I really dislike laowai blogs … Laowai blogs are ceaselessly self-promoting. The laowai blogger will surreptitiously hint at his Chinese linguistic powers; he will analyze why China, in a word, is not America; he has the money to dine and drink at high-end bars, but those events never make the blog. Instead, he expounds on the occasional ground-breaking (and probably one-sided) conversation with a local taxi driver concerning China’s cultural superiority over The West. Bloggers have the power that was never granted to previous generations of writers and commentators; anonymity of experience, selection of detail, regurgitation of uncertified knowledge, and image-sculpting priveleges comparable to those of Donatello (I say privelege as opposed to abilites; you will surely read more about this conflict later).

So that’s what we’d call finding one’s voice, awkwardly. I couldn’t write a blog post without getting all twisted about sounding too much of anything. I guess you could say that over a long period of time, I shed that self-consciousness, as I’ve realized that there are many people out there who also enjoy reading about China regardless of who the writer is.

I’m not writing this blog anymore because I have a new job and a new life and have subsequently lost the interest. You can see some of my new writings on Seeing Red in China, where I post once a week or so. In the meantime, keep sharing your own China stories, and reading other’s. Never stop questioning, and don’t be afraid to have an opinion.

And no, I am not leaving China. Not for a long time.

I admit I at first brushed off the request. I got my start on Chinese lit via my college’s curriculum, and then kept it up by regularly visiting the book store and library in China. Between graduating from college and maintaining an intellectual edge while living in China, I swam around a bit. I felt overwhelmed by the amount I did not know about China and subsequently despaired a little, complaining to other expats how I felt like I could just never learn enough. Then my more enlightened, older expat friend took me to the local second-hand book shops and showed me how he went about it. Books on sale are cheap, and any book is a learning opportunity, so why discriminate?

I spent a total of 10 RMB ($1-2 USD) every time I went to the book store, and came back with more books than I could carry. I also hit up my friends’ book shelves and the local library. I now have a book shelf  full of uncompleted books. But no need to despair! I take them down and read them at ease, reminding myself that since they are written in Chinese, it is better to be patient and read at my own pace rather than expecting to finish it all at once.

So that is exactly what I recommend if you live in China. If you speak any level of Chinese, you should definitely be trying to read in Chinese. As for specific books, let’s see…

I started with laowai [expat] literature. Rachel Dewoskin (whose father owns Deloitte) wrote about being a white female caricature on Chinese TV in the 1990s in Foreign Babes in Bejiing; Michael Meyers wrote about ancient Beijing’s last breath before the Olympics in The Last Days of Old Beijing; and Peter Hesslerhas a series of acclaimed books. Some expat literature I recommend over others, though will refrain from being too critical here as it can depend on where you are in your China-journey. I found expat lit to be engaging and learned quite a lot before coming to China. After living here for a stint and learning the language, expat lit started to be repetitive and unoriginal. Admittedly it is really hard to write expat lit because you are writing for an audience at home — generally, not other expats. Either way, good expat lit (do your research) is worth checking out for an introduction to China.

Chinese lit everyone should know: the classics, the modern pre-Mao’s, and the post-Mao’s. Like all cultures, China has its big-hitter classics that, if you don’t enjoy per se because they are old and clunky, are at least useful for understanding cultural references (like knowing basic stories from the Bible, or Grimm brothers’ fairy tales). These include Journey to the West 西游记, Water Margin 水浒传，Romance of the Three Kingdoms 三国志，The Plum in the Golden Vase 金瓶梅，and of course Dream of Red Chambers 红楼梦. And finally, get yourself a book of Tang poetry 唐诗 to at least say you’ve given it a shot. The Tang dynasty was an incredible culturally rich time in Chinese history, a China I feel I barely know now, and it never fails to impress me. Though I don’t know how well it reads in English.

Modern pre-Mao, including a lot of “May Fourth” literature (lit from the 1920s and 30s that was part of China’s opening up to outside ideas). I’m partial to the essays of Hu Shi 胡适 and the short-stories of Lu Xun 鲁迅。These should be manageable in Chinese for people who have been learning for just a few years.

Post-Mao literature: occupies a special place in my heart. The website Today! 《今天》represents a lit magazine that was very popular in Beijing immediately after the fall of the Cultural Revolution (late 1970s). Many of its writers were exiled in the 80s, and they regrouped abroad to start up the magazine again. They have archives on that website that has poems, essays, and short stories from back when, and also up-to-date stuff of course. I’m partial to Bei Dao, whom I befriended this past year, who was previously nominated for the Nobel Prize in literature. He and his cohort wrote The Decade of the 1970s 《七十年代》， released in 2008, which is a delightful conglomeration of their personal stories. He also wrote The City Gates Open《城门开》, about growing up in Beijing, which won the Hong Kong Book Prize in 2011.

