Chinaversary

One year ago I rushed around uplugging appliances and zipping suitcases, making sure everything was ready for our vacation. We bundled up in down coats against the frigid January morning. I took one last look around, and we left our apartment. We left Yinchuan. We left China. And it was no big deal.

Never in a million years would we have imagined that a year later we would still not be back, we might never be back. We kept thinking we could return later in February, in March, in April, later in the spring, at the end of summer, the beginning of 2021, maybe briefly next summer...never.

I miss so many things about China.

We had such a close community, a small group of friends we saw multiple times a week for shared meals, play-dates, meetings, walks, and home school co-op. We had the kind of friends that shared their left-overs and library cards and watched your kids at the last minute.

We had a sweet ayi (house helper/babysitter) who had been with us since Adalyn was a baby. She was used to our weird foreign ways: our kids who wouldn’t wear socks on cold tile floors and the amount of peanut butter we consumed. She knew far too much about us and loved us anyway.

I miss bumping down the road in our san lun che, bundled against the cold (in a mask, because we were doing that long before the virus). I miss driving past the steaming baozi (breaded dumplings), old women dancing in the park, and the local mosque. I miss driving the “wrong way” down the bike lane, because is there really a wrong way? (No.)

Obviously I’m not fully accustomed to living in a detached house, because I still hear phantom chopping noises. In a Chinese apartment, it seems you hear someone whacking away with a cleaver at any given time of day. I imagine the scratch of straw brooms on pavement, the calls of students walking by outside our window, and the loudspeakers at the fruit stalls croaking out, “San jin shi kuai! San jin shi kuai! (3lb for $1.50). My past self would find it strange, but I actually miss knowing there are people all around.

I miss the feeling of safety. I could walk down a dark street at night, take the bus across the city, or leave my kids in an open vehicle on the side of the road while I ran into a store. I have to continually remind myself I’m not allowed to do that here. Schools had earthquake drills, yes, but never ever mass shooter drills.

I could send my kids down to the nearby shop to pick up some vinegar. It was on our campus, only about 3 minutes away, but I literally sent an 8, 5, and 3 year old off to run an errand alone. And that was fine. Everyone around knew who they were, and anyone around would help them if they needed it.

I miss Chinese food. The hand-pulled Hui noodles, preferably eaten at a rickety metal table in a crowded restaurant. Our ayi’s jiaozi (Chinese dumplings) which everyone agreed were the best ever. Anything our ayi cooked. Our favorite restaurants, like the one by the mosque with the good eggplant, the one with the excellent tofu that we’ve gone to for 6 years, and the one with my favorite onion dish that is truly 90% cooked onion. Oh, and north-eastern food! And Xingjiang food! So many good things you just can’t find here.

Every time I go shopping, I think wistfully of China prices. Vegetables were the least expensive food you could buy – 30c/lb, maybe 70c/lb for the pricier things. Apples, oranges, and seasonal fruits were traditionally 3lbs for $1.50. I miss Taobao, a sort of Chinese Amazon that has everything, including $15 winter coats, $6 knock-off Lego sets, and the weirdest things you’ve ever seen.

I mostly avoided the supermarkets, but I still miss the vats of oil and giant bags of rice and the whole aisle of instant noodles. A walk through the market would show half a dozen types of tofu, slabs of hanging meat, buckets of live fish, and beautiful assortments of vegetables.

I miss the seasons in China – the flowering trees of spring, the giant trucks full of watermelon in summer, the baked sweet potato sellers on the side of the road in fall, the frozen lake in winter.

I miss students and friends coming to our house, bringing giant bags of fruit as gifts. We would talk or play games and the girls would go crazy. The students took lots of pictures with the girls, admired all their toys, and inevitably got roped into a game of hide-and-seek. You had to make sure every single part of the house was clean before someone came over!

One of my friends used to come to my office hours, then to my book club. She was my Chinese tutor for a while. Last year we started going on walk around campus once a week, arm in arm. She was smart and deep and we had many good talks.

I can picture every room in our apartment: my faded IKEA chair on the laundry porch, where I would sit under wet laundry catching the sun; the living room rug and bedspread and kitchen curtains I carefully picked out; the view from the large kitchen window where each morning I craned my neck to get a glimpse of the mountains. I know how the light fell at different times of the day. I rarely turned on overhead lights, as our 5^th floor apartment was bright enough without them.

