How to help people struggling after the Yushu Earthqake

Recently, a beautiful place called Yushu, home to some of my dear friends, was hit by a serious earthquake that has destroyed over 70% of the buildings in the area and killed over 600 people and injured over 10,000.

Yushu is a beautiful place up in the mountains in Qinghai Province, China (at about the elevation of Lhasa). Its population is about 90% Tibetan and mostly very poor. I spent 2 weeks this last summer under the hospitality of some of the loveliest people I've met abroad.

(These pictures are of Yushu and some friends before the earthquake.)

And now I'm worried for their lives. I haven't heard from them yet. Phone lines are all down.

But right now, what the survivors really need is food, water, shelter and warm blankets (which are having trouble getting there because of the altitude and isolation of the area).

PLEASE HELP: I have found a few grassroots organizations that foreigners (aka. us) can donate to that I would trust with being efficient and trusted by the locals:

The Tibetan Village Project

Machick

If you can donate, any small amount would be appreciated. Also, please pass on this information to others who you think would be interested in donating and helping out.

Thank you so much for your help.

Sincerely,
Anne

Little acts of kindness

I can’t imagine coming here as a tourist. My opinions of people here would be radically different. As a local in this small town, people see a foreigner and they don’t have the experience to think—oh this person has lots of money, lets see how many ways I can get their money from them. I have almost never had that experience in here in rural Taigu, and have been surprised when it happens in touristy towns, where people yell at you to buy everything in sight and charge you twice the price the locals pay.
There was one time in Beijing where I had heard a Chinese roommate bought pineapples for 5 yuan and was determined to buy one myself. But when I asked a vendor how much a pineapple was, he told me it was 5 yuan for one pineapple. As an innocent, freshly-arrived American, I was furious that he would lie to me. I yelled at him that someone had bought two for 5 yuan just down the street and stormed off. Luckily for me I’m not very good at yelling, and my angry Chinese just tends to sound like clearer, louder, carefully enunciated Chinese. He probably thought I was just bargaining, so he yelled at me as I walked away, “Okay, Okay, 5 yuan for 2, 5 yuan for 2.” I turned around and went back to him and got my pineapple. The other vendors around him were twittering and giggling. “You are a China expert, huh?” the vendor said. I didn’t feel like a China expert at all. He had looked at my face and tried to cheat me because of it. That I knew it was wrong didn’t make me a China expert.

But here in this small farm town, people haven’t met enough foreigners to think of such things. Vendors, (besides the traditional three wheeled carts that go around selling soymilk or porridge or other specialties with a loudspeaker yelling out their product a muffled, thickly accented voice) don’t yell at anyone in this town. We get treated exactly the same, if not better than other locals. We get charged the same as everyone else, and in fact, some restaurants, if we often frequent them, give us free appetizers, like a dish of roasted peanuts or a discount on the bill.

Strange that some American customs, like saying thank you after buying, or forgetting to bargain or question the seller about the accuracy of their scale or their calculations of the price come off as us being rather polite. I’ve had vegetable vendors mutter to themselves as I left their surprise at my courtesy. Perhaps our hesitant Chinese is somewhat endearing too. It makes our alien-looking faces seem more human.

The number of times the people have proved their honesty and care for us are just uncountable. People always ask if you miss home and have you adjusted to the food here, and don’t your parents miss you, and isn’t America much better than China anyway? (This is their way of showing their concern for you being homesick, far away from home, etc.)

And then there are those random little acts of kindness. I had one fruit seller run after me with the extra yuan I accidentally gave him. Another seller of porridge and soy milk held my change at the side of the booth (they were serving other people) until my friend reminded me I had forgotten to take it and I ran back. More often, I forget to bring change or enough cash to buy fruit or make copies for class. Every time, the vendor would tell me (because I often go to the same vendors), “don’t worry about it, you can pay next time.” So I would. Or sometimes, because I made so many copies, I wouldn’t have enough to print a couple extra pages and they’d just tell me don’t worry about it. It’s really a tiny amount, but that a vendor knows you well enough that they will let you not pay for some things is quite admirable.

