难过 and 过了 （sadness and getting through)

China, for me, has a perpetual, essential sort of sadness that permeates everything in the countryside.

There is a sense, especially when a Chinese person finally gets close to you and starts opening up, that people here have a lot of difficult things that they deal with and have to keep hidden. And so I think the earth, building and streets start breathing sadness instead.

I’ve had a number of students already ask for leave to see doctors for various surgeries and conditions. It is not as easy to be open about having a disease here. The U.S. is sometimes rough for sure, but here, students often won’t even tell their close friends that they are suffering from a serious chronic illness. A chronic illness can prevent people from getting the job they want, and word about it will spread like wildfire on a college campus. A few people have opened up to me about their illnesses because I am foreign and they know we have different standards about such things. To suffer from an illness and not be able to ask for the support of your friends seems crazy. As does the number of 20 year old students in this small population that I've already found out are dealing with some chronic disease.

That doesn’t begin to talk about the sadness of young women who have given up playing basketball because they are girls. They now sit on the sidelines and watch the handsome boys make the shots instead. Or the sadness of young women who are afraid to be outspoken in class because they believe that the men really are smarter. Or the sadness of the young men and women working on the streets serving all the young students street food because they never graduated high school or never passed the Gao Kao (the College Entrance Examination). Or the sadness of the man old enough to be my grandfather who sells fruit on the corner and who probably has his whole life and probably will for the rest of his life.

Then there is the sadness that you feel when you walk out on the streets in Taigu. It is written in the dust, the faded plaster on the houses, the lines on people’s foreheads, the tired way the waitresses toss the dishwater out on the street, and in the wobbly slow way the bicycles make their way down the street. Beth and I talked about both having felt it—this common sadness that seems have a presence all over the countryside.

And the Chinese version of "sadness," like many emotional words in Chinese, is much more specific than its equivalent in English. The usual translation in Chinese is 难过 （nanguo) which literally means hard going or hard to go through. That is the kind of sadness that permeates everything here.

But then, as clear and present as the sadness is the persistence, calm, acceptance and even joy in the face of it all. People continue, people 过了. People don’t seem to complain about their work, they just do it. Women don’t complain much about their status, they just keep doing their studying and all the things they are allowed to do. And there isn’t a student who isn’t proud of China. Their faith in their people and country, in spite of their knowledge of fraud mines causing mudslides into villages, failed milk that has poisoned children, and knowing first hand of all the poor people still struggling in the countryside, is incredibly strong. Even my friends struggling with illness, who sometimes explain to me their frustration with Chinese cultural norms, continue to impress me with their pride in their country. There is a patriotism and faith in family and country here that is stronger than anything I’ve met in the U.S. It’s pretty incredible.

And then there’s the friendliness here. The average American would not think to be half as friendly as the ordinary Taigu person is to us. In spite of the stares and comments about us wherever we go, I feel really welcomed and completely safe here (well except maybe from the traffic). People here are by and in large honestly curious and really tolerant of our differences from them. I find that I can sooth any stare with a friendly smile. I’m so grateful that smiles and laughter are international. I’m really good at those. And they are accepting of me playing basketball with the young men (I even got a few of my female students to join me), of me as a teacher, of me talking with the storekeepers and ordinary folk on the street. There’s an interesting line that I walk that has them viewing me with something between tolerance or respect, between viewing me as just crazy or acceptable. I rather like it actually. And I’m pretty grateful the people here allow me to walk it. It’s a privilege I’m willing to accept.

I have also realized that part of what drew me to the people in China this ability—this extraordinary ability to face a country and history of sadness and continue to smile and hold their heads up. I’m still always amazed. Our young, proud country could learn a lot from these people.