(1/25/07)
But while I’m plagued by a tinge of homesickness, my sickness is of another kind all together: cabin fever. I’ve already touched on this sentiment a few times already – my academic weariness, the small social scene in an already alien setting, and most of all, the endless hours spent in the classroom and on campus. I would venture the assumption I’m not alone in this opinion.
But it’s the reminders that make this experience so bitter – reminders of the world outside that we came here to see. Every time I walk up to the fourth floor of the building in which we have class – a journey I’m required to make three or four times a day – I pass a fragment of a Confucian saying (that I myself studied last semester) displayed on the wall on the second floor. 学而不厌, its meaning something like ‘to study and not grow sick of it’ – an irony that fails to stir my amusement.
In the west, the image of China is a mostly homogenous picture: 1.3 billion people eating the food we know so well from our boxed take-out. Studying China and Chinese had expanded my perception of ‘China,’ but since being here it has become so apparent just how much diversity there actually exists. I can say that almost every restaurant I’ve eaten at has its own unique cuisine, some varying wildly: pineapple rice and fried bananas at a Dai minority restaurant or the spicy tofu and beans from Sichuan.
I spend my free time now reading the Lonely Planet guidebook my program sends us as a gift. People are planning what they’re doing during the break we have for Spring Festival (aka Chinese New Year). One classmate is heading west to Yunnan, a province where over 50% of China’s minority cultures live. It is said the province has every terrain but arctic, and it is known for its beauty and diversity. Another classmate is heading south with her Chinese roommate to Hunan, home of Mao. Another is going to Xi’an in the heart of China – ancient capital and the home of Qin the First Emperor’s tomb, guarded by the terracotta army.
Our classrooms have maps of China, and as I stare at them, the number of places I wish to see and go grows: Yunnan, Xi’an, Sichuan, Huangshan, maybe Xinjiang, and perhaps the most intangible: Tibet. These places call out to me, luring my mind and dreams out of this city, through the veins of rails and unknown roads. I simply long for the ‘fresh’ air and movement.
Last weekend we had a group excursion to see the Great Wall at Mutianyu, on which friends and I spent hours simply walking its length and taking every ‘I can’t help but take it’-photograph. As cliché as it was, the experience was just what I needed after the first and very disappointing week of Beijing j-term. Unfortunately, it was something like taking off a tight shoe for a breather – you find it’s not so easy to put back on.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Sorrow of Separation
(1/23/07)
Week 2 of classes began with an almost epidemic infection of homesickness, dissent, or culture shock -- perhaps the three deadliest plagues for this ship of ours. Before I started preparing to study abroad, I had thought ‘culture shock’ was just something people said as a joke, but the more and more I read I found it to be a very real and frightening prospect.
I suppose my first encounter, and a visceral one at that, with ‘culture shock’ was a play put on by a Chinese student at Midd my freshman year. It was an amalgamation of excerpted works and her own experiences while abroad in Taiwan; fittingly, the show was entitled ‘Culture Shock.’ The most memorable scene of the show for me was the moment of despair, with the actress alone, curled up, lonelily and despairingly asking questions of her distant family.
I would not say I have yet experienced culture shock (though sources say that it can happen up to 3 months after arrival). My feelings of discontent fall under different categories. No, culture shock falls upon others, such as one friend who very frazzled one day confessed that she was thinking of dying her blonde hair because she couldn’t bear the stares or the whispering or – in some cases – photographs.
No, I have not felt the itch of eyes on me, nor have I grown frustrated with any other aspect of life or culture here. In fact, I’ve grown quite comfortable. I know my way around, I don’t mind dodging cars or bicycles, shrugging off touts and merchants; I love drinking the giant bottles of green tea I can find in all the stores, and I’ve even begun a love affair – as many others have – with a particular breakfast ‘sandwich’ you can buy a short walk from the main gate for 1 kuai (a couple of dimes I suppose). It is a piece of bread, a bit like a tortilla in nature, cooked with an egg and smeared with hot sauce and lastly fitted with questionable lettuce. I think I may even like it more than the English muffin I eat almost religiously for breakfast at Midd.
There is a word for the feeling that grips many of us now – not quite the throes of culture shock, but subtle, or perhaps stronger for some, is lichou: 离愁, ‘sorrow of separation.’ I found this word in a poem written by an emperor in exile after his dynasty had been lost. The characters that make up this word are literally ‘separate, away’ and ‘sorrow.’ I’ve always loved this word for sorrow, its literally meaning ‘autumn (秋) of the heart (心).’