I’ve gotten really attached to some of the vendors here. One lady who owns a small mom-and-pop store with her husband has tried to learn all of the names of all the foreigners (to no avail—she often forgets or mixes up our names). But we all forgive her forgetfulness because she’s so sweet to us. People always ask me why I take so long buying flour and rice and really it’s cause the owner of the shop is so happily talkative.

I cant tell sometimes if people are so nice because they feel bad that we are so far away from home, or because they want us to think well of china, or they are just curious and figure that talking with us is a way to understand us better. Or maybe people are just plain friendly here. Who knows. Whatever the reason, I'm really grateful for it.
It's like that sweet smile from the milk-tea lady that keeps me happy all day.

Suicide hits taigu

Last week a boy threw himself off the top of Building Number 4 at 10:40pm.

They brought him to the hospital but he was already dead.

We found out the next day, when Gerald told us a student of his asked for permission to miss class, because he was going to see a roommate in the hospital. Gerald was confused, because none of his students were missing.

Then, we heard that it was a first year English major. I was jolted. I had taught first years last semester, but they had been switched to Dave this semester. Dave was sure it was his other class that had had Nick the semester before. So we waited to hear. Dave prepared himself to talk with Nick's former class, but it turned out that it wasn’t that class either. I suppose we all put off thinking about it over the weekend until Dave had my former class on Monday.

Last night he told me. We were in the middle of German party—a lighthearted gathering of students and foreign teachers that happens every Monday at our only German teacher’s house. Dave motioned to me in the middle of the party. I had seen Bryce, another first year in that class, come in, but had just casually said hello to him without really looking at his face. Suddenly, looking at Dave, standing next to Bryce, I noticed how red Bryce’s eyes were. “That student who jumped was Leo,” Dave said solemnly to me. I held onto the couch next to me as the names of my former students rushed through my head. I assumed it had been the student who I had criticized for copying in his journal and who I had given the lowest grade to, but no, that was Mark, not Leo. Leo...Leo had been the best student in that class, the one who always participated and always knew the answers to everything. “Jesus.” Was all I managed to say. Dave nodded, “I didn’t see that coming at all.” He replied. I could only agree with a silent nod.

I moved closer to Dave and Bryce. Bryce had never been a star student, but he had always had a good attitude and was eager to participate, usually in ways that made the rest of the class burst into laughter. He was one of those students that could always get a joke in, even when he was unsure of the English he was using. It was unnerving to see him looking so hopeless and sad. Bryce was trying to explain to Dave with mixed Chinese and English (and the help of another English major whose English was a little better) what he knew.

They thought it was family pressure. His family was very poor. “He was from Taiyuan,” Bryce began in Chinese with his reddened eyes glistening with tears he wouldn’t let fall, and choked up a little, “His father sold fruit.” He tried again in English. “They were poor.” English seemed to provide a reason for him to concentrate on something besides whatever was eating him inside and although his English wasn’t very good, his voice was calmer. A combination of his English and the female student’s translation of his Chinese words brought the story together: Leo’s family couldn’t afford the tuition. They had to borrow money and take out loans. He had a lot of pressure. He was always studying and working hard. Dave asked if they were roommates. Bryce explained that Leo had been roomed with some others in another class. “We didn’t know what he was thinking. We don’t really know what happened.”

Dave and I both told Bryce that if he needed to talk, or if any of the other students wanted to talk about it, we were there for them. I told Bryce in Chinese I had a had a good friend from High School who had killed himself at college, and, as my Chinese broke up into incomplete sentences, tried to explain, generally, that I understood it was really hard to loose someone and that I wanted to be there for them all. He replied that he recently had lost an elementary school friend the same way. This friend had been married for just 49 days before he took his own life. Two friends in a month. I couldn’t believe it. All I could do was put my hand on his shoulder and try to make some sort of facial expression that showed I was sorry. The appropriate response was beyond what I knew how to say in Chinese or English.

The female student who was helping Bryce finally said she couldn’t deal with this topic any more. Her stomach was hurting. So we tried to turn the subject to something more light-hearted. I don’t remember exactly what we were talking about, I just remember trying to laugh and smile for Bryce’s sake. He seemed eager to change topics. But while they were talking all I could think of was Leo. His friendly round face and bright eyes, his funny voice that always had the right English word ready, how he was the only student who understood everything I was saying, how he had dedicated his journal to me, his “favorite foreign English teacher” (I was his first foreign English teacher).

