Day 14: This Room Was Built on Good Intentions

You know the old saying that goes: “things always get worse before they get better”—the belief that even at its worst, there is the supposition that in the future a given situation will improve? Well, whoever coined that phrase obviously never lived in a Chinese house.

This realization was a long time in the making. I had seen structures outfitted and thrown up in nary a month's time in numerous cities in and around China, but most strikingly on campus and in the town of Taigu where I live. Giant construction pits full of concrete slurry, mortar, fragmented brick chunks, and wooden support beams line the edge of North Yard, and seemingly transform into habitable structures overnight. However, as James, who worked as a stone mason for a year, will tell you, not all buildings are created equal. The instability and shoddiness with which buildings get erected in China is largely to blame for the grave aftermath of catastrophic events like earthquakes and landslides, which have been headline-making news of late. The emphasis is on getting buildings up, and not about ensuring the structural integrity of them to any large degree.

The door to my bedroom, decorated with posters from Hong Kong, New York, and Japan.

From an outsider's perspective, China's economic development is advancing at a blistering pace. But foreigners only see one side of the story—the tall, glittery new highrises that line China's skylines in Shanghai and Guangzhou. The truth of the matter is much more nuanced—that wedged within those massively tall skyscrapers lie innumerable building codes violations and a bevvy of cost-efficient, but ultimately low-quality building materials. While the exteriors may be paragons of grandeur, little thought is placed on the effects of that hasty construction in the long run. In fact, Chinese modernization bears a stunning correlation to the state of our one-story flats.

Much to my surprise, following the long summer holiday, I returned home to find the interior of my home meticulously re-modeled. Though most of the renovations were much needed fixes, within a matter of weeks, they had done very little to affect any kind of long-lasting change. It became clear to me that rather than tackle the problem at its core, aging houses like mine have just been remodeled to oblivion. In one of my first lessons on living in Taigu, I learned that leaning up against any surface is a recipe for discolored clothing. The white-wash walls in our homes are really no more than compacted layers of chalk and the external “bricks” are actually just red-dyed cinder blocks made to look like them. Since I first moved in, numerous dance parties have worn away the evenness of the floor, we've needed three replacement living room tables, and rats have chewed holes through drywall, plumbing, and ceiling tiles. Cracks have already begun to form in the new paint job of our neither sound- nor weather-proof walls.

My bedroom, outfitted with a poster from Pingyao, a tapestry from Oberlin, and a nightstand overflowing with nick-knacks and student gifts.  The red lantern from Nanjing in the foreground transforms the room into a seedy opium den by night.

In an effort to counteract such shortcomings, I've made a few DIY modifications. I did my own make-shift insulation by layering the three floor-to-ceiling windows in my bedroom with thick sheets of plastic. Though it does make the room warmer and ironically gives me quite a bit more privacy, it unfortunately eliminates the ability to see the sun. I've also tried to do a few less purely practical touches in the way of interior decorating, reprising my role first at Oberlin and later at Cornell—starting with a newly acquired lantern from Nanjing and a few well-placed wall hangings and posters. While they may not be enough to stop natural disasters, at least they're small steps toward improving my quality of life. Perhaps things do get better after all.

Day 13: Not for the Faint of Heart

Living in China has pushed my boundaries in more ways than I would have expected. For one thing, I no longer have the slightest equivocation about getting naked in front of a large group of other men. Though on one hand, this would do wonders to harness my burgeoning career in the adult entertainment industry, it also serves very practical purposes here in China. For one thing, weekly trips to the pool necessitate nudity, as do post-swim showers in a steam-filled locker room that see at least three men to every shower-head. For another, this new-found comfort with nudity also helps on those less-frequent trips to the public bathhouse in Taigu.

Think of public bathhouses as roughly the equivalent of laundromats in America. In the rural countryside, most apartment buildings and tenements don't come equipped with bathtubs or shower-heads, so it behooves tenants to have a place where they can take twice- or thrice-weekly washings. Though the bathhouse's main function is for bathing, some occasionally offer a small sauna or a lukewarm hot tub to complement the group showers. The reception room always sees a gaggle of svelte half-naked men lying on chaise lounges waiting to usher you in. Once inside, you are told to strip naked under an intimate canopy of bright fluorescent lights and store all of your belongings in a locker. The rest of the procedure is almost Roman in its archaic simplicity—you are handed a small towel and a packet of shampoo and proceed to the showers. The only difference is that, in China, you might notice a couple of squat tables covered in slick foam padding along the way.

I couldn't actually find a good picture of a Chinese bathhouse, so technically this one is in Baghdad, Iraq, but the accommodations are remarkably similar (photo courtesy of Reuters).

Those squat tables are for scrubbing. The way it works is this: first, the table is wrapped in a sheet of plastic. Then, you lie on the table and proceed to be rigorously rubbed and scraped until all of the dead skin is peeled off of your body. Like most people, I was quite skeptical at first. The idea of a stranger hovering over me with a Brillo sponge literally grating away at my bare inner thighs didn't seem like something I wanted to pay money for. But, like most things about China, I got used to it, in the same way that I did the grizzled older Chinese gentlemen who insist on laying spreadeagled near the mouth of the hot tub. After all, every time I go to the pool, I see men comfortable enough with their sexuality to literally straddle another man while vigorously thrusting and scrubbing his back with a beaded hand mitt.

