True Love

Posted on February 21, 2012 by

True Love

16 out of 23. That’s how many wedding anniversaries my husband remembered. Oh sure he made it up on our 10th anniversary when he gave me a pair of diamond stud earrings big enough for a butterfly to choke on, but meh – my record on this matter is actually worse.

For the forgetful, a good strategy is to stick to giving the traditional symbolic gifts. On our fifth anniversary – wood, I fished out a pencil from the kitchen drawer. Sixth – candy, a loose stick of gum. Seventh, I remembered. Eighth – pottery, an ashtray I made at pottery class. Ninth – pottery again, the same ashtray only rewrapped. He stopped me at nine which was too bad as I was saving up for our eleventh – steel, he didn’t really need that Ferrari anyways.

But the one occasion my husband been 23 for 23 is Valentine’s Day. Maybe it’s because the shops are awash in pink hearts and fluttering cupids the weeks before or maybe it’s because the sofa just doesn’t provide  the best night’s sleep, whatever, I know there’ll be flowers and a big box of non-discounted chocolates waiting for me on that day.

February 14th puts smiles on millions of people’s faces, and that’s just the merchants because Valentine’s Day is the unenviable obstacle course of romance men engage in annually. Ask any guy what his favorite holiday is and few will choose the day in which he’s expected to shell out half a day’s pay for a dozen roses and an overpriced set dinner accompanied by a glass of cheap champagne.

Not surprisingly, the origins of Valentine’s Day has nothing to do with romance or unrequited love or even a day to remember to put the toilet seat down. The unsubstantiated reports include painful martyrdom and reversed crucifixion. It was Geoffrey Chaucer, an English poet in the 14th century who was first credited with associating romance with Valentine’s Day. Hand written valentines followed later in the 18th century and good old American enterprise ramped the holiday up beginning in the 20th century when, flowers, chocolates and jewelry joined the mix.  But what has stayed constant through the ages is that while valentines are traded between lovers, family and friends, the main recipient of the day is the lady.

For women, Valentine’s Day is our day of acknowledgement, of appreciation, of gratitude. Unlike anniversaries which are sometimes forgotten or birthdays which lose their celebratory nature as our bits and pieces surrender to gravity; Valentine’s Day to a woman says “You are desirable”. Thus, men walk a tight-rope for what is given is taken as a gauge of their love. Too little and it’s the silent treatment. Too much and the expectations get higher and higher year after year.

So how to choose the right gift? The one that says “I love you” without your needing to eat instant ramen noodles for the next month? Breakfast in bed is nice but a diamond is better. A backrub is comfortable but a diamond is better. Doing all the household chores for a day is good but a diamond is better. Let’s face it, this day will not pass without you pulling out your wallet and remember, a diamond is better. So give your woman her due, of all the days of the year, this is the one when she wants to hear from you that’s she’s beautiful and believe it.

And if you should one up empty-handed and sheepishly excuse yourself with the phrase” But what could I get for the woman who has everything?” Expect her answer to be “I’ll give you a list”.

 

 

 

 

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Making the Grade

Posted on December 13, 2011 by

My head was throbbing. I looked at my watch. 2 hours and 15 minutes since we first opened the text books. With only 3 questions left, a trickle of relief washed over me, there was light at the end of the tunnel, but then – BAM! Predicate, dangling modifier or intransitive verb? I knew any chance of catching the Amazing Race was down the tubes; between translation, dictionary and grammar searches, my daughter and I were looking at another 40 minute answer.

Grade school homework is every parent’s nightmare. It’s second only to a parent’s worst nightmare which is after paying for 3 years of college, room and board your kid decides to switch majors, start again and proceeds to empty out your retirement fund.

Last year students from a host of countries were given a standardized international test and to everyone’s surprise Shanghai came out on top. Beating out Singapore, South Korea and Germany, it was an even wider margin between China and the United States. Close on the heels of the report was the brouhaha over Tiger Mom Amy Chua’s article “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior” and suddenly Chinese parents were painted as a nation of Captain Bligh’s; hard-hearted taskmasters who rewarded their little charges with a bit of dry tack if they brought home straight A’s and a lashing with the cat o’nine tails if they didn’t.

Not content with Tiger Mom’s harsh example, now comes along Wolf Dad Xiao Baiyou who claims that beating your child with a feather duster is a sure-fire incentive to get them into Peking University. Interestingly enough, as wolves aren’t known for their dusting skills, a more fitting moniker for him would likely be Chicken Dad.

For Americans outraged at the authoritarian-type discipline of Chinese parents, they conveniently overlook the long, exhausting hours Chinese parents put in 7 days a week to ensure their children achieve the best grades. Oh sure, a typical American parent may be heavy on the school functions too, but a couple of hours cheering on your kid at a basketball game is a lot easier than slogging through arcane bits of algebra.