Homesickness first crept into me as a I heard a song from last semester, just some small thing that for a moment put me back in a place, happy and at east, and especially with many good friends. Though I very much like my classmates here, it’s the smallest social circle I’ve been in in years, and besides that, there are people I miss in particular. The internet woes and telephone expenses only make the distance that much more real.
Thrown out of the ‘small world’ mentality I’ve grown used to, I find myself imagining travel and adventure of the pre-1990s and deeper times. Distance then must have been tangible, some curtain or wall, some great mass – an ocean or mountain. Distance was a snow-covered pass or a rain-wrecked road; there was only waiting, waiting and words – prayers and poetry. But maybe I romanticize.
Week 2 of classes began with an almost epidemic infection of homesickness, dissent, or culture shock -- perhaps the three deadliest plagues for this ship of ours. Before I started preparing to study abroad, I had thought ‘culture shock’ was just something people said as a joke, but the more and more I read I found it to be a very real and frightening prospect.
I suppose my first encounter, and a visceral one at that, with ‘culture shock’ was a play put on by a Chinese student at Midd my freshman year. It was an amalgamation of excerpted works and her own experiences while abroad in Taiwan; fittingly, the show was entitled ‘Culture Shock.’ The most memorable scene of the show for me was the moment of despair, with the actress alone, curled up, lonelily and despairingly asking questions of her distant family.
I would not say I have yet experienced culture shock (though sources say that it can happen up to 3 months after arrival). My feelings of discontent fall under different categories. No, culture shock falls upon others, such as one friend who very frazzled one day confessed that she was thinking of dying her blonde hair because she couldn’t bear the stares or the whispering or – in some cases – photographs.
No, I have not felt the itch of eyes on me, nor have I grown frustrated with any other aspect of life or culture here. In fact, I’ve grown quite comfortable. I know my way around, I don’t mind dodging cars or bicycles, shrugging off touts and merchants; I love drinking the giant bottles of green tea I can find in all the stores, and I’ve even begun a love affair – as many others have – with a particular breakfast ‘sandwich’ you can buy a short walk from the main gate for 1 kuai (a couple of dimes I suppose). It is a piece of bread, a bit like a tortilla in nature, cooked with an egg and smeared with hot sauce and lastly fitted with questionable lettuce. I think I may even like it more than the English muffin I eat almost religiously for breakfast at Midd.
There is a word for the feeling that grips many of us now – not quite the throes of culture shock, but subtle, or perhaps stronger for some, is lichou: 离愁, ‘sorrow of separation.’ I found this word in a poem written by an emperor in exile after his dynasty had been lost. The characters that make up this word are literally ‘separate, away’ and ‘sorrow.’ I’ve always loved this word for sorrow, its literally meaning ‘autumn (秋) of the heart (心).’
Homesickness first crept into me as a I heard a song from last semester, just some small thing that for a moment put me back in a place, happy and at east, and especially with many good friends. Though I very much like my classmates here, it’s the smallest social circle I’ve been in in years, and besides that, there are people I miss in particular. The internet woes and telephone expenses only make the distance that much more real.
Thrown out of the ‘small world’ mentality I’ve grown used to, I find myself imagining travel and adventure of the pre-1990s and deeper times. Distance then must have been tangible, some curtain or wall, some great mass – an ocean or mountain. Distance was a snow-covered pass or a rain-wrecked road; there was only waiting, waiting and words – prayers and poetry. But maybe I romanticize.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Guanxi
(1/21/07)
One of the most important elements of understanding Chinese culture is understanding guanxi which can be translated as 'connections' or 'relationships.' Guanxi controls business life, brings opportunity, and defines your identity in a way. This cultural facet dates back to ancient times, but now manifests itself in the form of business cards and, as with most events in China, food.
To me it seems that just about everyone has business cards, and it's standard to exchange cards upon meeting someone. Exchanging cards is also a rather important affair here; one must inspect and admire the card (in respect of its owner) before putting it safely away.
A friend of mine, Patrick, has already had his own business cards made in expectation of an interview for summer work. A classmate coming to Beijing from Hangzhou wished he had business cards. I myself have already received business cards and had to offer a piece of paper with my name and cellphone number in exchange.
