I sort of forgot about how much I love receiving stuff from home until yesterday. My mom sent me a letter over a month ago and a small package about 2 weeks ago and I picked them both up yesterday. The package smelled like cinnamon and chocolate and home. I've grown deeply attached to the USPS flat rate box. Its presence means presents. And tasty treats. And sweet little notes written on everything. Thank you, Mom and Ozzie. You guys are so thoughtful.
If you ever feel like stopping by to say hi, or want to send a little letter or package my way, please feel free to do so using the address below. You need to use both the Chinese and the English, so it's probably easiest to just copy and paste the below into a word document and print it out. Bonus cookies if you copy it by hand :)
重庆市渝北空港桃源大道1000号
Erin Aldrich / An Xue
1000 Tao Yuan Avenue
Konggang Yubei Dist.
Chongqing China 401120
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Comfort for all
Perhaps the point of all of this is redefining comfort. Not just for myself, but for my students, my colleagues, the vendors I buy fruit from, the ladies who sweep the stairs, the guards who patrol the halls, even the people I casually pass on the street. Of course I’m going to feel uncomfortable, being the foreigner. I’m going to flounder through language mistakes and get off at the wrong bus stop and drop chopsticks and sweat buckets and go through innumerable awkward moments - hours, even. That’s a given. But pushing the comfort levels of other people, the people who live here, simply by being present? I never expected that.
The window of my apartment overlooks the main hub of campus, right by the cafeteria and the track, where just about every single student passes every day. I can watch the campus thrive from here. I see students walking to class, chatting with one another, teasing each other, bouncing a basket ball back and forth, jogging to class late. I see them from here and they look perfectly content, going about their business. Then I leave my apartment and walk down the stairs and join them, adding myself to the mix, and the whole scene goes to pot. The basketballs stop bouncing, the teasing ceases, the jogger’s step falters.
A little wake of discomfort follows me everywhere I go. Last week, at my favorite noodle shop, I heard the waiters arguing over who was going to help me. They weren’t arguing because they both wanted to take my order, they were arguing because neither of them wanted to. This was the first time it hit me. I make people uncomfortable for no other reason than being foreign. I’ve since been back several times and, though they’re very friendly, there’s always a hint of tension in the air, not just from the staff, but from the other customers, too. Like I might burst into flames at any moment, right in front of their eyes, so they better keep glancing over as not to miss anything.
I wonder if Chinese people who go to America feel disappointed when they arrive and no one stares at them, nor shouts “ni hao!” at them every few minutes. Diversity is one of America’s greatest strengths and something I’ve been taking for granted my entire life. At what point does a person, or a group of people, become comfortable with being around someone who does not have the same traits as them, to the degree that skin tone becomes invisible, hair color melts away, and blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes all have the same exact function? I’m looking forward to the day when the scene outside my window will not be spoiled by my presence, and the waiters won’t think twice about jotting down my jaozi order, and everyone can just be themselves.
The window of my apartment overlooks the main hub of campus, right by the cafeteria and the track, where just about every single student passes every day. I can watch the campus thrive from here. I see students walking to class, chatting with one another, teasing each other, bouncing a basket ball back and forth, jogging to class late. I see them from here and they look perfectly content, going about their business. Then I leave my apartment and walk down the stairs and join them, adding myself to the mix, and the whole scene goes to pot. The basketballs stop bouncing, the teasing ceases, the jogger’s step falters.
A little wake of discomfort follows me everywhere I go. Last week, at my favorite noodle shop, I heard the waiters arguing over who was going to help me. They weren’t arguing because they both wanted to take my order, they were arguing because neither of them wanted to. This was the first time it hit me. I make people uncomfortable for no other reason than being foreign. I’ve since been back several times and, though they’re very friendly, there’s always a hint of tension in the air, not just from the staff, but from the other customers, too. Like I might burst into flames at any moment, right in front of their eyes, so they better keep glancing over as not to miss anything.
I wonder if Chinese people who go to America feel disappointed when they arrive and no one stares at them, nor shouts “ni hao!” at them every few minutes. Diversity is one of America’s greatest strengths and something I’ve been taking for granted my entire life. At what point does a person, or a group of people, become comfortable with being around someone who does not have the same traits as them, to the degree that skin tone becomes invisible, hair color melts away, and blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes all have the same exact function? I’m looking forward to the day when the scene outside my window will not be spoiled by my presence, and the waiters won’t think twice about jotting down my jaozi order, and everyone can just be themselves.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
I'm lovin' it
It started about a year ago, with one innocent visit. I was with a friend in Bucharest and she decided to get a coffee at Starbucks. I was just going to go in and look around and chuckle at how the chain really does not vary in appearance no matter where in the world you are, but then I decided oh what the heck, and bought a coffee for myself. 19 lei worth. It brought back a lot of memories. Good memories. Coffee shop memories. Non-Starbucks coffee shop memories.
We sat at a table with comfy chairs and chatted, warming our hands around our mugs, just like I used to do at my old favorite coffee shops. Up until then, I hadn’t had a Starbucks coffee in a very long time. Years. Up until then, I had done a very decent job of cutting a company I had somewhere along the line deemed unworthy out of my life. That’s where it started. Or, you could say, that’s where it ended. At a Starbucks in Bucharest, my long-term avoidance of corporate America and fast food nation ended.
What followed was a sad downward spiral into some of the horrible places I had taken measures to avoid for years. Dinner at Pizza Hut, followed by a McFlurry at Mickey D’s. Wake up to a scone and a latte at Starbucks. Repeat. I soothed my feelings of treachery by telling myself it was only while I was in Bucharest, which was once every other month or so. But a nagging guilt tainted each sip and every bite. I remember the first few times I went abroad and snorted at the other American tourists eating in places like TGI Friday’s or Ruby Tuesdays or McDonald’s. Why on earth travel if those are the places you are going to eat? Silly American tourists.
