who had left a week before I arrived. Those who knew I was a teacher called me mwalimu (Swahili for teacher).When I visited the villages most people referred to me not by my name or profession, but more often as mzee, respected Swahili title for an elder, because my beard made me look older to them than the mid-twenties I was. When my first child Ziya was born there, my name became Baba Ziya: father of Ziya. Because of these differences, I was able avoid many of the problems with my birth name, as they did not use it.

While being introduced at a conference I was speaking at in Swaziland, the master of ceremonies said my name four different ways, all wrong. But at one point he did get my first name right with a wrong last name-Rod Clark, and my last name right with a wrong first name- “Please join me in welcoming [looks down at his notes] Dr. Rob Clarken.” I would have thought nothing of it if the master of ceremonies had been a native Swazi, but he was an American. In Japan, I was regularly called Lodney or Docta Claaken. Even my nameplate at educational conferences read “Lodney” with the Japanese character translation given above it. (In case they did not know how to read or pronounce it in English.)

My middle name is more or less of a problem, depending on how you look at it. To the extent I wonder why people consistently get my first name wrong, I do understand why people sometimes hesitate or ask for clarification with my middle name. Because I generally only use my middle initial, and not my middle name, probably the result of childhood trauma, my middle name is rarely an issue. Because my middle name can be misconstrued and is generally misheard, if used, it tends to be a problem. I asked my parents how they came up with my name and I believe it was from some actor’ name they admired and thought would be good for their child. It probably never occurred to them that this child may have trouble discriminating the “a”

Page 159

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

sound from the “e” sound. As a boy I had trouble distinguishing the difference in sound between Hal and Hell. I still do. To go from “God Rod” straight to “Hell” is a bit of a psychic shock. No matter how I tried to accent and drag out the “a” in Hal, it only seemed to make it sound more like I was emphasizing the “e” in Hell, as in “Haeeeell”. My playmates would look at me in disbelief when I told them my middle name and then run to tell the teacher that I had said bad word.

Because of the troubles I had with my name both at home and abroad, I was not surprised to find that when I went to China, the Chinese had difficulty remembering or pronouncing my name. Normally I can pick it out an English word or my name when someone is speaking another language, such as “jino lako nani Rod Clarken anatoka America.”(“Rod Clarken” and “America” are the familiar words I would understand in this sentence.) No matter how hard the Chinese tried, and they did try, I couldn’t pick out my name when the Chinese were saying it, even when they were saying it directly to me. My translators and comrades would have to keep asking me to say my name again and again as they attempted to get it right. I know learning and remembering names you are not familiar with is difficult as I also had trouble learning and remembering unfamiliar Chinese names.

To address this problem, people sometimes adopt a name common to the language they are speaking. Students learning a foreign language in America often adopt a name that comes from the culture of the language they are learning. I was often asked to give an English name to an English-speaking Chinese person, even those who had already been given English names by their Chinese teachers of English. They must have thought that to be named by a native English speaker was somehow more authentic or sacred. Foreigners living in China often adopted a Chinese name. Because people had trouble with my name I thought I too should have a Chinese name, but none of the names suggested seemed to make sense or fit me until one night while chatting with some new friends at a tea house, I was introduced to a fellow named Bei Hai (pronounced “Bay High” and literally translated “North Sea”). I noticed every time Bei Hai’s name was said, I would pick it out because it sounded very much like Bahá’í (pronounced “Bah High”) which is the name of my religion and a word to which I am as sensitive as my name. Bei Hai was an easy name for me to distinguish, remember and say. I thought this might be a good name for me, but I wanted my Chinese name to have some meaning beyond being easy for me and others to say and hear. The Chinese are very sensitive about religion or people promoting religion so saying my name sounded like my religion was not acceptable. I decided to go by Bai Hai (pronounced “By High” and translated as “White Sea”) and explain that I was “white” from over the “sea”.

The comrades I knew were happy that I had chosen a Chinese name, but there was a problem--when I tried to tell others my name they would look at me in puzzlement. Part of the problem was that in Sichuan where I was living, they pronounce “bai” differently that the standardized national dialect of Mandarin, so if I was saying it in proper Mandarin, the Sichuanese would not understand it. When trying to explain the meaning of my name, I would

Page 160

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

say “bai” (by) and point to my white shirt or something else white while repeating “bai”. They would say “Oh! You mean “bai” (bah). I spent a few days of struggling through this, trying to find the right pronunciation and intonation (remember that different tones give completely different meanings to words in China) so every time I said my name it did not become a long confusing process of my trying to explain it and then having my translators have to restate my explanation and pronunciations so people could understand what I meant. This pronunciation problem was reminiscent of my childhood days when I would say “Hal” and my friends would hear “Hell”.

At an evening banquet in one of the regional cities where I was teaching demonstration lessons, the very proper and well spoken regional director of English solved my problem. I introduced myself pronouncing the “bai” more like the “bah” of the Sichuanese hoping to avoid the puzzled looks and the asking for a clarification from my escorts and translators. “Ba Hai, what a wonderful name,” he announced to all of the dignitaries present. Everyone nodded in approval. No one had ever gotten my name so easily, let alone be excited by it. This made me suspicious. I thanked him and asked why he thought it was so wonderful. He began to explain to me in English, and then in Chinese to the assembled guests how Sichuan was once the Kingdom of Ba and that my name hearkened back to that time and the people of this region. Everyone, including myself, was quite impressed. He also elaborated on the other meanings of “ba” and how each was in its own way significant to my name. Hai was a good masculine name and also had many meanings that combined with Ba to give more meaning. It was settled and everyone was happy and impressed with my new name Ba Hai.