This story is a rather interesting one and is one of my first experiences of the sort. One night after dinner, I wanted to sit somewhere and have some tea and do my homework in a place other than a dorm's study room. I went to another restaurant, and upon sitting, the owner came and sat with me, effectively ruining my plans, but offering an experience of its own. For maybe an hour or so, we talked somewhat awkwardly -- as I couldn't understand him very well -- about various topics with no real fluidity. Often he wrote down things on the back of old homework pages when I couldn't understand, and sometimes a waitress would linger by and join in or try to clear thing sup. What I think I learned is this, the pieces of which vary as their veracity is concerned:
Gao Guang-mao is from Anhui province, specifically Huangshan, the location of a famous and beautiful mountain. He has some familiarity with Chinese and American history, and has written a book I think the subject of which is Chinese history. He paints, too, and some of his work is also in his book. He only recently opened this restaurant (which serves Anhui cuisine), and before he was a doctor. It was an interesting night, and I have not yet made good on his invitation to return and sit with him again, something that has become a source of some worry to me.
Guanxi, though, has a more mundane side, and that includes family and friends. Arriving in Beijing, we discovered the devastation dealt to the internet, and so my guanxi back in America fall out of touch, but I am happily surprised to be finding such great guanxi here among my classmates, their Chinese roommates, and even a Midd alum.
Studying Chinese at Middlebury has always been a strange experience. The intensity of the program and the difficulty of the language conjures a special bond among the students, and though we may not live together or hang out all the time, we are still a 'band of brothers' of sorts. I've been blessed and happy to find how much I enjoy and (I feel) benefit from being in China with the people I am with.
Middlebury has not failed me in this regard in another instance. Three of us had lunch with an alum, Lila Buckley, and for a couple of hours just talked about her work, about China, and about the life of a foreigner in China. Lila is basically second-in-charge (from my understanding) of a very interesting ngo in China working to proselytize companies and the government to believing in a future of sustainable development. Her work inspires me, and I think it's the kind that now attracts my post-graduation ambitions. It was great just to talk with her about life in a place the three of us students had studied now for so long.
And this is guanxi -- giving, sharing, and relying upon or being relied upon. In China, individuality is not what drives you, it's the opposite -- it's your relationships that define you, and they are thus such a sought-after commodity.
One of the most important elements of understanding Chinese culture is understanding guanxi which can be translated as 'connections' or 'relationships.' Guanxi controls business life, brings opportunity, and defines your identity in a way. This cultural facet dates back to ancient times, but now manifests itself in the form of business cards and, as with most events in China, food.
To me it seems that just about everyone has business cards, and it's standard to exchange cards upon meeting someone. Exchanging cards is also a rather important affair here; one must inspect and admire the card (in respect of its owner) before putting it safely away.
A friend of mine, Patrick, has already had his own business cards made in expectation of an interview for summer work. A classmate coming to Beijing from Hangzhou wished he had business cards. I myself have already received business cards and had to offer a piece of paper with my name and cellphone number in exchange.
This story is a rather interesting one and is one of my first experiences of the sort. One night after dinner, I wanted to sit somewhere and have some tea and do my homework in a place other than a dorm's study room. I went to another restaurant, and upon sitting, the owner came and sat with me, effectively ruining my plans, but offering an experience of its own. For maybe an hour or so, we talked somewhat awkwardly -- as I couldn't understand him very well -- about various topics with no real fluidity. Often he wrote down things on the back of old homework pages when I couldn't understand, and sometimes a waitress would linger by and join in or try to clear thing sup. What I think I learned is this, the pieces of which vary as their veracity is concerned:
Gao Guang-mao is from Anhui province, specifically Huangshan, the location of a famous and beautiful mountain. He has some familiarity with Chinese and American history, and has written a book I think the subject of which is Chinese history. He paints, too, and some of his work is also in his book. He only recently opened this restaurant (which serves Anhui cuisine), and before he was a doctor. It was an interesting night, and I have not yet made good on his invitation to return and sit with him again, something that has become a source of some worry to me.
Guanxi, though, has a more mundane side, and that includes family and friends. Arriving in Beijing, we discovered the devastation dealt to the internet, and so my guanxi back in America fall out of touch, but I am happily surprised to be finding such great guanxi here among my classmates, their Chinese roommates, and even a Midd alum.