Back then it never would have occurred to me that maybe those Americans weren’t tourists. Maybe they lived there and maybe that was their occasional treat to themselves. A treat that made them feel guilty and weak and ashamed, but gave them a few glimpses of a comfortable place far, far away. It might not be the restaurant or the coffee shop they would have picked if they were in America, but because it’s the only option for something some-what familiar, they went with it. To those American diners who I snorted at years ago, I am sorry.
And now that not one, but two Starbucks shops are only an hour-long bus ride away, tempting me every day I have off, I have to put myself in check and rationalize the glee I’ve started feeling every time I know that a Starbucks is near. There is a part of me that still, deeply and possibly irrationally, dislikes the chain and I will never go to a Starbucks in America. I will spend the extra 30 minutes and dollar to hunt down a local coffee shop. That’s because those local coffee shops exist in America, where here, Starbucks is the coffee monopoly and I have not found another option that provides both decent coffee and a comfortable place to drink it. The day I find Chongqing’s version of Bibo, I will be there in a heart beat, thankful for no longer having to feel the guilt I now associate with drinking coffee, a habit I have found impossible to shake.
All of this has been coming about in my head because there’s a WalMart in Chongqing. It’s only 15 minutes away from my campus. I’m going there tomorrow and, this is the worst thing I’ve ever said in my life, I’m excited about it. I’m excited to go to WalMart. Good gracious, what has happened to me? It’s such a strange feeling, being excited about going to a place that I loathe. Starbucks is one thing, but WalMart? I am a horrible let-down of a human being. A traitor no longer eligible for the title semi-cool. Good night.
We sat at a table with comfy chairs and chatted, warming our hands around our mugs, just like I used to do at my old favorite coffee shops. Up until then, I hadn’t had a Starbucks coffee in a very long time. Years. Up until then, I had done a very decent job of cutting a company I had somewhere along the line deemed unworthy out of my life. That’s where it started. Or, you could say, that’s where it ended. At a Starbucks in Bucharest, my long-term avoidance of corporate America and fast food nation ended.
What followed was a sad downward spiral into some of the horrible places I had taken measures to avoid for years. Dinner at Pizza Hut, followed by a McFlurry at Mickey D’s. Wake up to a scone and a latte at Starbucks. Repeat. I soothed my feelings of treachery by telling myself it was only while I was in Bucharest, which was once every other month or so. But a nagging guilt tainted each sip and every bite. I remember the first few times I went abroad and snorted at the other American tourists eating in places like TGI Friday’s or Ruby Tuesdays or McDonald’s. Why on earth travel if those are the places you are going to eat? Silly American tourists.
Back then it never would have occurred to me that maybe those Americans weren’t tourists. Maybe they lived there and maybe that was their occasional treat to themselves. A treat that made them feel guilty and weak and ashamed, but gave them a few glimpses of a comfortable place far, far away. It might not be the restaurant or the coffee shop they would have picked if they were in America, but because it’s the only option for something some-what familiar, they went with it. To those American diners who I snorted at years ago, I am sorry.
And now that not one, but two Starbucks shops are only an hour-long bus ride away, tempting me every day I have off, I have to put myself in check and rationalize the glee I’ve started feeling every time I know that a Starbucks is near. There is a part of me that still, deeply and possibly irrationally, dislikes the chain and I will never go to a Starbucks in America. I will spend the extra 30 minutes and dollar to hunt down a local coffee shop. That’s because those local coffee shops exist in America, where here, Starbucks is the coffee monopoly and I have not found another option that provides both decent coffee and a comfortable place to drink it. The day I find Chongqing’s version of Bibo, I will be there in a heart beat, thankful for no longer having to feel the guilt I now associate with drinking coffee, a habit I have found impossible to shake.
All of this has been coming about in my head because there’s a WalMart in Chongqing. It’s only 15 minutes away from my campus. I’m going there tomorrow and, this is the worst thing I’ve ever said in my life, I’m excited about it. I’m excited to go to WalMart. Good gracious, what has happened to me? It’s such a strange feeling, being excited about going to a place that I loathe. Starbucks is one thing, but WalMart? I am a horrible let-down of a human being. A traitor no longer eligible for the title semi-cool. Good night.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Messy
What does it take before a person’s life is considered a mess? Is it generally addiction related, relationship related, incompetence related, or what? If a person knew only the following things about me and nothing else, what would the conclusions be? I’m just shy of 30 and rarely live in one place for more than a year. I haven’t held down a full time job for more than a year and a half and have had a smattering of random part time jobs. I have two bachelor’s degrees, neither of which I’m actually putting to use, both of which took me seven years to earn. Most of my closest friends I see less than once a year and I often forget to wish them a happy birthday or a merry Christmas. My mom has been taking care of my dog for the past 10 years and I kind of question my ability to properly care for a pet anymore. My little brothers are more used to talking to me on a computer than in person. I have zero savings, no house, no car, no career, no marriage, no kids, no nothing. All I’ve accumulated are experiences and gigabytes upon gigabytes of pictures. To some, I’m sure, my life is a mess. I’ve never thought about it until today, for some reason. I’ve never thought about what it takes to consider a person’s life a mess. I don’t know quite yet if I should label this life of mine a mess, or just a convoluted maze. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told I’m young and have all the time in the world to figure things out, but some day not too far away, people are going to stop saying that, and all the time in the world will start to run short.
I start teaching full time tomorrow and I damn well better like it.
I start teaching full time tomorrow and I damn well better like it.
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