Suddenly the anonymous student-who-had-jumped-off-building-4 had a face. A face I cared about. My stomach destroyed itself as visions of the loneliness and desperation Leo must have felt before jumping rushed through me, and I tried not to look horrified as an image of his broken body being found on the ground ran unwittingly through my head.

I had gotten really attached to that class because I was their first foreign teacher and they were all so enthusiastic and sweet. I had them write in journals too, and their honesty about their troubles and thoughts made them seem more like younger siblings than students. Bryce finally went to sit with some Chinese friends on the couch and I was left standing with Dave and some students who weren’t ours. My face must have been easy to read, because Dave seemed concerned. He seemed to try to justify that I could take it harder: “You had them a whole semester; you knew them longer than I did.” And then a pause, “Are you going to be okay?” I couldn’t deal with such an honest question directed at me. “Eventually.” I replied. But as he put an arm around me, I couldn’t hold it in, and I ran into the bathroom.

Daniel followed me in, and held me while I cried for a while. I couldn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. He knew how hard I had taken the suicide of my high school boyfriend in my senior year of Oberlin. I had no idea how I would react to another suicide. When I had found out about that High school friend’s death, the news was also a week late and I had also been at a party. But it seemed that initially, now ,as it was then, it was all the same visceral upset—uncontrollable tears and uncontrollable thoughts.

I, of course, ended up leaving the party early. And as I moved from the darkness of Dave’s room into the bright and active living room, I tried to walk quickly, briefly tapping my friend Lynn on the head as I left, telling her I was going now. She responded that she would go with me, and as I passed many concerned faces watching me, I hoped they wouldn’t see how swollen my eyes were.

Outside she asked, “Are you okay?”

Again I couldn’t keep it in, “No.” I replied, and burst into sobs.

“He was my student.” I told her, as though that could explain everything. She looked at me, concerned.

“He was the best student in that class.” But that didn’t seem to explain things for either of us either. I told her that he had a lot of pressure from home, that his parents were really poor and had to borrow money.

“But that isn’t a reason either,” she replied. “He should be able to pay back his loans much later.”

I nodded. “I guess we don’t really know why.” I answered.

“Just too much pressure.”

I nodded. This was the simple answer I have heard given for almost all the suicides I’ve heard about in China. I think I still don't really know what it means.

Dust storms: There is a yellowing glaze between me and the house beyond mine

I just realized that I haven't even talked about the pollution here on this blog yet.

From my window, everything is glazed over with dust. Most of it is on the glass, but the color outside is drab too.

Let's just put it this way, normally when you step outside the gates of our campus, you can see the mountains that are about a 20 minute bike-ride away. Today you can see nothing but a grayish-yellow white. Heck, you can barely see the flaming, ugly steel mill that is about a 5 minute bike-ride away.

There's no wind today, not the way it was a couple days ago, when even all the street vendors packed up and went home early because the blowing of the sand was so severe that you couldn't walk straight into the wind without being blinded. We came back home from dinner tasting the a thin layer of sand on our lips, and I had to stand in front of the mirror for a minute just dusting the sand out of the corners of my eyes and eye lashes.

In our house, dust came through the cracks in our windows and doors and coated our floors, tables, chairs and beds with a thin layer. (Not that this is anything unusual--leave our house uncleaned for a week and it will also accumulate a clear layer of sand, soot, and coal dust mixture. But that layer is accumulated in a day with a dust storm.)

They call these phenomenon "dust storms." They happen a lot in the spring when the wind starts to blow, and the soil of Inner Mongolia other northern provinces (including Shanxi) is literally blown off the ground and into the air. South Korea and Japan both blame China for the yellow dust that blows into their countries too.

My Chinese teacher, a professor of about 30 years, said that when he was a child in Taigu, he only remembers one or two sandstorms in the whole of his young childhood. He said that it must have been unusual, because he remembers, as a young boy, being amazed at one rare time, when, during the day time, the sun looked green because of all the dust blowing in front of it. But now, he explained, they are very common in the spring. This is probably as a combination of the destruction of grasslands and forests in Northern China. After over 4000 of years of human habitation, the area is finally a desert.