Studying Chinese at Middlebury has always been a strange experience. The intensity of the program and the difficulty of the language conjures a special bond among the students, and though we may not live together or hang out all the time, we are still a 'band of brothers' of sorts. I've been blessed and happy to find how much I enjoy and (I feel) benefit from being in China with the people I am with.
Middlebury has not failed me in this regard in another instance. Three of us had lunch with an alum, Lila Buckley, and for a couple of hours just talked about her work, about China, and about the life of a foreigner in China. Lila is basically second-in-charge (from my understanding) of a very interesting ngo in China working to proselytize companies and the government to believing in a future of sustainable development. Her work inspires me, and I think it's the kind that now attracts my post-graduation ambitions. It was great just to talk with her about life in a place the three of us students had studied now for so long.
And this is guanxi -- giving, sharing, and relying upon or being relied upon. In China, individuality is not what drives you, it's the opposite -- it's your relationships that define you, and they are thus such a sought-after commodity.
Acclimation
(1/18/07)
16 hours, 3 strange meals of Japan Airlines' finest in-flight delicacies, and 3 recent theatre-abandoned films later, I touched down in the People's Republic, sometime in the hour between 9 and 10pm locally. I introduce my journey in a manner mimicking The Beach, a film starring Leonardo DiCapprio of debatable quality, nonetheless a favorite of mine. The movie opens with Leo's voice-over measuring the length and time of his flight in units of 'plastic meals' and shitty movies. I couldn't resist.
Leaving the protective seal of the airport, I stepped out into the air of Beijing. It smelt vaguely of lingering firecracker scent, and since then has assumed many more smells: cooked yams (vaguely sweet like sweet potato fries) and a Venetian-canal odor emanating from bathroom doors or sewer vents.
My experiences in Beijing have been mostly experiences of acclimation: not flushing toilet paper, brushing teeth with bottled water, learning public transport, learning local accents, learning names of food, and dealing (or not dealing) with the internet--a result it seems of recent earthquakes off Taiwan, or so we assume.
Just in time for class, I caught a cold which has lasted several days and has already encouraged me to acclimate to another aspect of life on the northern plains: dryness. I don't know that I've drunk so much water and tea in my life. Tea, though, has wholly replaced coffee in my life, as cafes are rare and Starbucks a ridiculousness here in which I can't bear to participate.
Conception of price everyday grows more estranged to my life of before. A cup of coffee at Starbucks costs as much as 2 meals at any decent restaurant, at least. Indeed, I'm quickly acclimating to new prices and values.
These new prices include beer -- served in 1 quart bottles -- for 2 kuai in any local shop (about $.25). Already I'm loathe to pay 15 kuai or more at a bar (about $2) and certainly not 20 to 50 kuai for a cup of coffee).
Surprising to me is the sunshine we've had everyday since being here, and the comfort I feel despite the cold I feared before coming. This, however, could very well be attributed to the long johns and multiple layers I wear almost at all moments outside of showering.
Probably the thing I've least acclimated to is the workload that traps me and that I had hoped so much to leave behind. For almost a year now, I've grown more and more weary with the life of higher education, and intensive Chinese-only experiences (such as this January-term) have driven me to frustration indescribable. I'm in China, in Beijing, discussing Chinese sights, and I'm stuck in a classroom for all but one afternoon a week. There is obviously some acclimation I've yet to accomplish in this regard.
16 hours, 3 strange meals of Japan Airlines' finest in-flight delicacies, and 3 recent theatre-abandoned films later, I touched down in the People's Republic, sometime in the hour between 9 and 10pm locally. I introduce my journey in a manner mimicking The Beach, a film starring Leonardo DiCapprio of debatable quality, nonetheless a favorite of mine. The movie opens with Leo's voice-over measuring the length and time of his flight in units of 'plastic meals' and shitty movies. I couldn't resist.
Leaving the protective seal of the airport, I stepped out into the air of Beijing. It smelt vaguely of lingering firecracker scent, and since then has assumed many more smells: cooked yams (vaguely sweet like sweet potato fries) and a Venetian-canal odor emanating from bathroom doors or sewer vents.
My experiences in Beijing have been mostly experiences of acclimation: not flushing toilet paper, brushing teeth with bottled water, learning public transport, learning local accents, learning names of food, and dealing (or not dealing) with the internet--a result it seems of recent earthquakes off Taiwan, or so we assume.