Some things were so familiar – carried through half a dozen moves or passed on from other foreigners who had moved on. Others were new – the curtains we gave Adalyn for when we moved her into the office, still folded and waiting; the electric train set Nadia got for her birthday two days before we left.

It hurts to think about all the things we will never see and hear and taste again. It also stings a little to realize how hard it would be to go back to that, after settling here.

I enjoy pulling into the garage (in my enclosed, temperature controlled van) instead of carting loads of groceries up all those stairs. It would be hard to go back to Saturday morning Skype calls with my family in place of in-person visits. I love sitting on my quiet porch in the summer and by the cozy fire in the winter. We have adjusted to living in a house twice the size of our apartment – with two bathrooms – and closets – and a dishwasher.

There are so many things I miss about our lives in China, but I know it was far from rosy. It was a much harder place to live. Harder practically - making every meal from scratch, enduring the many smoggy days, and oh my word, the medical stress!

Harder culturally - all the attention we drew, all the interactions we decoded, all the language we learned and forgot, all of the tiny things that wore you out even after 15 years.

Harder in more nebulous ways - the unseen weightiness, the self-expectations, feeling so visible yet so unseen, a constant feeling of instability. Really we could have seen this coming. Not a pandemic, of course, but something that unexpectedly ripped us away.

I had considered what were the most important things I would pack if we had to leave suddenly. I had a three day plan and a few hour plan (as did most of the foreign families). I just didn’t have a plan for unknowingly leaving everything behind forever without a chance to look back.

I have no resolution or closure for this post, just like there was none for our leaving. I have just been thinking, especially today, about all the things I miss.

One year ago we left that whole life behind. Just. Like. That.

Plans, perspective, and a bunch of dead plants

Our plants are slowly dying.  Our ayi (house helper) planned to come and water them while we were away, but two days after we left, China shut down.  Even if she could have gotten across town on the infrequent buses, she would not have been allowed access to our home.  People are only allowed to enter the complex where they live.  So our plants are dying.  We can only hope they aren’t smelly, rotten plants by the time we return.

We planned to be back in China two weeks ago.  Kevin would have been preparing his classes.  The girls would have started back to school.  We were planning to reorganize the office into an office/bedroom with the loft bed we planned to put together for Adalyn.  Plans, plans, plans.

During our first week away, we began to feel the uncertainty of the future.  As the days passed we became increasingly convinced that we would have to delay our return.  The airlines confirmed this suspicion by canceling our return tickets without an option of rescheduling. When a friend asked about my plans for the following weekend, I said, “I don’t know!!  I don’t even know where we’ll be a week from now!  How can I possibly plan so far ahead?”

A friend who was on her way back to China after a time in the States said, “I had all kinds of worst-case scenarios of why we wouldn’t get back into China.  You know me – I thought of lots of possibilities.  But I never considered this one!”

We certainly didn’t either.  When we left only two days before the Wuhan quarantine began, we still had no inkling of the impact it would have.  Kevin had mentioned, “Did you know there is a new pneumonia-like virus they discovered?” and I didn’t think anything more about it.  Then we watched as China was quickly turned upside down.

Mixed with my deep concern for China I felt a lot of selfish anxiety.  What will happen?  When will we be able to go back?  What will we do?  An epidemic and future uncertainty does wonders for pre-existing anxiety.  I just wanted to know what would happen.

Catching the coronavirus was not at the top of my worry list, but I nearly had a panic attack when we walked into the Bangkok airport.  We didn’t have any masks!  After we hunted around and found some at an airport pharmacy, I felt a little calmer.  Even though there were mixed opinions on how helpful masks actually are, it was one thing I could control.  Along with, “Don’t touch that!  Don’t touch your mouth!  Here is some more hand sanitizer!”

I even found my own prejudice coming out.  I instinctively tensed up when I heard people speaking Chinese.  Then I remembered how incredibly prejudiced and hypocritical it was; I JUST CAME FROM CHINA!!  As Juliana loudly announced to some fellow passengers who backed up a little further in line.  I was embarrassed to see how quickly my mind turned to racism.  