Not to say the sand storms are the only cause of pollution in Shanxi. Shanxi is known for it's coal mining, and industry. Taiyuan, the capital of our province, used to be one of the 20 most polluted cities in the world in 2007. And although it has cleaned up its act a bit, now, the most polluted city in the world according to some sources is Lingfen, about 200 km away from our little town.

When I first came to this province I was amazed at the number of people I saw with disabilities of some sort. I couldn't figure out if it was because America just has fewer people and so the likelihood of seeing someone a disability is less, or because there were actually more people with disabilities in China. However, it turns out it is not just a Chinese phenomenon, this is a phenomenon especially unique to Shanxi. Shanxi's rate of birth defects is 6 times higher than China's national average. Now whether this mainly of poor healthcare or pollution is debatable. But I would argue it is certainly some combination of the two.

It's strange to live in a place where this much pollution is normal. I, myself have almost become used to a grey haze over everything. Although, like the locals here, am relieved when the putrid smell permeating the campus is that of the local specialty vinegar rather than that of burning trash or strange fumes from the hazy air. I tend to believe that if the sky directly above me is a little blue, even if I can't quite make out the horizon, I am safe to go for a run outside. In fact, many of my students have told me the campus air is much better than the air outside because there are many trees on campus. (Interesting logic when the campus walls are about 10 feet high.) But these days, the basketball courts and the two tracks on campus, normally filled with people, are pretty empty. Dust storms are not taken lightly here. And the cold in our throats and noses that we blamed each other for spreading may turn out to be just a reaction to the air...

About my Aunt, Adoption, Registered Residence, Orphanages and Girl children in China

I've always liked my aunt in Beijing (she's actually my grandfather's nephew's wife, but let's call her aunt for simplicity's sake--that's what I call her in Chinese for the same reason), but I discovered the other day some more reason's why.

She told me she could help me find some jobs in China after my fellowship is done, and when I asked her what kind of jobs, she showed me a series of international NGOs in Beijing and Shanghai. They encompassed everything from Rotary in China to an organization in Shanghai that helps educate and better prepare teachers working in isolated, poorly supplied, rural mountain towns, to an organization that helps orphans and other disadvantaged children have more opportunities. I was very interested and very impressed.

With the organization helping children, my aunt has more personal experience, because it was through this organization that she and her husband decided to help Chenrong, a now 17-year-old orphan from Guizhou. They have a son of their own, but they clearly wanted to mean something in another child’s life too. Originally they just sent Chenrong money to help with her studies. But when she finished middle school and was forced to start looking at jobs because she couldn't afford to go onto High School, they changed their approach. They decided they would bring her to Beijing to live with them and finish her studies there. So she has been living here with them for the past 3 years and attending a very nice girls boarding school in the Southern part of Beijing.

ADOPTION IN CHINA

Now, to give a little background, you cannot legally adopt a child in China if you already have one because of the One Child Policy. (Don't ask me why, I have yet to find someone who can explain it to me too.) So my aunt and uncle seem to have "adopted" Chenrong in all ways except legally. She lives at their house, and they pay for her schooling. And, more significantly, every time I saw this aunt and Chenrong together it was clear that the girl had found a mother-figure and a dear friend in my aunt.

The first time I met Chenrong in 2007, she had just arrived in Beijing and she was a slender, quiet girl who seemed quite intimidated by my loud Chinese family. She was a darker complexion than my other cousins and quite pretty. I remember how she watched her surroundings with gentle, dark eyes that carried a seriousness and awareness of everything that made her seem much older than her age. At the restaurant surrounded by us, her body seemed to disappear into the couch and blend in with my aunt, who was, even then, sitting proud, concerned and protective by her side. Even then it was clear that the two of them from now on would be inseparable. I met up with them 2 years later in 2009, and I remember how the two of them would babble and giggle together in the back seat of my uncle's car like two young playmates. Although Chenrong had a bedroom of her own, my aunt told me that sometimes the girl was lonely and scared at night, so the two of them would share the big guest bedroom bed, which was usually reserved for grandparents when they visited.