Just in time for class, I caught a cold which has lasted several days and has already encouraged me to acclimate to another aspect of life on the northern plains: dryness. I don't know that I've drunk so much water and tea in my life. Tea, though, has wholly replaced coffee in my life, as cafes are rare and Starbucks a ridiculousness here in which I can't bear to participate.
Conception of price everyday grows more estranged to my life of before. A cup of coffee at Starbucks costs as much as 2 meals at any decent restaurant, at least. Indeed, I'm quickly acclimating to new prices and values.
These new prices include beer -- served in 1 quart bottles -- for 2 kuai in any local shop (about $.25). Already I'm loathe to pay 15 kuai or more at a bar (about $2) and certainly not 20 to 50 kuai for a cup of coffee).
Surprising to me is the sunshine we've had everyday since being here, and the comfort I feel despite the cold I feared before coming. This, however, could very well be attributed to the long johns and multiple layers I wear almost at all moments outside of showering.
Probably the thing I've least acclimated to is the workload that traps me and that I had hoped so much to leave behind. For almost a year now, I've grown more and more weary with the life of higher education, and intensive Chinese-only experiences (such as this January-term) have driven me to frustration indescribable. I'm in China, in Beijing, discussing Chinese sights, and I'm stuck in a classroom for all but one afternoon a week. There is obviously some acclimation I've yet to accomplish in this regard.
Strangers
(1/16/07)
Beijing is a city of about 13 million, most of which are undoubtedly strangers. With a European face, I am one of the most obvious examples. The Tibetan girls selling jewelry at the nearby underground crosswalk are strangers, too. The young man from the heart of China who sleeps in my room is a stranger as well. We are all strangers, but most of all, I am in particular one in this foreign land -- a novelty and an expectation.
On the subject of strangers, I will first share with you one discovery I've made in the short time I've been in China. All Chinese (language) students get a Chinese name of varying authenticity; mine, Cui Rui-de (seen in red on the banner above), I've been informed twice now is shared by none other than Rett Butler of Gone with the Wind fame: Bai Rui-de.
I could fill an entire book already with what I've encountered in just 7 days that is strange to me, but there is the unexpected strangeness in familiarity and the familiarity in strangeness that is most interesting. Already my life and friends at home and Middlebury seem distant, veiled by time, and now long-gone; already the last thing new seems sweet-tasting with nostalgia. The internet here is virtually useless for anything outside China, and the world behind is only further banished by this.
But present here are ghosts of even older worlds: people and feelings I've not known since this summer: classmates in the same program, a language pledge, and frustration at an insane workload. Some of these ghosts have been in China for a semester already, and it's strange to find their familiar faces present again.
How is that strangeness amid all the strangeness, amid all the strangers? It's familiar. It is all so familiar now.
Beijing is a city of about 13 million, most of which are undoubtedly strangers. With a European face, I am one of the most obvious examples. The Tibetan girls selling jewelry at the nearby underground crosswalk are strangers, too. The young man from the heart of China who sleeps in my room is a stranger as well. We are all strangers, but most of all, I am in particular one in this foreign land -- a novelty and an expectation.
On the subject of strangers, I will first share with you one discovery I've made in the short time I've been in China. All Chinese (language) students get a Chinese name of varying authenticity; mine, Cui Rui-de (seen in red on the banner above), I've been informed twice now is shared by none other than Rett Butler of Gone with the Wind fame: Bai Rui-de.
I could fill an entire book already with what I've encountered in just 7 days that is strange to me, but there is the unexpected strangeness in familiarity and the familiarity in strangeness that is most interesting. Already my life and friends at home and Middlebury seem distant, veiled by time, and now long-gone; already the last thing new seems sweet-tasting with nostalgia. The internet here is virtually useless for anything outside China, and the world behind is only further banished by this.
But present here are ghosts of even older worlds: people and feelings I've not known since this summer: classmates in the same program, a language pledge, and frustration at an insane workload. Some of these ghosts have been in China for a semester already, and it's strange to find their familiar faces present again.