In two more weeks we plan to return to China with just enough time to renew our residence permits before they expire. (fingers crossed!)  We don’t know what things will be like at that point, but we will almost certainly be quarantined for two weeks.  Fortunately, as long as we don’t travel through one of the “riskier” provinces, we can be quarantined in our apartment instead of a hotel!  Unfortunately that quarantine could look like anything from a paper seal to a bar across our door ensuring we do not go out.  Apparently someone will bring us food during this time.  Should we rig up a pulley system up to our 5^th floor window?  We are allowed to open windows.  I think.  Maybe I should check on that. 

Meanwhile I am mentally taking stock of my pantry.  I’m pretty sure I bought a big bag of flour so I can make bread, and I know we have several jars of peanut butter.  I wish I could remember if I have any frozen butter left.  Kevin’s birthday will fall within the quarantine.  In the days of Taobao, I no longer need buy western baking and cooking supplies in Thailand.   This year I will be stocking up.  I plan to bring an entire bag of things we might need, anything non-perishable and maybe some frozen butter and cheese.

By the time our full quarantine is lifted a month from now, we are hoping some of the safety protocols will have relaxed a little bit.  Maybe?  In our city currently, one family member is allowed to go out every other day for two hours to buy food.  They must sign in and out of their neighborhood, go through temperature checks at their neighborhood gate and at the supermarket, and bring a “pass” to be allowed in.  I’ve never enjoyed shopping, but this could change my attitude.  “Yay, it’s shopping day!  Aka. leave the house day!”

We will be able to go outside our apartment in whatever area of campus is deemed our “neighborhood.”  But if it is too often I’m sure we will be scolded.  At this point we are not allowed into anyone else’s neighborhood.  So even though we may be the first expat family to join our lone expat family friends, we won’t be able to see them.

At some point, slowly, all this will change.  The virus will be contained, at least enough.  We will rejoice at each hint of openness.  Just this week our friends saw EIGHT cars on the road at one time!  While this would happen every minute in ordinary times, this past month the roads have been deserted.  Another friend walked out her gate and instead of turning right to the nearest supermarket, she turned left to walk to the further-away one - and nobody stopped her!  

I definitely feel some nervousness about the quarantine, but the thought of all our friends in China gives some perspective.  While we have been enjoying lots of time outside, they have been mostly stuck inside their apartments for months now.  Small apartments.  Whole families on top of each other or singles on their own with no one to talk to each day.  It has been a hard time for all.

The other day our ayi messaged to say she was concerned about us and we should stay in as much as possible.  I told her not to be concerned.  I didn’t tell her we were going out as much as possible while we can.

  

One day we’ll all look back and say, “Yeah, we were in China during the coronavirus.  That was crazy.”  It will join the ranks of hospital adventures, language embarrassments, and really awkward encounters; painful moments that make good stories.  Our grandchildren will look at us with big eyes and say, “Wow, you are soooooo old.  And what’s the coronavirus?”

Oddly Missing Christmas in China

“Christmas this year didn’t feel quite like Christmas,” Juliana said last night before bedtime.
“What do you mean?” I asked
“We didn’t get to see any friends.”
“Well, Christmas is usually a holiday you spend with family, not so much with friends.”
Juliana responded, “We do. In China. I miss Christmas in China.”

I was struck by her response. I had an idea in my head of what “normal” Christmas is like. Christmas is family time. Except in China, we aren’t with family. We do spend our Christmas with friends. And if  5 of your 8 Christmases have been spent in China, naturally your version of normal is a little different.

This exchange also struck me because I was feeling the same way. I have only spent 9 out of 35 Christmases in China, so my view of “normal” is still pretty American. But those 9 China Christmases have taken place over the last 13 years, and we have developed our own new normal.

Still, who wouldn’t love extra Christmas celebrations with many more presents than normal? Christmas programs and Christmas lights and Christmas music on the radio. The month of December becomes Everything Christmas.

In China, we miss Christmas in America. We miss the resources to make all kinds of Christmas cookies. We miss stores decorated for Christmas and selling at least some classy Christmas decorations. We miss candlelight Christmas Eve services. We miss Christmas morning with family and stockings over the fireplace.