Of course I am partial to Bei Dao and there remains many others. The blog Paper Republic is an excellent, up-to-date website on contemporary Chinese literature. And finally, the poet Xi Chuan 西川 is a name that people should know. His blog is delightful, mainly because he himself is a delightful person and an excellent poet. Lucas Klein has done several translations for him and I enjoy them quite a bit, even if I am more partial to prose.

 This is only a small, very small list of recommendations. Please reply and leave your own recommendations as you wish. I hope that it helps and the expats of China go raid their corner bookstores, and China-lovers abroad likewise raid their local Amazon. As I said in my first post in 2010, happy reading — 好好儿读啊～

It seems like a no-brainer: if you want to be a China scholar, you read books written by Chinese authors. Essentially, it is just that simple. After all, could any non-Brit ever claim to be a scholar of English studies if she had never read a page of Shakespeare? Never heard of Chaucer or JK Rowling? One can imagine the bemused smirk she would receive from a British acquaintance once he realizes that she harbors, at best, a fleeting interest in English culture.

And yet Chinese literature among expats and China-watchers is largely relegated to elitism, to the current and future Chinese PhD’s. Like reading in America — and surely many other cultures — reading is a leisurely pursuit for scholars, not a uniquely human experience (and even if it is, who cares? So is Youtube and Facebook).

Without getting into why reading is so totally awesome in general, I will explain why reading Chinese literature (novels, poetry, even blogs) is an opportunity for China-watchers that is criminal to miss.

Unlike in American culture [and many others], Chinese still respect reading. When I’ve talked with Chinese friends and acquaintances about Chinese books, the responses are generally interesting. They tend to blow right past the banal “Your Chinese is so good!” and go right into the discussion of the author himself. “Yes, Lu Xun writes beautifully, have you his Diary of a Madman?” — “Gu Cheng is crazy! But in high school we all memorized his one poem about seeing through the darkness. You know, the one about the Cultural Revolution?” — “Bei Dao was definitely politically motivated, it’s undeniable!”

Granted, most of the responses are tainted by Chinese-style interpretation: ancient texts are admirable but bring up memories of primary school tests; political dissident writers are “troublesome,” but ultimately interesting to anyone with a “troublesome” inclinations (in my opinion, the most interesting people to speak with). I’ve received the memorable response, “We weren’t allowed to read Hu Shi in primary school because he was ‘too Western,’ but if you say he’s so good, I’ll take a look.”

And yet China’s didactic form of education has simultaneously instilled in Chinese students an awe for literary giants. In a culture in which critical thinking is tragically absent, teachers have imparted one positive message: that literature has been an essential element of Chinese history.

Many will argue that Chinese youth these days aren’t interested in literature, that they are too consumed with internet memes and brand-name cars to see the value in a book.

I concur.

Professors and writers who went to Chinese college in the 80s have told me how the studs on campus just had to write a poem to get the girls swooning; today, writing a poem would be considered passe, childish, or simply useless — a relic of bygone days when it was acceptable to hope for a democratic China (pre-Tiananmen), or very-bygone days in which the ability to write poetry was the essential prerequisite for a government position. Indeed, literature and politics entwine the caduceus that has pointed China through its historical progression for as long as records show — 5,000 years, I’ve heard.

Discussing Chinese literature is the easiest, most succinct way of answering every laowai-directed question. It cuts past the inferior yardsticks of “how long has this person lived in China?”, “were they a Chinese major?”, “are they dating a Chinese person?” and instead replies: my Chinese is quite good, and not only is it good, but I can appreciate and enjoy the language for something besides a tool for winning game shows. It shows that I see something of great value in Chinese language and culture — something so valuable that I am willing to undertake the tedious job of reading a novel [or short story, poem, blog], which has no tangible results, no HSK score, no presence in an interview, no slot on the resume, no friendship waiting to be formed. It is moreover a highly personal success as well as a gateway to all of the above. And if you need all your successes to be measurable and airable, and therefore do not take stock in reading literature, then I suggest a moment of psychoanalytic reflection (or Prozac).

Books offer an unbridled, uncensored view of a Chinese world. It is complete exposure of the language (as well as a cast of characters) to you and you alone, to be consumed and understood at your own speed. A book will never tell you that “You can never understand China, you foreigner;” a book will make very clear to you how good your Chinese is, and furthermore give you the opportunity to improve. It will show you how well you understand Chinese culture, and then enhance your understanding. It will never, ever tell you no, and it will never tell you that your cultural differences are “certainly too great to overcome.”