I had avoided adopting this name initially because it was the name of my religion, but once christened Ba Hai by the regional English director, everyone agreed it was a great name and my escorts could repeat the lofty literary and historical meaning of it every time they introduced me. Because Ba was an accepted but rare surname in China and Hai was a common first name for males, it worked well. There are only about one hundred surnames among the one billion Chinese, where last names come first, and I assume bai, my original choice, was not one of them. My translators and escorts seemed to take pride in elaborating on the historical origins and the significance of my name. I, on the other hand, got a name that was both dear to me and easy to pronounce and be understood.

I took great joy in being name “Bahai”. Thousands of children joyously shouted it as I arrived at their schools, it was writ large on hundreds of chalkboards in classrooms, on posters and in books, and it will be fondly remembered by many. Calligraphy students under the watchful eye of their masters and the regional leaders would write in beautiful calligraphy praises to the name Ba Hai.

The person happiest with my name and used it more than anyone else was my escort, overseer and traveling companion on all of my journeys. He was responsible for all the arrangements and making sure I was where I needed to be when I needed to be there. He introduced me to all of the officials and at all the talks I gave at schools, conferences, official

Page 161

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

meetings and to teachers and leaders. He served as my guide and protector. He made sure no improprieties occurred so no one would lose face. He was the one who would help deflect the officials who demanded I drink a toast of strong whiskey at the honorary banquets held in my honor. (As part of my religious convictions, I do not drink alcohol.) Though he knew little English, we became as brothers and I feel a bond of closeness to him that has not faded over the years since leaving China.

Dear Mr. Bahai: Farewell Letter

While we were returning from the countryside on our last trip together, my escort and comrade penned his parting thoughts to me in Chinese in a tiny appointment book. As I left shortly after to travel through several countries with two of my daughters, I did not know what he had written until I returned to the United States and had a Chinese professor translate them for me. I share them below as they give a glimpse of what my Chinese name and my experiences have meant.

May 22, 1996

Dear Mr. Bahá'í:

The moment when I learned that you were going to return to your own country pretty soon, all of a sudden I felt I was losing you. It is so hard to tear myself away from you......

As a teacher, your virtue, your style, and your skills will live in our hearts for a long time, as a long-lasting spring, that will keep nourishing the fields-- the elementary schools of Sichuan.....

Professor Bahai, in the past months during which I worked with you, whenever we were sitting in the car to school, we would chat about everything, cheerful and with humor; or once in a while when I stayed in your hotel room for the night, we would sing (last night Bahai sang songs and I didn't sleep [note: this is a tease about my loud snoring which he humorously referred to as "singing"] ) and then burst into laughter. Such brotherliness and comradeship are usually shared only between close friends.

When you were teaching, you gave your personal love for the kids. Your touches and kisses on their small faces, your gestures, and your smile, all these made the kids happy and joyful. Were they really learning a foreign language, or were they spending time with Santa Claus during Christmas! Chinese teachers and students here couldn't help admiring and praising you. Your arriving at a school campus was always accompanied by a tide of excitedness. You would always be surrounded by the crowded kids, and they would cheer you and welcome you

Page 162

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

and their enthusiasm would last until the next time when you came back again. True, it is such a big world, where people of huge differences live: foreigners and Chinese; laowai and laozhong. Yet, a teacher's love for students is universal. Loving others' kids as your own and you'll be loved back. Bahai's heart is filled with universal love, and love is essential for education.

Bahai's teaching is open and flexible, guiding the students to learn to look at things from different angles, by using a typical example to grasp a whole category, or by using analogies to help students to comprehend complicated issues. With you, students seemed to be traveling at the sea of knowledge: vast and endless but now and then suddenly awakened by a new scenery, and seeing the light. Surprising "discoveries" came one after another, often too many for the eye to take in, keeping the students interested and excited. Chinese teachers who observed your teaching also couldn't help admiring you. Bahai, a great teacher!

Your teaching influenced about a hundred elementary schools here. Thousands of students shouted: "Thanks, Bahai!" Your name Bahai resounded through campuses and everyone involved was deeply moved.

Bahai's words are full of poetic flavor. Bahai said, the program of children's air English (or radio program of English for children) is like a beautiful garden, where teachers and staff members are like the flowers. If the flowers are in full blossom, shining and overflowing with all bright colors, the children will come to the flowers and suck the best honey dew like the golden little bees do. In Mr. Bahai's poetic teaching, we were all trying to become beautiful flowers.

The whole world is like a beautiful garden......

We, and Bahai, are the shining flowers on both sides of the Pacific ocean.

Bahai is leaving, far away from China. Nothing can express my appreciation. Tens of thousands of words become the following:

Let me call you once more: Bahai!

The whole world is like a beautiful garden......

We, and Bahai, are the shining flowers on both sides of the Pacific ocean.

Bahai is leaving, far away from China. Nothing can express my appreciation. Tens of thousands of words become the following:

Let me call you once more: Bahai!

Page 163

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Unfinished notes: Observations traveling in rural Sichuan

We eat lunch at a country place. One of the military officers from the region is there and he is invited to join us. The food here is simpler, more typical of normal Sichuan fare. At the end of the meal the military officer comes to our table to toast it. It is obvious to me and the others that he is drunk. He persists to pour everyone a drink in a toast. The headmaster of the school is not drinking. When the officer tries to force him to drink. He gets up and good naturedly but clearly resists.

I think of my dad. I remember him doing the same thing in the say way. Laughing while he's talking and backing away from the offer and the pusher. The headmaster, as the host and highest ranking local official at the table, he is let off the hook by the drunk. Then the drunk started toasting each person and wouldn't stop though others were trying to avoid him. Everyone was embarrassed and trying to extricate us from the situation, but the drunk was oblivious to what was happening and beyond reason. Finally everyone had finished their toast with the drunk but the headmaster and me. The headmaster holds up his bottle of peasant milk and I my empty can in a friendly gesture to placate the drunk. I pretend to finish as they pull me away as we all leave the table and scene.