Chinese parents demand homework; it’s a necessary evil like twice yearly dental check-ups or DIY prostrate exams. The advent of the one child family results in the laser-like focus of parents and grandparents thus, there is no such thing here as an “Army of One”, rather it’s Team Xiu-Xiu, Team Dong Dong or Team Peach – which in China is not gender-specific. But what Americans seem unaware of is that Chinese parents dislike homework as much as anyone else; in the end, it’s all a matter of self-interest.

China currently has over 143 million elderly citizens, that’s equal to the entire population of Russia or France and the United Kingdom combined. It’s expected to hit 437 million by 2051 when 3 out of 10 people will be over 60. Government social care for the elderly is lagging far behind developed countries. Over 65% of seniors don’t receive welfare, pensions or adequate medical care. The solution to this dismal future? China is advocating that “senior citizens live at home and be taken care of in the community”.

Good grades equals good schools which lead to good jobs and financial security for aging parents when they finally move in with their adult children. Rigorous schoolwork and academic discipline then isn’t a matter of Confucian policy but self-preservation. Given the state of America’s daunting deficit and depleting Social Security reserves will American parents soon ditch the school football parties for study sessions with their kids on syntax, thesis writing and exposition?

For me, I don’t want my twilight years spent in a creaking mother-in-law apartment over my child’s garage, heck no – I want my own satellite TV equipped, hardwood teak floor, 2 bedroom cabana beside their landscaped infinity pool. Looks like another four hours of homework tonight? Bring it on!

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When Evil Triumphs

Posted on December 4, 2011 by

It was a crisp, autumn night. I pulled into the deserted parking lot. Over by the entrance I saw a trio of men surrounding the parking attendant, one of the men yelling and bearing down on the little man. The attendant was old and the years had compressed him like a ball of scrap paper. I didn’t understand what they were fighting about but the thug’s tone turned violent and I stepped in between them. Blessed with all the physical strength of five hamsters, I could only shout back at the men in English hoping that they wouldn’t want to get involved in a situation made messier with a foreigner. Was I scared? Of course. With all the blood rushing up to my head, my legs barely kept me upright. The men backed off and left. Later when I told my friend what had just happened, she castigated me for putting myself in such a dangerous position. In hindsight, yes that was a little crazy. Would I ever put myself at risk again?

The recent events involving the Pennsylvania State football coach Joe Paterno resonates even more acutely over here. The past weeks of national hand-wringing over the inaction of 18 by-standers to save the life of a two year old girl has the country wondering if society’s modern self-centered chase for prosperity has obliterated the past traditions of community and public decency.

Joe Paterno is a living icon. In a country where millions of lives are scheduled around college sports and football being the holy grail of them all, he holds the record as the coach for the most games won. An investigation regarding the sexual abuse of a child by Paterno’s former defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky has now led to the firing of the legendary coach and criminal charges against Sandusky, the athletic director and school vice president for aiding in the cover-up. In addition, earlier abuse witnessed by a janitor went unreported because he feared for his job.

Paterno has built his legacy not only on skilled coaching and strategy but was known for his integrity. So much so he created a campaign called “The Grand Experiment” to prove that football excellence and academic integrity could co-exist. Although Paterno complied with the school policy of reporting the allegations of abuse to the athletic director in 2002, he did not go further, either reporting to the police or following up. Now that further allegations have recently surfaced, the question in everyone’s mind is why did he not speak out?

Why did 18 by-standers not help an injured toddler? Why did powerful men allow the possibility of a sexual predator to continue to abuse young children in their own midst?

As humans, one of our greatest driving forces is self-preservation. We strive for a better life and steer clear of obstacles that could hurt us. But also as humans, we have an innate desire to live with one another. Whether it’s as a family, friend, couple or community; no man is an island or wants to be stuck on one alone. We have a moral compass that instinctively signals us to take care of each other, even strangers.

It’s when we see a need but push down that natural compulsion to help that the community stands up and roars it’s head, justifiably.

The Golden Rule to treat others as we’d like to be treated is an underpinning, a safety net for us as a society to prosper. But by putting ourselves first and leaving behind the vulnerable, we put our survival as a society at risk.

All of us will be challenged at some point, when we must weigh personal safety for the greater good. And therein lies the dangers of selfishness for as Edmund Burke said, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing”. Oh, and the parking attendant? He gave me the first hour for free.
  