There is a lot of really good Chinese literature. Millennia of it from which to choose. If the old stuff’s too hard, start with writers from the 80s. Or start with popular blogs. Start somewhere in which you won’t pull a muscle. Strengthen until you can climb a mountain. And then you can tell everyone else down below how great the view is from up top. Because really, it’s breathtaking.

As my days in Nanjing are now numbered, I’ve been testing myself for signs of nostalgia. Two days ago I took a friend to all the big sites in Nanjing: Fuzi Miao, Sun Yat Sen’s Mausoleum, Xuanwu Lake, and Zhonghuamen City Wall. It was nice, but I feel the same as I always have felt about Nanjing; that it is a bit subdued, even a bit 平淡 (dull, flat).

I saw this tourism video made by the Nanjing government that sparked about a hundred debates in my head. It’s called “Dating with you in Nanjing,” though the Chinese title literally reads “My Date with Nanjing”:《我与南京有个约会》. It’s short, so take a look:

Youku (in Mainland China): http://v.youku.com/v_show/id_XNDAyMjE2NDE2.html

Youtube (Free World): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a2nKH4yLaSE

The first thing I notice — and let’s not get into a discussion about why — is that a white Frenchman chases a pretty Chinese girl. The second thing I notice is that the Frenchman does not speak Chinese, but the Chinese girl does speak English — and seemingly pretty well, as the Frenchman is speaking with native ease.

Given that we are in the midst of a campaign against foreigners (particularly white foreign men) in China, my next question was about the production date. It was put online ten days ago, so Saturday, May 26, pretty much in the heat of the anti-foreign hubbub (the British man assaulted a Chinese girl in Beijing on May 8, sparking the campaign). It is pleasantly ironic, therefore, that the Nanjing government went ahead with airing this commercial despite the nation-wide (albeit Beijing-centered) battle on illegal foreign residents (which has more or less taken the form of police randomly asking to see a foreigner’s residence permit and then charging him/her if it is not on hand).

Of course the Frenchman does not “get” the Chinese girl, but she does appear quite charmed. She turns him down because he does not seem “serious” about her. Thankfully he makes a video and posts it on Weibo (China’s massive blogging database and seemingly the most reliable form of communication in China). She somehow finds his video (this does not need an explanation — for many Chinese youth, spending time on Weibo is basically plugging into one’s culture), and is duly charmed.

China’s anti-foreignism is not as strong as it may seem during this campaign, in large part because Chinese people in general don’t actually hate non-Chinese. This is made clear by the fact that the government used a foreign, white, English-speaking man as the main character in a sort of propaganda video — and he is not villianized. He is rather cute and charming. On the pessimistic side, he is basically a caricature of foreign men in China: tall, [semi-dark], and handsome, with money and time to travel, and a thirst for Chinese women. Not to mention his nationality — my French friend says every time he tells a Chinese person he is French, they insist he must be a romantic.

The advertisement leaves the impression that foreigners are liked for their ability to afford vacation — i.e. they are acceptable because they are wealthy. And foreign men are OK as long as they do not actually “attain” the Chinese women. I’m trying to imagine if they used an African man instead of the white Frenchman, or a white, foreign woman chasing a Chinese man, or — get this — a man chasing another man! — and the possibility of this is almost laughable (a sad laugh, that is).

Now I’m picturing what the production crew looked like, and it’s something like this:

I have just finished rereading Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes and ‘Tis, which I last read in early teenage years. I see now how then I could not begin to appreciate what is so astounding about this series — that is, everything. It is hilarious and tragic and I laughed and cried the whole way through, when I wasn’t busy guffawing at the incredible voice distinct only as McCourt’s. In short, I recommend this series a hundred times over to everyone in the world. There you have it.

The reason I write about it on my China blog is to point out the striking similarities between McCourt’s Ireland and 20th century China. As the reader, I could glean enough thought out of the story itself to make the connection, but not a very deep one. It was this interview with McCourt that had me clapping my hand on my forehead (starting at 4:00-5:40):

The public lavatories constitute McCourt’s “juicy slum”, and I am reminded of Baochao Hutong in Beijing, what I consider to be the heart of Beijing, at the center of which is a public lavatory. Meanwhile, next to the hutong is the gradiose military building; not dissimilar to the ornate, gold-lief church of McCourt’s neighborhood. For as McCourt points out, his Ireland was permeated with an atmosphere of bewilderment, not in small part because of the forces of the Church. How could the Church ask for money from poverty-stricken families when its own eaves were laden with gold? Chinese netizens pose a similar question when weibo-ing pictures of their local governments’ hulking offices. Bewilderment to the point that, as McCourt says, one knows not whether to laugh or cry. 哭笑不得，神马都是浮云。