On road to Meisran we pass 12 families working together in their rice fields. Twelve men in one field plant rice while the twelve women work in another, all in mud up to their shins. How can they work with their hands and barefoot in cold muddy water? It makes me shiver just to look at them. Again I realize how privileged my life has been and how spoiled I am as I could not endure the cold and work.

As our van makes it way along the pothole filled road, we pass a world I have never seen before. People hurling ducks, herding pigs, carrying baskets like back packs, and balancing poles over shoulders with baskets on both ends. We pass a pedicart carrying 12 toddlers in back going to preschool. A goose in backpack basket sticks its head up beside the face of the woman carrying it.

We come upon a traffic jam in mountain town caused by a broken truck in road. As soon as we pass by the truck, I realize we have a second obstacle slowing our travel: it is market day and the market stalls all along the street and the thousands of people who are crowding to buy things has traffic down to one lane. There are few bikes here compared to larger cities. Most people in this rural region travel on foot, as the rough mountain trails are not suitable for bikes.

I note that most people are wearing dark blue clothes, reminiscent of earlier times. This color does make sense for doing farm work as it doesn't show the dirt as much. As I think about it, we wore mostly dark clothes on our farm when I was young. They either cannot afford town clothes or would probably feel uncomfortable and pretentious wearing them. City dwellers

Page 164

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 more brightly dressed. Wearing the clothes of these people in the city would mark you as a country bumpkin.

Women are carrying human refuse in two buckets over shoulders to fields where they will adeptly toss it from their buckets with a dipper. Old men with water buffalos wading in a stream.

Cigarette sellers are on every corner of most streets, usually selling cigarettes one or two at a time, never in a pack. High cross bars over streets or cement blocks to support large vehicles Toll booths on White plastic covers over new rice for greenhouse effect Washing child in basin in yard Grandma/pa with baby in ??? Pink water Ducks and water buffalo by stream Rape seed, brilliant yellow, windblown, falling down Handmade bamboo rakes Roadside stores open air under thatch roof tile and brick help Bamboo stands Pile of bricks to build Broken glass over walls to prevent entry Drying vegetables on walls under eaves

Grandma riding side saddle on back of bike Bald man with white beard lying down while someone works on him 5 ladies walking single file through field with large baskets piled with green Huge??? Roofed thatched warehouse Grass on roofs and in tries to dry work crews putting up buildings with materials on roadside Honking at trucks, pedestrians, bikes in our way No cars, vehicles, just potholes Smoothing rice paddies with ox pulled logs and long poles with flat board on end Old men play cards around a cement table Old women in turban sitting on gunny sack waiting for bus

Children sweeping school yard, making path with bricks Young man squatting with arms ahead for counter balance Ornate grave site, tombs on hillsides 20 rows planting

Page 165

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

20 pigs in back of truck with rope net over to hold in; man sitting on top, packed so tight must put noses up to breath and shake/bounce a one glob of fat. (How did they load them?) X reading from this '79 English book filled with socialist stories Man riding on top of mountain of growing sacks in trailer of tractor (like hay stacks) Stopping at countryside village to go to toilet, bucket for urine, c squat with no inhibition, peasant stare Peasant runs in front of van to get to bus, come to screeching halt, D.W. Rolls down passenger window to curse him, unusual. Usually like nothing has happened for either peasant doesn't respond just continue running to bus. Scattering water on ground to dispose of e, wash down 4-5 year olds walking home with back packs (older kids use bags) Man on ball bearing wheeled board pushing along with crutch sticks Policeman in oversized uniforms - boys - maybe grow into Sometimes just raise glasses and drink, don't say anything.

Page 166

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Essays

Cultural Identity and World Unity

The history and development of civilization can be seen as a process of moving to ever larger more complex levels of culture and unity. In the earliest stages of civilization, humans, like certain animals, probably operated largely on an individual basis and only developed cooperation when the need arose. The advancement of civilization is the story of larger groups of peoples coming together for a common purpose. Groups of families came together to form clans, clans united to make tribes, tribes evolved into city-states, and city-states have been replaced by the more modern nation-state. Each higher level of unity resulted in specializations and scales of economies that created further developments in society. These same benefits can be seen in the international and transnational corporations that exist today. So pervasive has this development of increasing and wider levels of loyalty, unity, and integration, that it has become a hallmark of socioeconomic and political progress. Why then are the ethnic and racial divisions that characterized the earlier stages of civilization again being found in the more advanced societies of today? In the past when people became part of larger or more dominate group or culture, they were expected to abide by and adopt its values. Today we see an increased tendency of various groups to exert their own individualized cultures and value systems. There is some longing throughout the world where these changes are happening for the so called "good old days" when people submitted to the dominate cultural modes. Some people fear this new and threatening diversity that demands to be heard and appreciated. These diverse groups are tired of being culturally and economically disadvantaged and oppressed, by the mainstream populations, and excluded from participation in the power structures of that society while those in power are pining for the days when everyone acknowledged the superiority of the dominate culture, however imperfect it may have been. No region of the earth has been spared this resurgence of cultural identity. Examples of movements for recognition of individual cultural rights exist in every continent and in most countries. All these movements represent struggles for cultural acceptance. Most nations have diverse populations and are now having to face the problems of reconciling the differences between the cultural groups within their nation-states. Other groups separated by political boundaries are seeking to develop tribal or ethnic identity. The daily news is filled with the horrors of these struggles. How do we explain all these movements for separate identities in an age that is supposedly moving toward world unity? We see all around us the apparent breakdown, even within nations, of unity among peoples. It appears that these movements are but death pangs of the old order and birth pangs of the immersing new world order. These different ethnic groups are demanding justice and equal rights within their societies and are bringing to the forefront the need to deal with varying cultural and value systems. Our current world view should be informed by our historical development. For example, loyalty to the family, to the clan, to the tribe, to the city-state and nation, and finally to the world-state are just widening circles of loyalty and identity. The clan is an extension of the

Page 167

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

family and the tribe is an extension of the clan. Each higher level of unity is but an extension of the other. Such extensions do not preclude loyalty to lower levels or identity with those levels. We are all related one to another. We can fulfill our obligations to our family, country and to humanity and still be loyal to each level of unity. We must if we are to survive in this new world order.