This year in America, I found myself oddly missing Christmas in China. For starters, the whole month of November becomes Everything Christmas and that is just morally wrong. By the time you should even be starting to think about Christmas, you feel kind of over it.

There are so many Christmas activities – performances, parades, services, visiting Santa (which we didn’t actually get around to), Christmas craft days, Christmas parties – it’s fun to experience and also a bit overkill. It bombards you at every turn. It is not something you make happen – it happens to you. It sweeps by you in a flurry of busyness.

Christmas in China is whatever you make it to be. There is no pressure to do all the Christmas things because they don’t exist. We do lights and make cookies because that feels like Christmas. We light our advent wreath. Every year I try unsuccessfully to make our tree not look tacky. We Skype with family. We gather with teammates for a potluck and gift exchange.

We don’t drive past houses strung with lights (we also don’t pass any houses, so there’s that). We string our own lights inside our apartment windows and enjoy knowing that our neighbors will see them, the only lights around. We don’t listen to Christmas music on the radio, partly because our little three-wheeled electric cart is conspicuously missing a sound system. But at home we do listen to our favorite Christmas albums on the computer.

We make wrapping paper out of decorative book-covering paper. Last year when I bought an interesting variety of paper from the stationary shop, the owner excitedly pointed out to another customer - “She is buying paper for Christmas presents!” I have even wrapped presents in pillowcases and scarves or out of pretty, recycled shopping bags, which is very eco-friendly and also convenient when that’s what you have.

We celebrate St. Lucia Day, in honor of our own Lucia and of our Norwegian friends. We dance around the Christmas tree, remembering this special tradition shared by our Norwegian and Scottish friends years ago when our children were very small.

Some years, we have our own candlelight service. It much simpler and smaller than the polished mega-church variety we attended this year. We sit around a living room with a small group of other people who become our overseas family, children crawling around, maybe some fireworks going off in the background, singing to music from YouTube. It is anything but polished, but in spite of or because of that, somehow it is wonderfully meaningful. So yes, I guess normally we do celebrate Christmas with friends.

I don't want to idealize Christmas in China, because it is often very hard. December is a dark, cold month. It always seems to be a difficult time of year, often filled with sickness and discouragement.  We wish we could be near family and attend Christmas activities.  We feel jealous of everyone celebrating what appears to be picture-perfect Christmases.

We had lots of Christmas this year, more than usual in every way. We got to be with family and do Everything Christmas. We enjoyed it, it was just...different.  This is just the way it is - nothing will be quite normal again, as we split our life and affections between two different worlds.

Sometimes We Get the Chance to Say Goodbye

When we left to come back to the US this year, our friends kept asking, “Are you coming back? How sure our you that you will be back?” They weren’t asking because they found us to be naturally untrustworthy people but because they recognize the reality of our transient community. I would usually answer, “Yes, we are definitely coming back as far as we can foresee. As far as it depends on us. As long as nothing big happens. We are leaving all our possessions here and saying, “See you next year,” not “I may not see you again ever.”

We feel a fear whenever someone leaves, or even talks about leaving, because we know none of this is forever. Not in a “the earth is temporal and not our home” kind of philosophic way but in a very practical sense, we are continually reminded of the tentative nature of our lives.

When we left China, another family from our city left at the same time, knowing that they probably would not be back. They were our friends, former classmates, our playgroup buddies. Our two oldest were international school classmates. Our two middles were best friends. Our two youngest were preschool classmates. But we were able to say goodbye and send them off to their home country, even though we would probably never see them again.

After we were back in the US, we heard that another family unexpectedly left our city to return to their home country where we will probably never see them again. Juliana’s teacher that she loved left our city and will not be back. Another family, in a nearby city, told us this summer they would not be back. Just now we learned from another family in our city, our good friends, that they will be leaving in a few months, before we get back. These times, we do not get to say goodbye.

Sometimes we, and they, can plan ahead. We knew that several friends would be leaving before we returned (in addition to the aforementioned ones). Some other friends, who have lived in China for over 25 years, have already been making plans to return to the US next summer. Sometimes, for a variety of reasons, the move is sudden. We don’t have the chance for goodbyes. And so we hold a certain fear. Will they return? Will they stay? Will I see them again?