My experience with scrubbing was largely good, after the momentary disgust of being specked with fine, rolled black shavings of my own dead skin. After I was doused with ladles of hot water to clean off, my skin felt smoother and softer than it's felt in years, and radiated with a healthy reddish glow. I still insist that the job of “scrubber”—though probably not desirable in any conceivable way—must be one of the most bizarre and unique in the world. On the women's side, I hear it's done by a woman dressed solely in a bra and panties, violently heaving and scrubbing up-and-down one's body. Though we are fortunate to have showers in our own homes, it's still a treat to go to the bathhouse. Labor is cheap in China, so it doesn't cost much of anything, but the real appeal lies in ever-expanding my comfort zone. And who knows, by the time I get back to the states, maybe those group showers in Harkness won't seem so scary after all.

Day 12: Stranger Things Have Happened

Oberlin students are notorious for their awkwardness. Take any social gathering and you'll find it nearly impossible to escape a conversation with someone who has either been home-schooled for too long or has never once communicated with a member of the opposite sex. I, too, am spared no exception from this judgment. No doubt we Oberlin folk flocked to the same place because somewhere in our collective subconscious we knew we'd find people who would accept us—criminally awkward and all. But never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would actually discover a place more socially awkward than even Oberlin. That place, dear readers, is Taigu, China.

As foreigners, we're used to being daily spectacles. The unfortunate downside, though, is that most of the attention we get is unwanted—leaving us powerless to stop it without coming off as jerks. Take Kevin, who creepily watched us play Frisbee all last year without ever saying a word—convincing each of us that he was the other's student (he wasn't). Or Hawk, who, as her name suggests, preys on foreigners like a vulturous animal—sporting beady eyes and a pointy beak of a nose to boot. At the entrance to the main teaching building, she once famously cackled, “I love you, teacher!” before latching herself into Alexandra's side like a lesion. Or Cassidy, an older Taigu native, who has a bizarre fascination with Oberlin Shansi and a hard time understanding when he's overstayed his welcome.

We first met "Hawk" (right) at this year's annual Halloween party.  Under a clever disguise of silly string and colored markers, she had Alexandra convinced that she was one of her English majors (photo courtesy of Alexandra Sterman).

There are also a handful of non-students who insist on coming to my classes. Though most are polite and sit quietly in the back, I still get the usual slew of loudmouths and chafes. One has apparently studied abroad in New Orleans and uses every opportunity to stress how close he came to actually seeing New York. Another calls himself “Bank,” and as one of the student leaders of the “English Enthusiasts” club on campus, he is one of the biggest infractors on my personal well-being. When pressed about his English name, he had this to say: “Because there is money inside.” So much for subtlety.

Still, it's hard to distinguish between actual curiosity and excitement, psychological instability, and the downright opportunistic. On Halloween Day, a rowdy group of four or five students stopped by my house—surely attracted by the pumpkins that lined our porch—and asked me to teach them about American holidays. A guy we've nicknamed “Rando” first visited the house last week, asking for nothing more than genuine friendship. Were we too jaded to pick them out from the dozens of other requests we've received, or were they just more convincing than the rest? Chinese people would never do these things to each other, so why does it feel like the rules are different for us?

The irony of it all is that they're not alone. The only difference between them and the thousands of other students on campus is that they actually have the guts to approach us. Every student wishes they could talk with foreigners, but only a select few have the compunction to risk getting shot down. And the sad truth is that we're all in this together. We've become a magnet for freaks, weirdos, misfits, geeks, and sociopaths perhaps because they feel like we can empathize with them—that we are all performing animals in this crazy zoo of a world. Furthermore, it's hard for us to make deep connections with Chinese friends too, probably because they're thinking the same things about us. Still, it's not going to stop me from readying myself before I open my front door.

Day 11: A Soliloquy for Singles Day

No matter where you fall on the relationship spectrum, today might very well mark the loneliest day of the year. November 11th, with two sets of “ones” in the date, is celebrated nationally in China as Singles Day. With a population of over a billion, you have to expect that China has both the largest number of couples and single people of any other nation in the world. And where the former gets Valentine's Day—a holdover from Western globalization—weddings, and anniversaries, today is the sole acknowledgment of the latter.

Legend has it that the pop culture holiday began in the mid-1990s by a group of Nanjing University students who have since carried their tradition into mainstream society. Traditionally, singles eat a big meal together—either to commiserate or celebrate their singleness—but pay their own way to show their independence. Though the holiday isn't celebrated outside of China, it may be gaining increased prominence on the mainland. According to a recent study, more than 24 million Chinese men could find themselves without spouses by 2020. But as it turns out, most people relish the single life. Another survey conducted by zhaopin.com found that 70% of married office workers in Beijing miss being single. In an informal study conducted in my own classes, I've noticed a similar trend.

