Creepy Ditch

Every Thursday afternoon I go to Creepy Ditch.  No easy task.  The van bumps and seesaws over 10 cm deep canyons in the road, jostling the packed occupants.  (China has officially cured me of car sickness -- I can now read anywhere.)  The traffic is thick and chaotic.  After almost two months of this, I've become numb to daily near-collisions and my heat-rate barely rises.  It's when the entire car goes berserk -- screaming a torrent of Mandarin two octaves above normal -- that I get afraid.  That's only happened once.  After rough highways and the maze of downtown Taiyuan, we move to the outskirts of the city.  The alleys become narrower, there are fewer shops and more garbage.  Heaps of wrappers and plastic bags marinate in sewage.  Feral cats and dogs grub through the mess, hopeful for a snack.  Then we turn left here, make a right, another left, and at last we're there.  Creepy Ditch.

 

It is anything but creepy.  I'm greeted by a pack of kids dangling on the gate bars.  They are happy and loud.  I can't tell if they're excited because we're there or because it is recesses, and suspect it's a little of both.  About four of them give us an official welcome as we enter the gate.  Usually they wear red handkerchiefs tied around their arms, heads or necks.

 

Suddenly, Jingle Bells blasts from the loudspeaker and the students stampede to their classrooms.  That means it's time to start.  I find my room, take a breathe, and go in.  They all greet me.  The timid ones steal a glance and then turn to giggle with friends; the bold ones shout a hearty "Hallo!" and wave furiously.  I'm glad I have a Chinese-speaking helper to keep order.  By myself, it'd be like trying to pick up oily marbles with chopsticks.  After calming them down I begin the lesson.  It's important to exaggerate everything (which I'm good at): it makes them laugh and understand you more.  By the end I'm smeared in chalk dust.

 

I love Creepy Ditch.  I will really miss these kids.

 

[Picture: four of my 4th graders]

Peek-a-boo

Reputation is everything.  If you come to China, you'll find that out.  They call it "having face," and it's entrenched in the culture.  The government does it, your neighbor does it, your twin sister does it.  I'm reminded every time I ride into town.  Crowning the heights above Yangqu, and prominent from the highway, is a temple.  It is three stories of red grandeur -- an impressive pagoda.  There's only one thing: it's a shell.  There is nothing inside.  It's merely a stage set.  Apparently the country got a face lift for the Beijing Olympics, and backwater Yangqu wasn't overlooked.  This would be like Milford erecting a 10 meter high George Washington statue if the Olympics came to Chicago.

 

At the people level, it's all about respect.  They will never criticize you, and you better not criticize them.  You also can't get angry.  Life is very passive aggressive here.

 

This idea of face isn't completely foreign to Americans.  Not at all.  Take for instance Facebook.  There you can manipulate your image ad nauseam (but remember to keep close surveillance on your wall and untag awkward pics).  Then there are blogs -- the ultimate way to Photoshop your life.  Plus on the street we have fashion, parlance, Starbucks and Macs.  Image is everything.  The difference is that Americans like to HAVE face, but few are careful to GIVE face to others.

(Aside: obviously I'm not completely against Facebook and blogs.  They connect people, which is good.)

 

Does God have face?  Yes.  One theme running through the Old Testament is the Name of the Lord.  God saves his people (and sometimes punishes) so that everyone will fear and glorify his Name.  I recently read Daniel 9:15-19, which talks about this.  It's in the New Testament too.  I read Luke 11:5-13 the other day.  There are probably better examples, but that's what came to mind.

 

Does God give face?  Yes -- in Jesus.  The perfect example of God giving us face.

 

I thought this was an apt post to include my picture.  Notice that I chose a decent one.

 

Sometimes I forget

I heard my alarm this morning; it was going off somewhere in China.  Then I opened my eyes and saw it blinking at me.  So I reached over and flicked it off with my hand.  I got out of bed and walked across the room, using both my legs.  My stomach didn't hurt, and I didn't even have a headache.  I exercised.  I read.  I ate.  I studied.  It's been a good day so far.