Page 168

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Drug Wars: Past and Present, East and West

America and other Western nations have been involved in drug wars for some years now. Still the outcome is not clear. China also had its drug wars. Some were like the drug wars in the West today, and some very different. A little over one-hundred fifty years ago China had a terrible opium problem. Like the Western nations today, unscrupulous elements conspired to make a large profit from the sale of habit-forming and extremely harmful drugs. Like the Western governments today, the Chinese government of that time tried to stop it, but the people who profited by its sale had formed a precursor of today’s powerful drug cartels. They used their influence to see that their livelihoods would not be threatened. Fairbanks, in China: A New History (Harvard, 1992), described the situation in China then.

Opium smoking, though less powerfully addictive than modern derivatives, was a social curse that destroyed both individual smokers and their families. Land was wasted for poppy growing, while the high price of the drug as contraband led to violence and corruption between smugglers and officials. The Chinese demand grew up in situations of demoralization not unlike the American inner cities of today. This tremendous social evil was sparked by the lust for profit among the British Indian government, the foreigners who took opium to China, and the corrupt Chinese distributors. To Americans of today this pattern sounds distressingly familiar. (p.199)

The two countries most involved in the drug trade then were Britain, who was supplying opium, and China, who was unwilling recipient. In more recent times the drugs have come from Columbia to America. In both cases all countries condemned the use and sale of opium and its derivatives, but in both cases it continued. The difference is that when China tried to stop the drug traffic in its country, Britain attacked it in the Opium War of 1839-42. Neither Columbia nor any other drug supplying country has yet sailed ships in the seaports of America demanding that its drugs be allowed to flow freely into its country. They have not used the confiscating of their drugs by the US government as an excuse to start a war. Now maybe if they had the same military advantage that the British had over the Chinese, then maybe this too would be alike. The drug lords of today, like the drug lords or yesteryear, were respected by their fellow citizens. After all, they were wealthy (who really cares how they got it?), and some even used a small part of their profits to help others. China and the West are facing another round of drug wars as the flow of heroin out of China and into the West increases. The January 29, 1996 Newsweek states that “the smuggling networks of southwest China have become the world’s fastest growing drug route” (p.10). It also labels its table of figures showing this growth “The New Opium War.” In Buddhism, a religion that has been in China and the rest of Asia for centuries, is a principle called karma. It is expressed in the West by the saying; “What goes around comes around.” There is a similar principle in the Holy Books of the West: “As you sow, so shall you reap.” Is the West reaping what is has sown? Is history repeating itself in a different way? Is this but another example of East meets West? If the drugs were being sent by the East to the West as they were once sent by the West to the East then this might be true.

Page 169

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Thoughts on Chinese Education

A growing change in consciousness, marked by uprisings for more rights and justice is evident in many countries. Some governments do not want individuals to think for themselves, but tell them what they should think and do. The education in these countries is designed to serve the state. How these education systems prepare their citizens to meet the problems in our immediate future will largely determine the extent to which they can meet the great challenges that face the whole world at this turning point in human history. The accomplishment of any objective requires knowledge, volition and action. Knowing what to do and wanting to do it are in themselves not enough; this knowledge and desire need to be translated into action. For instance, a person may know that it is wrong to smoke and may want to stop smoking, but does not have the volition or perseverance to carry this out in action. Most people do not understand the connection between ignorance and social well-being, just as individuals in the past did not make any connection between smoking and health. Until these connections can be made, I see little hope for the change process because either the needed commitment will be missing or the energy will be directed towards actions that either do not contribute toward improved conditions or actually creates more problems. How can we change the world from its present condition to a world of harmony and cooperation? The first and most fundamental guiding principle is the acceptance of the essential oneness of humankind. If we accept that peace is good and a worthwhile goal to pursue, then we must further determine what principles should guide us in solving the problem of war and conflict. If we are to bring peace into education, then we must do all we can to bring the oneness of humankind into education. If we wish to prepare our children, youth and ourselves for the future, we can begin by educating them in this vital principle, for upon this principle is based peace and it portends the future of our world. We can best see this transformation by examining the current trends toward it. It is apparent that the world is daily becoming more and more of a global village. The trends toward ever-greater unity is seen in creation and development of the United Nations and many regional organizations such as the European Community, as well as the numerous other international activities in almost every area of human endeavor. It is not hard to imagine this trend continuing until the world is unified in all aspects of life.