COLLEGE TESTING BASED ON YOUR REGISTERED RESIDENCE

Chenrong is now back in Guizhou because she wants to take the gaokao, the College Entrance Examination that is required for all Chinese High School seniors. Chinese people all have a hukou, which is a sort of residence permit that comes from where they were born and where their parents are from. You must take the gaokao where your hukou is from, so Chenrong decided to go back to Guizhou for the year to prepare for the test there.

The reasoning behind the testing where your hukou is from is that each place is given a different test. So places like Beijing, where the schools are better, have harder tests, while poorer provinces like Guizhou are given easier tests. Minority ethnicities (like the Tibetans, Mongolians, Manchurians, Naxi, Yi people, etc.) are given a certain number of extra points, because the assumption is that Mandarin is not their first language. I suppose the idea is similar to affirmative action. Except that I have also heard that students who test in Beijing are given some extra points to assure that they have an advantage in going to a University in their home city. So, yes, the effectiveness of this affirmative action is debatable...

ORPHANS IN CHINA

I asked my aunt and uncle about orphanages in China, and told them that it seemed that a lot of Americans were adopting Chinese children. They explained that the orphanages in the big cities like Beijing, Shanghai and Kunming had quite a bit of money. "A lot, a LOT of money" my aunt emphasized. But many of the orphanages in the countryside had nothing. I told them I though foreigners should adopt from those orphanages instead. They explained that they can't, because the Chinese government won't let foreigners see the ones in the countryside. The orphanages, like where Chenrong comes from, aren't "clean" enough.

All this talk of orphanages made my aunt bring out some pictures of when they first took in Chenrong, and some other pictures of other orphans who had come to Beijing for fun, through the same organization that had introduced them to Chenrong, for Chinese New Year. Chenrong's boarding room at the orphanage where she sullenly posed didn't seem unclean. It wasn't large, but it certainly wasn't inhumane. They asked, somewhat jokingly, if I would be interested in going to Guizhou to see the orphanage. I told them emphatically yes, I would love to. They seemed a little surprised, but pleasantly so.

There were many other pictures of little girls and boys posing with a few Americans who had also come, through the organization. 3 of the children had stayed at my aunt and uncles house. She pointed them out to me in the pictures:

"This little boy," she pointed to an adorable little boy grinning broadly with his arm around a young American man "Is also from Guizhou, from a different orphanage than Chenrong. He stayed with us. His father used to beat his mother and so one day his mother killed the father."

My uncle tried to add to the story, but my aunt wouldn't let him.

"His mother is now in jail and this little boy is at the orphanage."

"This little girl," she pointed to a girl shyly looking at the camera as she stood by herself to the side of a group of other children gathered with their arms around a foreigner, "also stayed with us. She was a sweet girl. Her father didn't want her. Especially after her younger brother arrived," She looked at me to see if I understood why. She didn't seem satisfied with my reaction, so she continued, "Because rural families don't want girls. He didn't want her, and so her mother killed their father. Her mother was given a life sentence"

Here, my uncle successfully intervened and helped translate "life sentence" into English.

My aunt continued, "After, her mother was put in jail, the little brother died. Her father was killed, her mother's in jail and her little brother is dead. Now she has no one." She looked at the picture again. "We mostly took pictures of the kids who stayed with us." She paused while looking at the girl's face, "She really was a good girl."

The next picture had the third child who stayed with them, another little girl.

"She was one of three sisters. Her father didn't want them. Any of them," she said, not really hiding her bitterness.

"Girls aren't wanted," she explained, "because they just grow up and get married off.”

“When I was little,” she continued, “I wasn’t able to sit at the dinner table with the others. I would have to wait until they were finished. My little brother was allowed to eat with guests, but I had to eat in the kitchen. Even when my parents met my husband, I wasn’t allowed to sit with them at the table.”

I couldn’t think of any reaction to this. I could merely sit and wonder at this woman’s resiliency—her ability to admit how girls aren’t valued enough in China, and yet to become a successful business partner with her husband anyway and adopt a girl daughter when it was illegal to have a second child.

Myself, I am the only child of the eldest son of the eldest son of the eldest son. In China I would have been quite the disappointment, being the final ending of our family name along the most important branch. But in America, I never knew. Perhaps my grandfather was a little disappointed at first, but he never let on. Especially with my grandmother’s liberalism, and when it turned out that I was the only granddaughter they would have. I ended up growing up in my Chinese side of the family feeling special because I was the youngest and the only girl. Perhaps this is why I look up to the women in my Chinese family—I have always associated Chinese women with strength and importance.