How is that strangeness amid all the strangeness, amid all the strangers? It's familiar. It is all so familiar now.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
The Third Act
Days away from my departure, I feel it's about time to intoduce this blog and my 'adventure.' I say adventure because it is an adventure for me, and it was in this spirit I have named this site "The Wild East," some play on its American antithesis. In my last post I brushed over some of the reasons of why I call China--and I suppose East Asia at large--that. By now, I don't think I have enlighten anyone about the revolution that is modern China of this moment; this hundred years has been called 'China's Century' and it is hard to read the headlines without feeling the tremors from the rise of what Napoleon called the sleeping giant. China is the new land of opportunity, and it thus attracts entrepeneurs and dreamers of all nationalities with the lure of fortune, exoticism, and adventure.
I hope "The Wild East" will not consent to suffer the limits of a travel record, but instead strive to reveal some part of me and some part of China. In doing so, perhaps it will reveal something about the world, the meeting of the East and the West, and our shared future in this fragile century. But enough of this; the dreams belong in China, right? So, in the comfort of Memphis' suburbs, I will lay out the nitty-gritty. Bear with me; this is the introduction to my adventure.
With time to kill before a meeting, I found myself in the library of Middlebury College (as I so often did this past semester), sitting in a large, comfy lazy-boy in the main atrium. Zach, a classmate of mine, had stopped to share anxieties over a looming paper for a shared Chinese literature class. Conversation shifted to China, and Zach said something that struck a chord for me; he said studying abroad in China is the climax of your (a Chinese student, here) college career. And there I sat, a first-semester Junior with seven semesters (2 earned in an extreme summer program at Midd) of Chinese under my belt; Chinese students at Midd pretty much from day 1 expect to go to China, and it had come at last.
But there's another reason I dwell on this. This fall, I took screenwriting with Don Mitchell, who drove into our bones the concept of the Three Act structuture--setup, complication, and resolution. At the end of my first semester of Junior year, I found myself also at the end of my second act: the crisis moment, when all hope seems lost. I had papers and tests and no energy for schoolwork, and I also had no idea how I would make it out of this one. The protagonist somehow finds resolution at this point, though, and makes a decision that leads to the story's climax. The climax (going to China, right?) occurs in the third act. It was just a matter of getting to the next act--or so I told myself.
Well, I made it out alright--at least in screenwriting. And now I'm moving onto my third act which is divided in the following manner. From mid-January to mid-February I will be in Beijing as part of CET's January Term program. This program is strictly a language study program, where I'll be polishing the dust off my modern Chinese (which has deteriorated as I studied ancient Chinese instead in the fall semester). Sometime at the end, there is some time off to enjoy Chinese New Year (technically "Spring Festival") before heading south to Hangzhou.
Hangzhou (pronounced roughly 'hong-jo' in American) is a former capital of ancient China, which Marco Polo described as "beyond dispute the finest and the noblest in the world." Its beauty has earned it a place in a very telling phrase: "上有天堂， 下有苏杭," above there is heaven, below there is Suzhou and Hangzhou. It is here that I will spend my spring semester in the C.V. Starr-Middlebury School in China (partnered with the aforementioned CET) where I will take 'dumbed-down' courses in Chinese (as opposed to Chinese courses)--examples include 'Modern Chinese Literature,' 'Chinese Cinema,' and 'Contemporary Chinese Social Issues' among others. The 1-on-1 course I described before is also part of this program. And then in June, I will be set free to carry out whatever plan I will design to occupy myself until August 15, the date on my return ticket home.
So, sit tight for the third act--it's about to start.
I hope "The Wild East" will not consent to suffer the limits of a travel record, but instead strive to reveal some part of me and some part of China. In doing so, perhaps it will reveal something about the world, the meeting of the East and the West, and our shared future in this fragile century. But enough of this; the dreams belong in China, right? So, in the comfort of Memphis' suburbs, I will lay out the nitty-gritty. Bear with me; this is the introduction to my adventure.
With time to kill before a meeting, I found myself in the library of Middlebury College (as I so often did this past semester), sitting in a large, comfy lazy-boy in the main atrium. Zach, a classmate of mine, had stopped to share anxieties over a looming paper for a shared Chinese literature class. Conversation shifted to China, and Zach said something that struck a chord for me; he said studying abroad in China is the climax of your (a Chinese student, here) college career. And there I sat, a first-semester Junior with seven semesters (2 earned in an extreme summer program at Midd) of Chinese under my belt; Chinese students at Midd pretty much from day 1 expect to go to China, and it had come at last.