In the US we like to believe we control our own destinies, if we believe it we can achieve it, we can set goals and make them come true, we can do anything, nothing can stop us. We choose our jobs and our homes and our cars, maybe our children’s schools and our city or neighborhood. We have so many options that we can believe we are in control of everything – until a terrible diagnosis, or a tragic loss, or a sudden layoff.

In our lives overseas, most of those illusions are stripped away and we wonder what in the world we are left to control. We may lose our friends and our children’s friends. We may lose our most of what we own. We may have to leave because of our health or parent’s health or children’s well-being or because we are no longer welcome. We may lose our jobs and our schools and our homes and our way of life all in one blow. We carry this possibility with us each day, not because we are doomsday thinkers or extreme pessimists but because know these are realistic possibilities.

Lately I have been feeling this grief. Loss of friends. Loss of control. Loss of security. The uncertainty of the future. And the continual goodbyes. How many goodbyes, most likely permanent goodbyes, have I said in these years? Another year, another dozen goodbyes. I am tired of saying goodbyes, but I am grateful for each time I get to say them. I know that sometimes we won’t have that chance.

We tend to run in one of two directions. Sometimes we close ourselves off to friendships because who knows how long they will be here anyway. We don’t fix up the apartment because what if we have to move again next year? Sometimes we cling to things tightly in the hopes they won’t slip through our fingers. But we can never cling tightly enough to keep change at bay, and the loss tears us apart.

The only way I see through it is by holding our hearts out, and holding them loosely. We have to keep investing in people and a country, loving others, settling in however temporarily. We have to accept that change and loss are inevitable, that however hard we try we are not in control. Then when change and loss happens, we grieve in whatever ways we do it best. We allow our hearts to break and then be remade.

American School Day 1

First Day of Pre-K and Second Grade

Today I dropped the girls off for their first day of American school. Juliana was nervous because she had never been to the school and didn’t know anyone, but she was fine once she got to class. I told her it was normal to be nervous but reminded her that she was worried at VBS that she wouldn’t have friends. That lasted until the second day when she had a new friend she was very sad to leave at the end of the week and gave my phone number so they could keep in touch. The only problem was it was my China phone number.

I just discovered this summer that our county has a free pre-K program, so Adalyn is now going to the same school as Juliana. It is a full day but seems pretty laid back – two recesses, nap time, and centers like blocks, imaginative play, art, etc. Adalyn hadn’t thought much about it, or at least hadn’t talked about it, until she saw her classroom at open house the other day. She came home excitedly telling everyone about the play kitchen and how much fun it looked, so I think she’ll really enjoy it.

I found it both strange and cool. I am used to being in charge of their education – choosing curriculum and our pace, knowing everything they are learning. It is strange handing them off to someone else and not really knowing what they are learning, besides the undoubtedly convoluted reports. Although I remembered I have sent them to Chinese school, where I really did have no idea what was happening.

It is still amazing to me that you can just send your kids off to school for free, and someone else prepares their lessons and decorates their classroom and is entirely responsible for their education. I don’t take that for granted! We also found out that a family of 5 can qualify for free/reduced lunch if they make less than $56,000 a year. Who makes more than that?? How would we ever afford America? Needless to say, we qualify.

Juliana was understandably nervous because even though she attended three years of Chinese preschool/kindergarten and went part time to international school, this is her first school experience in America. I tried to teach her some of the ins and outs.

Me: Do you remember what your teacher’s name is?

Juliana: No, but that’s okay. I can just call her Teacher.

Me: Actually people don’t do that in America.

Juliana: What? Why? You do in China.

Me: I know. In China it is respectful but in America it seems like you forgot the teacher’s name or something.

The other night we had an beginning-of-school dinner at McDonald’s, a month after our end-of-school McDonald’s. As we were eating, Juliana tried to describe a boy she was playing with in the play area.

Juliana: He was...he was... (putting her hands out in front of her stomach)

Juliana (lightbulb moment): He was PUDGY. That’s right, he was pudgy.

Me: Um, Juliana, people in America don’t really like to be called pudgy.

Juliana (perplexed): But I thought we weren’t supposed to call people FAT. I thought pudgy was okay.

Me: Well, people don’t like to be called fat or pudgy.