McCourt also talks about reserved displays of emotion being part of the “Irish character,” that is, refusal to show too much warmth to a family member. Teasing is a “family activity,” and you learn quickly to hide any signs of weakness. He had to restrain himself as a teacher in America, at which point highlighting another’s weakness was second nature. Here, I’m reminded of my many Chinese teachers with whom I had to learn patience. Irish teachers (as McCourt points out in another interview) take it personally if a student does not know the answer to a question; having had about 40 different Chinese teachers in the past six years, I can say that, as far as teaching methods go, the sentiment and style is just about the same.

Most interesting of all is the inferiority complex that has birthed great works of literature and art in both countries. McCourt asks, ”What would the Irish be if the English had never invaded?” In his early school years, the lessons of England’s ruthlessness were practically beaten into them; it was not until seventh grade that a teacher mentioned any battle in which both sides suffered (and not just the Irish). And yet from this long-standing suffering came many great poems and ballads, Yeats included. As a China scholar I cannot help but think of how Chinese history is taught, what with the bullying Western forces and of course ruthless, cruel Japan. 

And finally, the organization. McCourt says that when the Irish came to America, they were told to “organize, organize, organize” and organize they did, with great political results. But why could they never do that back in England? The Church. They were being pulled apart by the forces of the church and politics, and here I cannot help but think of the Party. The Party that casts a wary eye on organizations of any kind, the Party that calls labor strikes “disruptions of a harmonious society” and locks them away, the Party that created the atmosphere which has made it impossible to have a “club” at my school (a grad school in China), but rather the nebulously labelled “interest groups.”

The comparison of course can only go so far. When making any grand comparison such as this, it is easy to cherry-pick. What I hope to suggest with these thoughts is that things considered characteristically Irish or Chinese [or whatever] may be less of an independent case than said nationalities would want you to believe. So what constitutes identity? I am not interested in addressing this question here, but hope that above thoughts suggest a more nuanced construction of nationality than what is easy to accept.

How does a foreign city-dweller in China go about camping? It is prudent of me to point out to audiences unfamiliar with China that it is not as simple as matter as finding a campsite and pitching a tent (or perhaps it is, as long as you are flexible about the definition of “campsite”). If one were to follow the rules, one must first find a designated campsite. What does this look like? Take a look:

I came across this v. cool campsite when I was biking on the Yangtze River island. It is a tight spot with rows of fire pits and benches lined up next to each other, a small space for a tent beside each and no back yard — dare I say, a little socialist in feel? The entrance to the clubhouse had a drawbridge, as did the obstacle course next to it. And believe me, this obstacle course is not for the faint of heart:

After asking around a bit, I found out that one had to register at one of these clubhouses to use their campsite. Fair enough. But not foreigners? Only Chinese? Hm. Will have to look into this one. Maybe at an official campsite like Purple Mountain they will be stricter to the rules, but on an island in the middle of the Yangtze which has housed fishers and farmers for thousands of years and probably could not care about some silly camping registration rule, I’m willing to bet that Mr. Ding (the name on the sign) will cut me some slack. Will report back later.

In the meantime, something to chew on: my American classmate spent 6 months travel-camping around China’s northeast. He did not register for a campsite once. He camped on ancient city walls, in alleys, wherever. Once when camping outside an apartment complex, an old man came out and said, “You slept in the alley? You should have let me know, I would have let you sleep in my shed!” Screw the rules.

One could carry these conditions over to the market and legal system and make some fair comparisons; a balance of following rules and being entrepreneurial,  of being “civil” versus being part of the “Wild West.” The state of camping in China seems to run along these same lines: follow the rules and you may or may not get results. Take a risk, pitch a tent, and you may more likely get exactly what you want.

More later when I do some camping myself!

Trying to put aside knee-jerk reactions to simply the word Jihad, what does China look like through this lens? On one level, it is extremely corporate and increasingly globalized. Local brands mimic global brands. Fashion and taste look Westward rather than inward. The beautiful 1920′s qipao dress makes occasional appearances, but nothing like the little black dress. The political processes are largely governed by money and self-interest (if you consider that local officials will sell the village’s land to whichever corporation offers the most), but things get a little hazy near the top.