But there's another reason I dwell on this. This fall, I took screenwriting with Don Mitchell, who drove into our bones the concept of the Three Act structuture--setup, complication, and resolution. At the end of my first semester of Junior year, I found myself also at the end of my second act: the crisis moment, when all hope seems lost. I had papers and tests and no energy for schoolwork, and I also had no idea how I would make it out of this one. The protagonist somehow finds resolution at this point, though, and makes a decision that leads to the story's climax. The climax (going to China, right?) occurs in the third act. It was just a matter of getting to the next act--or so I told myself.
Well, I made it out alright--at least in screenwriting. And now I'm moving onto my third act which is divided in the following manner. From mid-January to mid-February I will be in Beijing as part of CET's January Term program. This program is strictly a language study program, where I'll be polishing the dust off my modern Chinese (which has deteriorated as I studied ancient Chinese instead in the fall semester). Sometime at the end, there is some time off to enjoy Chinese New Year (technically "Spring Festival") before heading south to Hangzhou.
Hangzhou (pronounced roughly 'hong-jo' in American) is a former capital of ancient China, which Marco Polo described as "beyond dispute the finest and the noblest in the world." Its beauty has earned it a place in a very telling phrase: "上有天堂， 下有苏杭," above there is heaven, below there is Suzhou and Hangzhou. It is here that I will spend my spring semester in the C.V. Starr-Middlebury School in China (partnered with the aforementioned CET) where I will take 'dumbed-down' courses in Chinese (as opposed to Chinese courses)--examples include 'Modern Chinese Literature,' 'Chinese Cinema,' and 'Contemporary Chinese Social Issues' among others. The 1-on-1 course I described before is also part of this program. And then in June, I will be set free to carry out whatever plan I will design to occupy myself until August 15, the date on my return ticket home.
So, sit tight for the third act--it's about to start.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
When I Find You Again, It Will Be in Mountains...
(originally written Nov. 13, 2006)
I promise you this will not be a short entry, and that is all. It will be the first, and it will be lacking in more dimensions than it will be fulfilling. I hope only there will be something told. This part of the story begins with photos...
These are just two examples of photos taken by classmates standing on some mountain in Zhejiang Province, China as the sun rose. Zhejiang Province is on the eastern coast of China, just south of Shanghai, and the Zhejiang capital of Hangzhou hosts the C.V. Starr-Middlebury School in China where I will be spending my spring semester.
Before then, however, I must pass the ever-shorter, ever-darker, last days of autumn in Vermont. When I am done here, I will spend my break in Memphis--home, visiting friends and family and preparing for China. On January 8th, I begin the long journey through the night that lands me in far away lands with inverted time zones—The Wild East. The land of 21st-century opportunity, adventure, and politics. I don’t plan to wear a revolver on my hip, nor a pancho over my shoulder, but a camera and wind-resistant soft-shell might evoke a similar image stepping off the train.
But, for now, there are mountains. I fell in awe, and I fell in love with these pictures. It spurned again in me emotions and sentiments that I had set aside for sometime. They hold in them the orientalism of which I am warned and to which I am drawn. These pictures are proof, though, that there exists some magic and some great, cloudy remnant of the ancient world I have studied for the past few years.
My classmates stayed at a Daoist (Taoist) monastery on this mountain, and I at once recalled a book I had skimmed some this past January in Middlebury. I was taking Elizabeth Morrison's "Food and Eating in Asian Religions" (no, there was not that much eating), in which the professor mentioned in passing a story about Bill Porter (aka Red Pine) searching for hermits in 1989 China. Porter supposedly met a hermit in the mountains that said he was 200-or-something years old, and responding to Porter's surprise, the hermit replied that the foreigner should meet his 400-or-something year old master. Though I've tried to read Road to Heaven: Encounters with Chinese Hermits twice now, I've not discovered this story.
The magic, however, remained. In Hangzhou, one of my classes is a one-on-one class for which I choose a topic, and the staff hires an expert for me. In theory, it’s a very attractive dimension to the program. I decided I wanted to work with what I called “mountain poetry,” tracing the fascination of traditional Chinese culture with mountains through traditional Chinese poetry. Throughout my study of Chinese literature, mountains have pervaded works as holy places, referenced literally as divine altars as well as the more symbolic use by poets in their “in search of a sage, but unable to find him, I write this…” poetry.