Page 170

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Understanding Social and Economic Development

The World Summit for Social Development in March 1995 explored a concern of peoples and governments throughout the twentieth century: the necessity of finding solutions to the social and economic problems. The systems and theories that have promised answers to this problem have failed to deliver. A proper understanding of the past is important to understand the present and to responsibly prepare for the future. Many non-governmental organizations (NGO) prepared statements to contribute to the understanding of social and economic development. One of these, “The Prosperity of Humankind,” offers some insight into this problem. It says that the advancement of civilization to this point has been slow and sporadic. Many theories and conceptualizations concerning human history have been proposed. The materialistic interpretations and assumptions underlying much of the current thinking concerning human history need reexamination, as they fail to adequately explain human development. The story of human development can more properly be seen as an evolving process. Not only have humans evolved physically, they have also evolved in the moral, social, and intellectual domains. This advancement is evident, and the next stage in this evolutionary process is here. This remarkable century has witnessed the growing awareness of the interdependence of the planet on several levels. As humanity has advanced through ever-higher and broader levels of unity, clearly the next logical stage in the ongoing progression of civilization is the unification of the planet. The comparing of the world to the human body is useful in understanding the relationship of the various parts to the whole. The cells of the body can be compared to the individuals in the body of the world. The cell not only contributes to the body, but also receives from it. No cell lives outside the body, but derives its meaning and well-being from its relationship with the whole. The cells are differentiated and perform certain functions, but they all work together to produce a healthy organism that in turn benefits the individual cell. The more complex and developed an organism, the more it is characterized by unity in diversity. This great principle can also be seen in human organizations. In simple societies every cell performs essentially the same tasks, such as hunting and gathering. As civilization has advanced, individuals have been allowed more opportunities to develop individuality and specialization, which in turn has fueled the further advance of the human body. The result of the collective working together of the cells of the body is human consciousness; the result of the collective working together of the peoples of the world is a collective human consciousness that leads humanity forward to ever-higher levels of progress. The collective human development might be compared to the development of individual human consciousness that occurs in the stages of individual development such as childhood, adolescence and adulthood. Using this comparison, the world is collectively entering its adulthood.

Page 171

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

A first step toward solving any problem is to define the problem and to then visualize a solution. A historic transformation in individual and collective human consciousness is occurring throughout the planet. It will result in the spiritual and material well-being of all its peoples.

Page 172

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Page 173

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Made in China

“Made in China” today means about the same thing that “Made in Japan” meant thirty years ago. Thirty years ago products made in Japan were generally considered cheap, poorly- made, counterfeit, and inferior. Today Japanese products are expensive, well-made, innovative, and superior. China has more than ten times the people, the resources, and the possibilities of Japan. Therefore, Japan multiplied by ten, could be China in thirty years. The Chinese people have shown themselves able to transform themselves and their nations. Chinese emigrants (which may also include the Japanese) have generally been successfully wherever they have gone. This entrepreneurial spirit seems evident in the Chinese today. “Made in China” has a long and rich history. Paper, printing, clocks and many other inventions, discoveries, advancements and technological innovations were “Made in China” while other peoples were just what the Chinese called them (and still do): barbarians. The “barbarians” are currently the world leaders in the social and economic development arenas. The Chinese have lived through subjugation before. They have taken what they wanted from the barbarians and gradually absorbed them into the Chinese culture, or kicked them out when they were able. In China’s long history the barbarians’ reigns have always been short lived. Two hundred years in a five thousand-year history is like one year in a twenty- five year old’s life. To Americans, two hundred years represents the whole of their nation’s existence, like one year to a baby. To China two hundred years represents one twenty-fifth of its history. The world’s leading investment counselor, Jim Robbins, has said “The single best investment advice I can give anyone is to teach your children Chinese.” I did not learn much Chinese during my one year stay in China, but my children did. I hope that they can be products not only of China and America, but of the world that is more becoming like one country of which we are all citizens.

Page 174

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Moral Education and China

China can enable its citizens to deal with the problems facing them and their society. A correct moral framework and a strong character will be necessary. Chinese children need to develop and apply moral concepts, such as honesty and justice, to their individual and collective lives. By helping students approach and reflect on problems, teachers can help students develop their characters and moral frameworks through their studies and activities within the school. The foundational principle of all schooling is moral education. Moral education involves teaching correct conduct and behavior. All other education is related to and depends on this foundation. It is the means for individual and collective advancement. For instance, if a child is well trained in knowledge, but lacks moral training, that knowledge will prove harmful to both the person and society. Students in China are exposed to great people of history to inform and inspire them with their qualities. Students are encouraged to acquire virtues and eliminate weaknesses. Teachers are to promote academic, athletic, artistic and moral excellence. Students also develop morals through service to their fellow students, teachers, school, communities and country. It is essential that moral development begin as early in the child's life as possible. These early years are critical, for as the child grows older, moral training and development will become more difficult. Mothers in particular, play a vital and crucial role in the development of character. Mothers, as the first role models, set the pattern of behavior and values in the next generations. In this rapidly changing world of new challenges and collapsing social institutions, morals become increasingly important. The moral or spiritual dimension of humanity has been a central influence in the advancement of civilization. With the weakening of this dimension, civilizations have declined and vanished. Its development becomes more important in this crucial stage of the evolutionary process of humanity. Moral education should be carried out in a social context involving the individual's development of volition and will through practical application of social principles. Intellectual training and investigative skills are necessary so that individuals can make good choices as to proper actions. Education should be for the general welfare, not for selfish motives. Teacher training institutions must train their students in how morals can be developed and their teachers serve as models of moral training. The teacher training programs should enable their students to teach moral and ethical values throughout the curriculum. They must also select students with high moral standards and who are able to model and teach the moral values we wish to engender in our children. China is working hard to quickly develop into a leading world power, but it should not sacrifice moral excellence for academic excellence. Students with no moral framework are dangerous to themselves and their society. China can educate its citizens to be both intelligent and good. Intellectual, vocational, and physical training all depend on a sound moral foundation. It is only through moral that physical and intellectual developments are realized and put to good use. With the development of morals, all education is used in the spirit of the service to humanity and is of benefit to both the individual and society.