The speech bubble reads, “November 11th, how will we celebrate our Singles Day?”  The brown-looking thing to the left of the bottle of baijiu is called youtiao, a deep-fried dough stick that is customarily eaten on the holiday because of its likeness to the number one (comic strip courtesy of Xin Hua News).

In honor of the holiday, I am mid-way through a relationship unit for all of my graduate classes. I started it last week by going over the requisite vocabulary and asking my students about dating customs in China. Most of their answers were not all that surprising—ideal qualities as far as partners go were almost identical to American sentiments, dating a friend's ex was seen as off-limits, and most found cheating sufficient grounds for breaking up. Nothing was that surprising, save, ironically, for the act of dating itself. As compared to Americans, Chinese are late-bloomers, with most young people only breaking into the dating scene until after college. Blind dates are the most common form of dating, followed closely by online dating and arranged dates set-up by one's parents. Physical intimacy is rare but not uncommon due to the lack of privacy, but rumor has it that the winter months see the greatest number of abortions on campus.

Don't get me wrong, Chinese students are just as sex-crazed and libido-driven as Americans—the only difference is they have a much harder time expressing it. College becomes a veritable “Mecca of Love” for Chinese students after having to put up with overprotective parents who remain prudish about sex education and strictly forbid all attempts at romance. With China's one-child only policy in full force, it is becoming increasingly hard to find love in a society of singles. And while some bask in the freedom of being single, others can only find solace in the comradely league of bachelors that offer small comforts of belonging.

Following up on my dating norms discussion, I thought I'd try something different—by having my students write mock “dating profiles” to be used for a round of in-class speed dating. I was impressed with their creativity. When I jokingly asked them at the end if any of them found true love, students feigned shock, having had to choose between 11-year old girls with children, 65-year old retired grandfathers, and female police officers who like boxing. Though I meant the activity simply as a fun exercise, there were some who looked like they could have been making real connections across the seated divide. I look forward to the day when they might eventually have me to thank as matchmaker.

Day 10: Lights, Camera, History

At first glance, Taigu might seem like an unlikely place to shoot a movie. As a township, it could be any number of small, obsolete, coal towns that litter most of northern China. The landscape, though theoretically quite majestic, is perpetually blanketed under a thick layer of dust and smog. And even as pure countryside, there is too much construction and renovation going on in the city center to make it truly convincing. The hidden gem comes, ironically, in the very campus where we live and work. SAU is among some of the only institutions in China left unaffected by the blind wrath of the Cultural Revolution, so much of its ancient architecture is still intact. It's an incredibly remarkable feat that the buildings here—some dating back to the late 1800s—have stood the test of time.

This fact, coupled with Taigu's general obscurity, have made SAU a compelling spot for film directors scouting for locations to shoot period-piece films on pre-Communist China. On the weekends, it's not all that surprising to find a gigantic film trailer stuffed full of gear and equipment sitting near the entrance to North Yard. I've seen about a half-dozen film crews in the time that I've been in Taigu alone—replete with dapper suited actors and resplendent actresses dressed in qipao—but none more alarming than the seemingly paranormal appearance of three 1950s-era Oldsmobiles at the front of the old library a couple of weeks ago. But well-known movie production houses aren't the only ones getting their directing chops in Taigu. In fact, the student film club at SAU writes, acts in, and directs one movie every year, often utilizing points of interest on campus. Last year's effort was called Campus Agents.

A promotional poster for Campus Agents.  It's too bad the movie was nowhere near as cool as what it was made out to be.

The club had the trailer blasting on-loop for two weeks by the cafeteria before we eventually inquired about the movie and left holding six tickets to see it the following weekend for the campus premier. Though it was entirely in Chinese without subtitles, the plot of the movie was easy enough to navigate. The first five minutes, like the trailer, showed a great deal of promise—students clad in militia gear wielding firearms and staking out positions around a large factory before delving into a full-scale dogfight. But unfortunately for the largely student audience, the rest of the inaptly-titled film quickly devolved into a campy, pseudo-romantic comedy. As foreigners, we thought we'd incorporate a bit of American culture into the movie-watching process by bringing the Chinese equivalent of 40s into the lecture hall where the film was being screened. Gerald, as the snarky film snob that he is, led us all in a drinking game where we'd take a shot every time something was shot badly—from forgetting to use a noise-canceling mic to the lack of muzzle flares on the guns. Needless to say, Dave had to leave halfway through the movie to buy another round.

One of the ancient buildings in SAU's “old campus,” formerly commissioned by H. H. Kung.

But of all the great shooting locations at SAU, the most significant architectural feat is undoubtedly the “old campus” located in the far north. It was built by H. H. Kung who founded the school with a group of Oberlin missionaries in 1907 and is credited with fostering the relationship between the two universities. At the time, he was the richest man in China and dedicated many of the structures on campus to his family. Many of the old buildings have since been converted into administrative offices, but the courtyards are still quite beautiful to walk through. Kung's legacy is steeped in institutional memory—so perhaps one day someone will finally return to make a movie about him.