From time to time, I find myself bored from work in the library, searching the Chinese poetry section. I had at the time, a nagging lure to read a bit of the most famous of “mountain poets,” Hanshan—Cold Mountain. But on the shelf, my scanning eyes fell about a handwritten spine “When I Find You…” This was a homemade hardback in which they sheath paperbacks. Cracking it, I found the true cover: an ink painting of misty Chinese mountains stretching tall, stained an emerald green. The true title was When I Find You Again It Will Be in Mountains: Selected Poems of Chia Tao (pinyin: Jia Dao). After repeated visits, I at last found this ‘monk-poet’s’ title work.
SEEING OFF A MAN OF THE TAO
When I find you again,
it will be in mountains;
this morning, I lose you
once more to farewell.
Free of attachment
in heart and mind
is it why you can go
ten thousand li alone
to places with such
little human warmth,
where, when you meet someone,
they speak an ancient tongue?
Traveling without disciples,
you have only
a white dog
for company.
Though I’m certain you will hear from me again before there are mountains, we still have farewell—for now.
I promise you this will not be a short entry, and that is all. It will be the first, and it will be lacking in more dimensions than it will be fulfilling. I hope only there will be something told. This part of the story begins with photos...
These are just two examples of photos taken by classmates standing on some mountain in Zhejiang Province, China as the sun rose. Zhejiang Province is on the eastern coast of China, just south of Shanghai, and the Zhejiang capital of Hangzhou hosts the C.V. Starr-Middlebury School in China where I will be spending my spring semester.
Before then, however, I must pass the ever-shorter, ever-darker, last days of autumn in Vermont. When I am done here, I will spend my break in Memphis--home, visiting friends and family and preparing for China. On January 8th, I begin the long journey through the night that lands me in far away lands with inverted time zones—The Wild East. The land of 21st-century opportunity, adventure, and politics. I don’t plan to wear a revolver on my hip, nor a pancho over my shoulder, but a camera and wind-resistant soft-shell might evoke a similar image stepping off the train.
But, for now, there are mountains. I fell in awe, and I fell in love with these pictures. It spurned again in me emotions and sentiments that I had set aside for sometime. They hold in them the orientalism of which I am warned and to which I am drawn. These pictures are proof, though, that there exists some magic and some great, cloudy remnant of the ancient world I have studied for the past few years.
My classmates stayed at a Daoist (Taoist) monastery on this mountain, and I at once recalled a book I had skimmed some this past January in Middlebury. I was taking Elizabeth Morrison's "Food and Eating in Asian Religions" (no, there was not that much eating), in which the professor mentioned in passing a story about Bill Porter (aka Red Pine) searching for hermits in 1989 China. Porter supposedly met a hermit in the mountains that said he was 200-or-something years old, and responding to Porter's surprise, the hermit replied that the foreigner should meet his 400-or-something year old master. Though I've tried to read Road to Heaven: Encounters with Chinese Hermits twice now, I've not discovered this story.
The magic, however, remained. In Hangzhou, one of my classes is a one-on-one class for which I choose a topic, and the staff hires an expert for me. In theory, it’s a very attractive dimension to the program. I decided I wanted to work with what I called “mountain poetry,” tracing the fascination of traditional Chinese culture with mountains through traditional Chinese poetry. Throughout my study of Chinese literature, mountains have pervaded works as holy places, referenced literally as divine altars as well as the more symbolic use by poets in their “in search of a sage, but unable to find him, I write this…” poetry.
From time to time, I find myself bored from work in the library, searching the Chinese poetry section. I had at the time, a nagging lure to read a bit of the most famous of “mountain poets,” Hanshan—Cold Mountain. But on the shelf, my scanning eyes fell about a handwritten spine “When I Find You…” This was a homemade hardback in which they sheath paperbacks. Cracking it, I found the true cover: an ink painting of misty Chinese mountains stretching tall, stained an emerald green. The true title was When I Find You Again It Will Be in Mountains: Selected Poems of Chia Tao (pinyin: Jia Dao). After repeated visits, I at last found this ‘monk-poet’s’ title work.
SEEING OFF A MAN OF THE TAO
When I find you again,
it will be in mountains;
this morning, I lose you
once more to farewell.
Free of attachment
in heart and mind
is it why you can go
ten thousand li alone
to places with such
little human warmth,
where, when you meet someone,
they speak an ancient tongue?
Traveling without disciples,
you have only
a white dog
for company.
Though I’m certain you will hear from me again before there are mountains, we still have farewell—for now.
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