I neglected to give much detail upon the place I am living and I apologize for that. I will divulge as much info as I can on my village. It is called Yuanqu, in the Shanxai providence, deep within the stomach of China. My village is wedged between towering mountains, they surround us like guardians. I can’t look in any direction without seeing one, on pellucid days I am greeted by the emerald algae and trees on its deep brown body. It’s a very majestic sight in the morning, while I jog having these giants to ogle at. The air is thin, as you come into my village your ears pop to adjust to the altitude. I’m told my village as some of the best air available in China, due to the mountains, which I can believe traveling to a city where the fumes seep into your lungs, forcing you to cough. Most of the roads lunge upwards, especially the main road off my apartment, which I jog up. My apartment is big for it just being me living here, two bedrooms, a front room, dining room, bathroom, and kitchen all to my lonesome. I usually lounge about the other bedroom, or read in the front room with the mountains peeking through my window. My school is a mere five minute walk, bustling, the number of children there is too many to count. Immediately walking there on my first day I was assaulted, stared, and gawked at by all. They love to see foreigners, I imagine cause’ they don’t get many. The building is a bit run down, traditional, but quant. The campus is large, and still expanding. They have courts set up, Ping-Pong tables, and all. My teaching consists of me merely mouthing terms and having them repeat them back at me, and if they are having trouble I gesticulate or form each letter with my lips. It’s not an incredibly difficult job, but it does take practice. At first I spoke to fast and wasn’t engaging enough with the students. The pedagogy fosters much weight to the teacher, housing countless respect, rising as I entered and greeting me before I started my lesson. I try to make my classroom friendly and keep interest alive, while joking and poking fun at myself in the process. It makes me smile to see them want to pursue the west in such a way. It’s such an ideal that they attempt to grasp, the west, and dream of that nostalgia that most living there have already forgotten. I don’t want to be the one to bust their bubble.
There is a market a block away from my apartment and it’s always bustling. All one has to do is pull a seat up and order a bowl of noodles and some meat on stick, roasted near burnt, and seasoned with chili powder and vinegar (they love vinegar by the way, eat it with everything). It’s delicious and as you eat, if you are American, you can expect others to join you, offer you beer, and chat and drink with you, ending up paying your tab usually. My friends and I end up looking for this on the weekends. Also, every day at around 7:30 all the adults come to a square near the same block as the night market and dance, which I found humorous at first. The reason being is that a group of them line up and perform a choreographed ensemble that differs from each song spewing from the loud speakers up above. The movements are so in tune sometimes it’s as though I am watching a music video, as they prance the number to the beat, turn right, then do the same, turn right, and repeat. It’s a sight to see. Other couples are entwined in one on one moves that are also practiced most of the time beforehand. Dances range from Tango to a waltz type of jingle. It’s actually not a bad way to meet others in your neighborhood, but I don’t see the south side of Chicago meeting every day at the same time to socialize with others.
I sat and had Hot Pot today. It’s when you place a large pot in the middle of the table, having your vegetables, meats, tofu, seafood siting outside, with the liquid inside boiling intensely. The liquid is a deep black, mixture of spices, chicken broth, vinegar, while there sits a small white bowl of some type of cinnamon and sharp vinegar and spices. You throw whatever you want into the pot and let it simmer and cook, placing it in your bowl to eat with enough time. I ate this with a nice couple I have been going to frequently, since they know what I want and make some dam good noodles. We eat our fill then the man, who has seen tons, being a ruffian when he was young, begins to explain a little bit of how China works. He breaks down the system they operate on into four, beer, sex, fortune, and ability. A note here, every male in China drinks. I have yet to meet a man who turns down alcohol, which is why my liver will probably rot unless I figure out a good excuse. Yes, China’s beer is light compared to American brew, by 3%, but the way they drink differs. They bring out a cup to each person, filling it to the brim, equally to about a third of the beer, they cheers, Gambai (drink all), and you chug the glass. Here is something of note in this process: China is all about respecting your elders, so when you Gambai someone who is older than you, you must lower your cup to theirs, clinking beneath them to show them respect, and you must finish your cup, or it’s disrespectful. The cups are refilled, and again, Gambai, refilled, Gambai, again, and again, and again. They don’t know the meaning of stop. They want you to need to hobble home clinging to the walls for support. The craziest thing is, no matter what happens, it’s everyone else’s job to forget everything, even if you made a complete ass of yourself, and act as though nothing happened. I have a funny story relating to this that I will tell anyone who asks when I get back. Anyway, the Man bestowing me the knowledge upon Chinese culture informed me that money is the root to everything. The Chinese have a practical, monetary approach to life in a lot of ways. Everything can be weighed, bought, and so that is what is most important to them. When I asked about his views on love, he declared money is the main goal, love is a product of it. “Life is a Dream,” he said, nodding solemnly, his bald skull wrinkled by age. This man has seen many things, I can tell from his eyes, and the way he speaks, booming, erudite, wise. I am getting second hand his musings by the way, my assistant bridging the language barrier for me. The one thing that stuck with me most, “American’s think with the mind, Chinese think with our hearts.” I realize that my mind has always been the ringleader pointing the directions my body should go, but I never acknowledge my heart. I was dumbstruck, how could I miss such a simple thing? I have a new goal now, in order to understand my body, truly know it, I need to know my heart: the main pump bursting energy so I may move and think and live and love. I must listen to my heart. I need to learn its language and allow it its say in my decisions. I will do it. I will know my heart.