Striders

People walk differently here.  At home I see herds of legs swinging in confusion.  There is no order, just dizzy limbs on the move.  But here, here it is different.  Close friends look like close friends.  They synchronize, whole lines of them.  Four girls walking in step, shoulder to shoulder, exuding camaraderie, blending into a single new organism that was born for laughter.  It reminds me of a graduation ceremony.  They're even wearing matching school uniforms -- white and blue windbreakers.  They march, like in a parade.

 

Why?  Maybe it's because they're the same height.  They see eye to eye.  Maybe it's because they're going the same direction and the same pace.  Whatever it is, it's no accident -- I've seen them.  They file through gaps between idling cars and kiosks, then stutter-step to restore solidarity.  I've seem them.  Even on bikes, I've seen them.  They pair up and hold each other's handlebars.

 

It makes me happy.  And then it makes me sad.  I think about where most of them are going, hand-in-hand, and my stomach tightens.  Few are Christians.  I still can't give directions in Chinese.

 

A kid and a king

"And then, and then Stand, and then we have to drop the bombs on them before they shoot us.  And, can I tell you something, Stand, we have green core energy."

 

Sixty feet below us rests a pool.  The drop is sheer.  The valley's dehydrated walls are bare.  Slabs of compacted dirt clutch the cliff face, waiting in the sun, waiting for gravity to take notice.  Some trees grow here, though I don't know where they find water.  It's all down there, in that pool.  Up ahead the trail keeps following the rim of the gorge.  Mountains rise along it's left, flanking the path between steep inclines.  It is picturesque.

 

"Hold your fire men.  Roger, Roger.  Ok and, and FIRE!"

 

Two rock-hard dirt clods fall from on high.  One shatters against the ground, reduced to a cloud of dust -- a staccato death.  The other makes the pool.  Mine didn't make the pool.

 

"Stand, can I tell you something, Stand, and then we have to get back to base."

 

I am Stand.  He is Collin Stern.  Faint freckles, a spontaneous mess of hair.  This kid is 100 percent six years old.  He is the playwright of his life -- in total control of every bullet wound, castle storming and alien attack.  Total control of everything, everything except reality.  He is also the youngest.  Collin knows of life's injustice.

 

I can relate.  I am not in control here.  And I like escaping too: in books and, today, a hike with my biggest fan.

 

More Culture

About once a week it happens.  Some unremarkable stretch of pavement gets the royal treatment.  A red carpet unrolls, masking the ubiquitous Yangqu dust.  A red canopy rises.  This is capped by a banner -- red cloth, white lettering, bold font.  And then there are the girls.  About 16 of them form two sides of a tunnel; all wear traditional dresses that are, you guessed it, red.  Each rank is armed with cymbals, which they use.  All day, in fact.  The cadences are often unoriginal, but attention grabbing, and thus effective.  If this weren't enough, it gets better.  Nothing in China is done without fireworks.  The musicians retreat, and the street is enveloped in a gunpowder rant that would make even Crazy Kaplan take cover.  This frenzied eruption lasts a quarter of an hour.  Then back to our cymbal serenade from 16 girls, who by now are quite deaf.

 

Why this exhibition?  Advertising.  It's often some grand opening or anniversary.

 

I went by one the other day (and beat them in who-wants-to-be-the-most-exciting-spectacle).  Up close, I noticed something missing: smiles.  These girls were bored.  All this pageantry, all this gaiety; all pretend.  I certainly don't blame them -- I'd be bored too.  But it made me think: do we sometimes do this as Christians?  We put on our costumes, set off our particular brand of fireworks, clang on cue, and we're even clever enough to fake a smile.  But we're not really celebrating, we're advertising.  It's just cosmetic joy.
 

Thawing at last

I'm used to South Bend springs.  The calendar is spangled with dazzling warmth surrounded by depression.  In one day the perma-cloud lifts and the sun ignites, leaving no choice but to cast off homework and outer layers and play.  This is followed by more stretches of gloom interspersed with joy.  And eventually, spring wins.

 

Here, we recover from winter like recovering from a wound.  Slow, steady.  Unnoticed.  You don't consciously acknowledge the new season, you just gradually forget about the old.

 

One of my friends here is an Aussie.  They don't even have winter.