Page 175

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Open and Closed Door Policies Between America and China

History is biased. Who is civilized and who is a barbarian depends on your point of view. Western histories of the nineteenth century have generally portrayed China as backward, uncivilized, and immoral. The Chinese then also generally considered the Westerners as backward, uncivilized, and immoral. The West during the nineteenth and early twentieth century was in a period of ascendancy while China was in a period of decline. China, though in decline, was self sufficient which made outside trade with it difficult. The Westerners wanted Chinese goods, especially tea and silk, but they had nothing to exchange in trade that the Chinese wanted except silver. The West was not satisfied with this arrangement and wanted China to open its doors wider for trade. Opium was used by the West to pry open China’s door. The Americans were involved with other Western powers in forcing open the doors of China in the nineteenth century. The assault on China by the European powers, Russia, and America first took the form of opium imported for profit in defiance of Chinese customs and laws. When the Chinese tried to stop it, the British Government declared war on them. Upon defeating the Chinese in the first Opium War of 1840-42, the British entered the first of the Unequal Treaties that extracted further concessions from the Chinese. The American and other European powers took advantage of these spoils of the war and joined in increasing the flow of this pernicious drug to China. The indignities heaped upon China included having to pay large indemnities, having its cities occupied by foreign troops, having its trade controlled, and having foreigners in China who were not subject to Chinese laws. Under the many treaties later extracted from the Chinese, foreign powers could more easily export her goods and her people. During this time the foreign nations began to carve up China into spheres of influence reminiscent of the dividing of Africa. In 1899, the United States declared the “Open Door” policy that allowed it open access to the other powers’ “spheres of influence” in China. America wanted open access to China, but limited China’s access to America. Chinese were recruited and brought to America to do work more “civilized” people refused to do, such as the dirty, dangerous, and backbreaking work of building the U.S. transcontinental railroad and mining. While in the “land of the life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” they suffered numerable injustices and brutalities. In the view of the influential writer and missionary living in China in the nineteenth century, Arthur Smith, the Chinese could endure more pain and suffering than Westerners because they had a less developed nervous system. Eventually many imported Chinese were violently driven out of America and legislation passed so no more could come. The Chinese in America had done the dirty and dangerous tasks that the other immigrants and Native Americans would not do. They played a key role in the developing America, but after they had given their contribution, America no longer wanted any Chinese spices in its “melting pot.” The xenophobia so often attributed to the Chinese by Westerners, was alive and well in the United States of America. Westerners came to China to exploit it. They imported and spread opium. They did not follow Chinese laws. They contributed to the further decline of China. They spread diseases and other harmful things. The Chinese who came to America contributed to the economy, furthered the interests of the nation, obeyed the laws, brought no harmful drugs or practices, were loyal to the government, did not interfere with politics or religion, paid their bills and taxes and did

Page 176

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012 honest useful labor. While the Americans help force open China’s door, they forcefully closed theirs to the Chinese coming to America. Future historians will determine their verdict on these policies and practices. We can determine our own now.

Page 177

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Fears and Social Reconstruction

Change must happen on the individual, community, national and international level. The well-being of all the world’s people will require not only a change in knowledge, skills and attitudes, but also a motive force to translate understanding and values into action. New human values or spiritual principles need to be engendered if solutions to our present problems are to be found. Old, outworn ideas, prejudices and faulty ideas are harmful to the welfare and advancement of the individual, community, nation and planet. The best investment to insure the progress of the individual, community, nation and planet is to provide for a good education. Ignorance is a major barrier to progress and a major contributor to decline. One of the growing needs of the coming century will be to change our conflict-ridden approaches with cooperative approaches. The elimination of prejudices and the growing awareness of the unity of the human race is vital in this process. Prejudice is the foundation upon which injustice is based, and injustice is the major impediment to meaningful unity, which is a precondition to a harmonious, healthy planet. The underlying principle in all these issues is the acceptance of the essential oneness of the peoples of the world. That we are one human species has been established by science and is a central tenet in every major belief system. All humans share a common genetic structure which allows for procreation to occur naturally among peoples of different races and backgrounds. The more we overcome our limited knowledge based on traditions and prejudices, the more we see the basic oneness of people, no matter what their physical, cultural, intellectual or material condition. Educators can prepare their students for the new world by teaching the the principle of oneness in the diversity of their communities. One major solution to engendering the consciousness of oneness is to increase the level of communication and interaction between different peoples. The recent advances in the scientific and technological realm have gone far to enable this to occur. Happenings from all over the world are communicated through the media and help create the feeling of unity necessary for us to move to the next stage in the social evolution of humanity. These advances have also encouraged greater mobility and sharing among peoples. One barrier that remains in this process is that of language. As there is no common language, the most basic communication between people is absent. The unify and enriching aspects of a common language cannot be denied. The value of a common language can be seen in those countries that have one. Difference of language is often a major cause of prejudice. If the international authorities would agree on an international language that could then be taught throughout the world, this would be a major step toward well-being, progess, peace and security. The commitment or the motive force needed to bring about these changes will have to be the result of personal will. This can result from an awakening of our human desire for a better world or can be brought about by negative forces from the outside. It is obvious that

Page 178

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

such basic needs as survival are in the balance, but this threat seems powerless to arouse the type of concern needed to bring about change. People feel helpless and are in denial. This is a normal human response to such life threatening episodes that are beyond are control. Many either cannot or will not seriously look at the life threatening issues that face us. The best they can do is to either avoid or deny it and carry on with their lives as best they can. Part of the solution to this problem is by educating people to the reality that change is far more than a political matter, that there is hope and that they can do something about it. Justice, unity and peace are the healthy state of the world, but like individual health, they depend on many seemingly unrelated events. It is more than simply wanting to be healthy or even knowing what is required to be healthy--it is being committed to living up to these principles that bring about health. It is safe to say that people generally want a better world. Even those who seem to be doing the most to keep us from justice, unity and peace espouse the value of these things, in the same way that people who may smoke, drink, overeat or otherwise do things that prevent health claim to value health. Some people do not do what is necessary to enrich their lives and prevent their demise. Wanting and knowledge alone are not enough, what is needed is a commitment to doing the right thing. Whether people want change enough to work for it remains to be seen. They are not clear what course of action should be taken, if indeed anything can be done, to bring about social improvement. Even when people are given fairly clear and indisputable information about what they should do to maintain or return to a condition of a healthy body, they do not do so. It little wonder that people who are dealing with more complex and abstract social issues do not know what they can or should do. This results in a lack of commitment to a course of action.