At the same time, nationalism saturates the education system as well as the media. It is perhaps the strongest unifying belief that mainland Chinese people share — that they are China, and China is good. The central state requires that be the status quo. As far as unifying beliefs and spirituality go, there’s not much more beyond that, at least for now. There is local variation, but the PLA has a pretty strong hold on any physical uprising.

So China’s more of piece with McWorld, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone. And not just domestically, either; it is adding to the global media contra-flow by setting up CCTV outlets outside of mainland — even in Time’s Square (CCTV being the party’s television). In a sense, this contributes to a diversified world media, one not just ruled by the Big Six (Viacom, Bertlesmann, NewsCorp, Time-Warner, Vivendi, and Disney), even if it is the mouthpiece of a corrupt authoritarian government. While China is staunch as a nation-state in the traditional sense, it simultaneously indulges glocalization of international brands while also trying to brand itself.

So maybe China’s not exactly part of the McWorld as we see it: its belief in itself as its own brand suggests something closer to Jihad, or — astoundingly — a new McWorld. Maybe what China wants more than anything is for McWorld to look like McWang. Same beast, different language. Let’s just wait and see how their burgers taste.

After a trip to Fujian province with a group of Chinese friends, I’ve changed my stance a bit. Fujian prides itself on seafood. America also has seafood, and in New England, where I grew up, there is no shortage. And yet Chinese vs. American seafood is perhaps the most different of parallel cuisines. I grew up on clam chowder and fish and chips. In Fujian, we were slurping slimy bits right off the seashells. I realized that as much as I tried to learn the difference between the Chinese words for clam, oyster, and mussel, that I never would because I don’t know the difference really in English.

I admit, I finished a lot of meals unsatisfied. I tried everything, and enjoyed most of it. But I was in no way satiated enough by Fujian seafood to feel like I had a meal. Of course my friends wanted it everyday, given that it was the local cuisine. I had to order a lot of noodles and come to terms with the fact that, indeed, I was not “used to” all parts of Chinese cuisine.

Which is actually just fine. I take no issue with my good Chinese friends joking about my American taste. However, when a waitress comes up to my table and says, “You all like this, order this” (“you all” referring to all white people, or, as she sees it, all Westerners), this is a different matter. Whether or not I do like Kung Pao Chicken （宫保鸡丁）is besides the point. If you are American or otherwise come from an ethnically diverse society, then I need not preach to the choir.

I’ve asked the waitresses a few times why they assume I’ll like whatever-food, but for the most part I let it slide. One time a waitress saw me at the counter, ready to order, and very amiably suggested that I go down a few stalls to the hamburger joint. She was not being rude or curt; she actually thought she was being helpful. So I humored her and asked why she did not think I could eat at her restaurant. “It’s just that most foreigners come here looking for that restaurant, so I wanted to help you.” No harm meant. Still, I pointed out that since I speak Chinese (which she knew already before suggesting I leave) that didn’t it seem like I could also eat Chinese food? She laughed and shrugged.

When I get as used to Chinese seafood as I am with Tex-Mex, if that ever happens, then I’ll have some real ammo for my battle on profiling white people in China. In the meantime, best to keep it simple and use discretion.

Someone once told me that there were 20,000 people specifically monitoring internet activity for the Chinese government (ergo, 5 毛 x 20,000  must be < tax payers’ dollars). When I heard this, I remembered standing on the footpath that bridges the two sides of the 6-lane street I lived on when I was in Beijing. From that perch, I can see the road disappearing into the haze on either end. I can see the buildings disappearing into a forest of more buildings, all concrete and white, stretching as far as one can see in the haze.

Twenty thousand? That must be at least three-hundred buildings. I start to count the buildings in view from the footpath, but memory clouds my math. I guess it is probably a few blocks’ worth of office space.

When some family friends visited me in Beijing that summer, I took them to the Forbidden City. Entrance actually was forbidden after five o’clock, so we wound through the outer layers of the palace, where tourists were much more scarce. A bride was having her picture taken against the ancient red wall, the setting sun dousing her in glow. We snaked through the courtyards until we were inside a building. There was a large glass window to an inner room, where about fifty people sat hunched over computers. Within a minute, a woman appeared and asked us to leave — not rudely, more just a matter-of-fact.

 We joked that that was China’s censorship headquarters.

When the internet connection gets lost and I’m signed out of my VPN, I feel suddenly exposed. I imagine there is a person in Beijing sitting behind a computer screen who thinks he’s hit the jackpot because he suddenly has a full view of Lil’ Wayne’s ‘Lollipop’ video. Within a few minutes my entire computer will be non-functioning. I figure either way I have limited time, and I start Lollipop from the beginning.