My Great Aunt Pearl

I always thought I would get oral histories from my Chinese family here too. But the idea of "oral history" doesn't really exist here. And there's a different way of remembering when a lot of what you remember are tough times.

When I ask her if she has written down some of her stories, Great Aunt Pearl says she’d rather be happy now in life. She’d rather have people bring her food and gifts now than wait until she’s dead and gone. What will those things be worth to her then? When I’m dead, that’s it, she says.
She’s like my Granny who passed away a year and half ago. Except her body matches her gutsy mind. She just had surgery and she’s not infected and dying like both grandmothers did. She lies on her bed and when we need help, she pulls herself up, tells her Parkinson’s-forgetful husband not to bother, and shows us what to do. She admits she’s in pain, but she remains the strong and independent woman she’s always been. Her doctor told her not to do the operation without asking her children first—after all it was they who would have to care for her, he said. But she said no, she would decide to have it and hire a helper herself. Hiring help was something my grandparents could never agree to and so it’s my father who is unemployed and commuting once a week to take care of my grandfather. Strange that he’s the one in America.
Sometimes I do get stories from Aunt Pearl though. She told me this time that when my grandfather left China, even though they were in the same city at the time, she didn’t know he had gone until he was in Hong Kong. It was too dangerous for her to know, my grandfather would say.

So my grandfather snuck into Hong Kong in 1950 and then applied for scholarships to study Engineering abroad. He was accepted by Cornell University and met my grandmother there.

He didn't see his sister or the rest of his Chinese family again until 1979.

Finding roots in China

When I lived in the U.S. I never really identified much with being part-Chinese. It was as though a quarter-blood and two generations later was not enough to claim a likeness. Sure, I knew my father's father was from China (山东，济南）, but I didn't realize that he looked different from other people's grandparents until my classmates pointed it out to me in Third Grade. I didn't even realize that he had an accent until my classmate from college tried to imitate the way he talked. I knew my grandmother was born in China too, to missionary parents. Maybe that was why I didn't think anything of my grandfather's face being American--faces say nothing about where you come from.

But I remember how my tallit (a special shawl that Jewish people where once they become adults in the Jewish community) was made by my mother out of silk she brought back from China, how most of my friends in High School were either born in China or Taiwan or their parents were, and how we always had at least 3 Chinese trinkets on our shelves for the 1 American or other country's trinket. And yet, that's just how it was--somehow it never fully registered. I felt bad writing on applications that I was mixed ethnically, because it felt like 1/4 just wasn't enough to claim I wasn't white. Sure, sometimes people asked where I was from and would ask again even after I told them I was from Boston, and friends have outright told me I look "exotic" (not my favorite comment by the way). But nobody could peg me as part-Asian. If I hung out with my Chinese American friends at a restaurant, I would be the one stared at by everyone else in the restaurant. It was as though I could feel their question shooting out their eyes, "What's that White girl doing with all those Chinese girls?"

But now, after coming to China and seeing my grandfather's sister in Beijing and his little brother in Jinan, and all of their children and children's children, I will never ever question that I'm part-Chinese.

Living in rural Shanxi has given me a whole new perspective. For the first time in my life, people ask me as soon as they meet me, "Why do you look Asian?" I hear arguments behind me as I walk down the street. Within the first week that I was here, the store owners just outside of the campus were discussing and one asked me, "What are you? Foreign or Chinese?"

One young man told me that the first time he saw me playing badminton, he said to his friend, "why does she look so foreign?" The friend replied, laughing, "Because she IS foreign."

When I tell people here that my father's father is from Shandong, they are so proud. "Chinese people trace their ancestry by their fathers," said one taxi cab driver, "that means you're 60% Chinese."