-Several fears should be addressed that result from a limited understanding of world unity and a prejudice against it. The first is that unity will result in conformity, uniformity and the loss of individuality. On one level this is somewhat true as can be seen by the experience of the United States and other countries that have brought together previously disparate groups in one united nation. It is only reasonable that people will begin to adopt the patterns of the dominant group. It is also true that the patterns of the dominant group are affected by the diversity that is introduced into it, but that an individual loses their individuality and it is more uniform that in his or her previously more homogeneous or limited environment is not likely. In fact there should be greater opportunities as a result of the diversity present. The second fear has to do with loyalty. People are afraid that the more limited loyalties will be jeopardized by broader loyalties: namely that of nationalism or patriotism. Again we can see from our experience and history that such fears are not founded. Just as a child in his or her ever-changing world must constantly adjust their loyalties to an ever-widening circle of people, so must we widen our loyalties in this ever-changing world. To say the child is not well served by broadening his loyalty from himself, to his mother, to the family, to his neighborhood and so on to include his nation and the world is ludicrous. He can maintain a sane and healthy loyalty to each level of society without compromising a higher level.

Page 179

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

A third fear is that of over-centralization. Of all the fears this is the most legitimate.as excessive centralization could adversely affect our welfare. This problem has been dealt with in the many nations that have central governments and the models and policies they have developed to avoid over-centralization can be easily applied to a world system. In fact, the United Nations and many other international organization bear witness to its applicability on an international level. A fourth fear is that of loss of freedoms or advantages people may enjoy under the current system. I envision a world-federated system comparable to that of the United States, in which individuals and states, far from losing freedoms and advantages as a result of the various states being united under a federated system, have greatly benefitted from such a union. Like any federated system, certain limited rights and freedoms of the component states had to be subordinated to the nation, but the net result was increased rights and freedoms for all.

Mothers, as the first and most important educators of children, should receive a better education as this is probably the best investment a country can make. We see everywhere a growing world-wide change in consciousness. This is marked by an uprising of people everywhere for more rights and justice. Most institutions do not train individuals to think for themselves, but rather tell the individual what they should think and do. A preliminary scan of the educational content and conditions in the world serve as an early warning system of what we can expect in the years to come. This early warning system tells us that there are opportunities as well as problems in our immediate future. How we prepare ourselves to address these factors will determine largely the extent to which we will be able to met the great challenges that face us.

Page 180

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Five Impediments to Prosperity

The consciousness and conscience of the world are developing to the point where it will no longer tolerate lies, injustice and disunity. These things have been with us throughout history, but the general sense that they are no longer acceptable is a recent development. The growth of social movements, the increased awareness and concern for social justice, and the advances made in world unity and order are all signs of this change. These signs all suggest the readiness of humankind to rid itself of the impediments to prosperity. The first step in this process is to eliminate these impediments from ourselves. Only when we have successfully dealt with these problems within ourselves, will we be able to influence those around us positively. How we see, feel about and act toward others must be changed. Seeing things differently can lead to feeling differently about them, and ultimately, to putting our new knowledge and attitudes into action. Five major ways of seeing and feeling that stand in the way of prosperity are regarding and treating one race, class, sex, religion or nation as superior to others. Racism is the belief that one race is superior to another and harms both the oppressed and the oppressor. It divides humanity unjustly without scientific or moral foundation and leads to conflict. This belief legitimizes unfair treatment of the so-called inferior race and division between the races, and is one of the worst and longest standing of the impediments to prosperity. Progress in eliminating this evil has been made during the past few decades. The current outrage concerning racist practices have helped change the racial policies and practices that have been existing for centuries. New laws and institutions are being established to overcome the racial barrier to prosperity. The gross inequities that presently exist between the higher and lower classes create a condition that is unlikely to allow for prosperity for all but a few. Extremes of wealth and poverty create instability, suffering and injustice on a level that is unacceptable. The poor and deprived will not passively sit by without food and necessities while the rich have more than they need or can use. The lower classes are beginning to refuse to receive unfair treatment and are demanding that more opportunities and justice being given them. Sexism is an injustice to one-half of the world's population that is being eradicated much too slowly. Sexism, like racism, is based on genetic physical characteristics associated with inferiority. Male-dominated institutions throughout the ages have encouraged this practice. Only as women are accepted into full partnership with men will the society be balanced enough to allow prosperity to flourish. Religion has had a broad and enduring influence on humanity and the development of civilizations. It is paradoxical that the same religions that have been the cause of the advancement of individual and collective development should also be the cause of blocking that development at this stage in history. Religious teachings based on love and peace should not be the cause of hatred and war. Religious leaders must stop propagating misconceptions in their followers and allowing minor differences to become the cause of hatred.

Page 181

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Loyalty to one's country is important, but it need not be the cause of prejudice, hatred, or war. Like all loyalties, national loyalty need not exclude broader, more inclusive loyalties, such as loyalty to the world. Excessive nationalism was acceptable and necessary previously, but it is harmful and inappropriate at this stage of development. Through advances in science and technology, particularly in transportation and communications, the planet has become a like one country. Every nation is connected and interdependent with every other nation. Antagonistic and self-centered nationalism must be overcome in this age when the changing conditions call for a world unity and cooperation. We cannot expect prosperity to result from these false theories and unjust practices. These prejudices and practices are supported by lies, irrationalities, fear and ignorance to serve the selfish and limited interests of one group over another. Establishing prosperity is primarily a process of changing how we think about it, which will affect how we feel about it, and ultimately guide our actions to creating it. Overcoming these five misconceptions and injustices, will lead to increased well being and prosperity.