Juliana (still perplexed): But people say that in China.

Me: I know, but it’s one of those things that is different in America.

Juliana: So...then...What DO you call people?

Me: In America you just don’t talk about people’s weight.

Juliana: Really?!

Me: Really. Ever. Unless maybe you are a doctor.

Juliana: Huh.

There are many things that our little third culture kids have to learn! We are learning as well – how to sign the kids up for school and for free lunch. How pick up and drop off works. What kind of things kids do and learn in American schools.

BUT, we don’t have to decode 30 Chinese classroom WeChat messages a day. When we wait to pick up the kids, nobody stares at us openly or covertly because we look different from every other person around. People actually do things like line up instead of swarm the gates. I don’t feel like an idiot when communicating with the teachers because my command of English is actually quite good.

The girls are not the only kid in the class/school that looks completely different, has a different background, and speaks a different language. They don’t struggle to understand what the teacher is saying or what they are supposed to do. They don’t have to stay silent during lunch… Not that they have disliked Chinese school, but I think they are going to enjoy this time in American school.

Nadia thought it was a little weird not having any sisters around, and she was sad she couldn't go to school too.  But she quickly recovered and will undoubtedly enjoy the extra attention.  She was excited to tell her sisters when they returned about her trip to library story time and the grocery store.

At the end of day 1, Adalyn told us about playing with blocks and what they ate for snack time. This is what pre-K should be about! We asked Juliana, “Do you think you will be friends with (your seatmate)?” Juliana said, in an off handed manner, “Oh, we are already friends!”

So I think we’ll all adjust.

Not TOO sad about her only-child time

Do you miss China?

It is another one of those questions like “How are you adjusting to America?” and “Where are you from?” and “Do you love China?” that leaves me fumbling and confused.  In an eloquent attempt to convey the complexity of my feelings, I typically say something like, “Um, kind of…”

Besides, saying, "No, I don't miss China" is as awkward as saying, "No, I'm not excited about returning to America."  I don't know why - people should be impressed that I'm so content in (or at least unwilling to leave) my current location, wherever that may be.

I told my friend (who lives in China), “I don’t miss China, but I miss our lives in China, if that makes sense.”  She thought it made perfect sense.  

I don’t miss the stares and attention every time we go outside.  I don’t miss the lack of mental healthcare and the general questionable healthcare.  I don’t miss the pressure of knowing we are supposed to be Doing Something Significant and knowing everyone is watching us and thinking how weird we are.  I don’t miss the pollution or the ugly buildings.

But I do miss some things about China.

I miss the relative simplicity.  There is so much less to buy, because we don’t have space for it anyway, and we already have more things than most people around us.

I miss walking and biking and driving our san lun che.  Even though a van is so convenient and much more comfortable, I like being in contact with the world instead of being sealed away.

I miss the roadside peddlers, their big metal drums baking sweet potatoes or their giant walks frying up rice and noodles.  I miss our fruit seller, who was always so happy to see us and gave us bags of free damaged fruit.

I miss the hijabs and the Hui beards and the smiles I associate with them.  I miss the friendly Muslim guys selling flatbread.  I miss learning about the cultures within the culture - Hui, Uighur, Kazakh.  There is a camradere in being the odd ones out.

 I miss Adalyn’s smile she comes out of Chinese kindergarten, holding her teacher’s hand.  I miss how enchanted everyone is with Nadia. I miss seeing Juliana talk easily with her Chinese friends.  I miss her dance class and her international school and her Norwegian best friend.

I miss my own friends.  My city friends have know each other for 7 years, and some countrywide friends for 13 years.  We understand each other because we live the same kind of strange lives.

I miss the Chinese old women dancing every morning in the park, even when it is 15F outside.  I miss the parks and even the crowded buses, because I don’t ride them too often.  I miss Chinese food and all our favorite restaurants.

I miss the mountains and the sunsets on clear days.  I miss fall leaves and spring flowers and winter's frozen lakes.  I miss the familiarity of our two square miles of everyday life.

So yes, I guess I do miss China.  Missing a place is not all or nothing, not pure love or hate; life is never that simple.  I am not ready to return, but I think in another 6 months I will be.  After all, it has become our home.