If I'm not with other foreigners can sometimes get away with pretending I am Chinese until they ask. Especially on trains with dim lighting and with older men who don't see very well or don't inspect you very closely. On trains people seem more unsure, because I say excuse me in Chinese and have started mumbling to myself in my second language. Even when I pull out an English book and start reading, I've still had people ask me, "Where are you from?" instead of "What country are you from?" because, as they will explain to me after I reassure them that I'm foreign, "I wasn't sure if you were Chinese." A couple of times an older man has babbled to me in Mandarin (usually in a very thick accent) about this or that for about 10 minutes before realizing. This is somewhat common, because older men and women are quite respected by the younger and they know if they would like to talk and give advice, young people are a safe and (at least superficially) attentive audience. And who better to talk with than a young woman who is rather quiet but seems to be listening intently with lots of smiles and nods. (My giggle is a blessing and a curse, as my friends have figured out that a giggle doesn't mean I know what they're saying, it means I'm watching other Chinese smile around them or it means I'm completely lost.) And so goes this one way conversation with this older man: him telling me what he thinks about this or that and me smiling and nodding, struggling to understand his thick country-side accent and wondering how I can gracefully insert into the conversation that actually, I am a foreigner and could he please speak a little slower? Eventually, a younger man sitting across from me, who has been watching me intently the whole time, asks me where I'm from and I am given a moment of silence in the conversation in which to tell the truth. Then the older man turns his head toward me and inspects my face as if wondering why he still didn't see "AMERICAN" written in Neon letters across my forehead before. He nods and settles back into the stiff seat and conversation, asking me how I adjusted coming back to China after being in America for so long. The young man across from me looks with soft, dark eyes at my face and then back to the old man, seemingly shrugging at the whole situation with his gaze.

I continue to be questioned by people. Many have asked if I am from XinJiang (the large Northwestern Province of China where Turks and Kazakhs are common) because of my deep-set and lighter-colored eyes. The other day at the subway stop in Beijing I started chatting with some vendors by the parking lot while I waited for my cousin dad's cousin to pick me up. Within the first few sentences of the conversation, one of the young men leaned forward and peered at me through the dark: "你是什么民族？“　"What ethnicity are you?" As soon as I explained that I wasn't a Chinese ethnicity, I was an American, it took them (as it takes many people) a minute to register:
"But you speak standard Mandarin..."
"You are very pretty..."
"You have pretty Mandarin."

And then as it sunk in that I was a real American who could speak Chinese I was bombarded with the usual questions we get every day here:
"How did you learn Chinese?"
"How long have you been living here?"
"Which place is better?"
"What is America like?"
"How many Yuan to a Dollar?"
At which point, my cousin arrived, observed what was happening, motioned to me (with the same emphasis that grabbing my arm and pulling me would have had), and we left quickly with me shouting out a polite goodbye! ...

But really, I think knowing and having family and close friends in China makes me far more Chinese than any sort of thing I've inherited from my blood. When a Chinese friend, Bobby, told me, you now know enough about Chinese people to kill a Chinese, I was horrified.
"What does that mean?!" Lynn, another Chinese friend, and I exclaimed at the same time.
He explained that it meant that I knew the subtleties of face, of culture enough so I could hurt a Chinese person very deeply if I wanted to.
"But she would never want to!" Lynn exclaimed.
"But I wouldn't want to!" I echoed.
"True," he accepted, "but what I mean is that Anne has become very Chinese herself."
I couldn't completely disagree with that. Taigu had changed the way I interacted with people a lot, and I found myself acting "Chinese" in ways that surprised strangers I met and made my foreign co-workers laugh.
"If you stay here for a few more years," he told me, "you will know everything about Chinese culture and people."
I wasn't sure what that meant, or how I could possibly know everything in a few more years, and since I had become at least that Chinese, I certainly wasn't going to accept the complement and instead I proceeded to insist it certainly wasn't true. But I was secretly complemented that he thought I could understand something about Chinese people.

I myself have often doubted that I'm actually understanding Chinese people and culture better considering how much I still ask myself "did I just do something wrong?" after seeing things play out not exactly as I had planned...but it is reassuring to hear that at least my friends thought I understood something.

I've had other friends follow the comment, "You are more Chinese than the other foreigners" with, "you should marry a Chinese man."
"...Or" they add as though giving me a little more leeway, "a half-Chinese man."

I smile and laugh politely at this. It's kind of a funny statement when, when by definition, I'm not even half-Chinese myself.