Page 182

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

Religion and Moral Education in China and America

It is paradoxical that China, a nation that regards religion as superstition and has done much to eliminate and forbid religion in their country, should have a prominent place for moral education in its schools, while America, a nation that is based on religion and which promotes religious freedom, should neglect direct moral education in its schools. Neither nation teaches about God nor the laws and teachings of a higher power as reflected in a religion in its schools. China does not because it does not believe in or subscribe to either of these ideas, and America does not in the name of religious freedom.

China believes that good behavior and moral character are essential for proper individual conduct and a well-functioning society and therefore they are a required element of the school curriculum. America would agree that good behavior and moral character are essential, but tends to see these things as part of religion, and therefore not in the domain of the schools. This is faulty and dangerous thinking, especially as religious institutions in America are increasingly losing the hold on the minds and hearts of its people. The failure of any American institution, from the families to the national government, to properly train their young people in character and conduct is a serious omission that will directly undermine the well being of all levels of society.

The parents, especially the mothers, play a vital role in this training. Without any religious orientation, Chinese mothers and fathers seem to take this responsibility more seriously and are more diligent in carrying out this task than American parents. Students in China see their efforts in education as a moral responsibility; therefore they work harder, hold higher ideals and are willing to sacrifice more. The Communist Party has replaced the role religion has played in other societies in providing a moral framework. The Party has made its own principles of "religion" and trained its followers to be faithful, obedient, "God-fearing" believers. America has looked primarily to Christianity for its guiding principles. Though Christianity has been taught directly in the schools for most of American history, it is rarely mentioned today. The religious institutions in America that are expected to teach spiritual principles and morals have not been able to maintain their vitality. These spiritual principles and morals, needed for a happy fulfilled life and a well-balanced and progressive society, are not being addressed. Secular humanism may attempt to fill this void.

If we use the Ten Commandments from the Bible as a standard of moral behavior, China would score higher than America. If we use the Protestant work ethic for which America is known, again Chinese students rate much higher than American students. The Chinese students work harder, sacrifice more, are more dedicated and have higher motives than American students. The Chinese schools engender these American moral values more in their students than American schools. They consciously, deliberately and unabashedly teach them to their students.

Page 183

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

China Wakes: Role Of Education 1995-96

China is generally regarded the oldest continuing civilization. It has given the world some of its most influential inventions: paper, clocks, and gunpowder. If China wishes to regain its former eminence and again become the center of world civilization, it must develop the its people. Its culture and accomplishments can again become the envy of the world and the source of glory for its people. But it must first awake from its long sleep of neglect. Signs of such an awakening are becoming apparent. Foremost among these signs is the increased efforts to develop the minds of its peoples. A number of roadblocks must be overcome if this regeneration is to progress satisfactorily.

One of the most promising signs of China’s awakening is its rejection of its present condition and a widespread desire to improve. One of the major barriers to progress is a growing desire for personal advantage and selfish interests. China’s past achievements in the sciences and the arts and its future possibilities may be eclipsed by the current emphasis on pure material gain. China does not seem to lack the pride and ambition to again become of the greatest nations on earth, but may misdirect her energies toward unprofitable ends. Europe and America were among the most uncivilized of people until recent history, but through efforts in educating their people, they have excelled other nations in social and economic development. They have led the world in intellectual and human progress and have improved the world and the well-being of their peoples.

Another impediment to China’s progress in the past has been its reluctance to look to others for progressive ideas and practices. Some have maintained that only Chinese innovations should be adopted and that China should not adopt ideas from outsiders. The same progressive ideas that took Europe from the Dark Ages to its present state of advancement can benefit other nations as well. These principles and procedures have been tested and replicated many times like a scientific experiment. But China should also learn from the mistakes of other nations. The scourge of wars and oppression that have come from these same nations is intolerable and must not be allowed. China must build a civilization of peace, justice, and well-being for all so that the standard for true progress and prosperity may be raised for the entire world.

Education is the key to the advancement of civilization. It is the most basic requirement for the promotion of prosperity. Nations rise or fall depending on the level of education of their people. The peoples of the world must be educated to be able to meet the problems and needs of the age in which they live.

The course of education can be advanced through various means. Those with insight into the present day requirements should share their beneficial ideas with others. This can be accomplished through the publication of well-supported principles, ideas, and practices. These

Page 184

Clarken China Stories 7/3/2012

clear thoughts can influence others to higher thinking, intention, and action, and become the foundation for further knowledge.

The societal values and thinking regarding education must also be considered. Through education of the public, leaders can introduce proven methods and principles for the promotion of education. The historical record gives evidence of the value of education and the results of its lack.

China, home of the oldest continuing civilization and largest population should be expected to lead other nations, but because of lack of education it has lagged behind. A brief look at the last two centuries of China’s history gives evidence of its weakened condition. The widespread conflict, disunity, and generally poor conditions throughout China gave rise to civil wars, starvation, and corruption. During this time other nations easily forced their wills upon China. The British subdued the Chinese government with a small fleet of ships. Japan, a small fraction of China in terms of size and population, was able to subject China to its terms.

All of this is beginning to change. In the last 50 years China has advanced the quality and quantity of education. To the extent the level of education has risen, so has the country. If this progress is to continue, so must the educational attainments of its people. China must continue to spread educational opportunity to all its citizens. The rural areas must not be deprived of this vital tool for advancement. Everyone must be taught to read and write and to strive for lofty goals. By this means, all the cells, nerves, and arteries in the body of this great nation will stir a dynamic power that will transform China and the world.

Page 185