 

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There’s Always Room in the Garage

Posted on November 19, 2011 by

Filial piety is a cornerstone of Chinese culture. So much so that a “retirement home” here is otherwise known as my grown kid’s 3rd bedroom. But recent events of parental abuse by a son stabbing his mother or a beat-down from their civil servant son has the soon-to-be graying bulge of parents alarmed about whether their assumed safety net in their twilight years will be ripped to shreds by ungrateful children.

In response to this, the China National Association for Ethnical Studies just announced a program to teach filial piety to 1 million children between the ages of 4 and 6 years. This has come under pointed criticism. First of all, parents better hope their child will be part of that million, if not, lock unto this mantra – “I must spend all my money before my child does”. Secondly, teaching filial piety is not like a no littering campaign. While teaching small children to bow to their parents may be a fun game to them, chances of having your teenager wash your feet no less speak a comprehensible sentence to you are a hundred times harder than winning the national lottery.

I obtained my first real job by that tried and true method; nepotism. It was a stressful environment with suppliers coming up short, partners changing contractual terms and clients demanding what was hastily promised to them. Then there was my boss – my mother. The mother-daughter relationship is like the act of giving birth; only relived every day. There’s the pain, the screaming, the need to separate, the ecstasy of love, more pain and much more screaming. Throw in a salary dispute, a hardship posting and parental disapproval of my boyfriend and it was no wonder that I contemplated the early demise of my mother. Of course, filial piety and the fact that with her gone, there would be no one to sign my paycheck dissipated my tantrum into less rebellious moves like clocking in after 10 am and not recycling used paper.

It wasn’t until the birth of my first child that I really understood and appreciated all the things that my parents had done for me. Some were great sacrifices, some were not but most of their lives were steered in one way or another by the care and upbringing of my sister and myself.  Sure they made mistakes; did too much or too little at one time or another but I am who I am in many ways because of who they are and who their parents were. Blood may be thicker than water but our characteristics, values and principals are even more viscous, because like DNA, that’s what replicates from generation to generation.

The 24 Filial Exemplars (二十四孝 èrshísì xiào) is a classic text of Confucian filial piety with stories like He Fed His Parents Doe’s Milk (Lù Rŭ Fèng Qīn 鹿乳奉親), He Strangled A Tiger To Save His Father (È Hŭ Jiù Qīn 搤虎救父), and of course what we all hope from our children someday; He Washed His Mother’s Bedpan (Dí Qīn Niào Qì 滌親溺器).  But let’s be realistic and not expect this from a teenage son or daughter who can find a myriad of excuses for not taking out the garbage. No, the children who best show filial piety to their parents are usually grandparents themselves.

In the end can filial piety be taught? Of course. You can teach a kid to play the piano but that doesn’t mean he’ll like it or want to play all his life. Filial piety in its purest form comes down to sacrificing oneself for another. It’s borne out of love, loyalty and respect, not guilt or fear. The idea can be taught in the classroom but it’s only in the home where it’s nurtured and grown. As for my own parents, I always assure them that filial piety is paramount to me, and if they should ever need a place they’ve got it, after all, there’s always room in the garage.

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Me Speak Ugly Chinese

Posted on November 13, 2011 by
  Me speak ugly Chinese. Or at least I think that’s what I’m saying. The actual translation is more like “Me talk genuine bad good Chinese”. Having been born with a tin ear and inflexible tongue, my Mandarin is well, let’s just say I would be at the bottom of the class – a kindergarten class.

BWF’s (big, white, faces) have it easy. Locals see them coming and subconsciously prep themselves for an extended session of stilted communication and hand-signals. For me, my Chinese ancestry belies my poor grasp of the language until I open my mouth, provoking them to ask if I’m Japanese. “No,” I answer bowing politely, “I’m Canadian”. Their reaction is almost always the same. Their brows furrow in the slow realization that their dreams of immigration will most likely produce future generations like me who can’t put two characters together with a pair of chopsticks.
The trouble lies in the fact that Chinese is a devilishly difficult language to learn. First there are the tones. My tones are usually four octaves above or below the correct pronunciation but I hope to be understood within the greater context. For instance, while growing up in Canada, a recent immigrant from Guangzhou said to me “I’m hungry; let’s go out for a coffee and a doo-nut.” Of course I knew he meant donut, immigrant or not, he’s Canadian for heck’s sake! But most people here are sticklers for correct tones, forcing me to mime what I want. Through many failed attempts, I found out dogspeak in China is “rong rong” not “woof, woof”.
A little knowledge can be dangerous. This is a true fact. Imagine a conversation like a game of darts. Some darts hit the bull’s eye, some the inner circle and many go into the wall. Having understood only the ones that hit the bull’s eye, I have unknowingly agreed to many darts that have landed way off the mark. I was surprised as anyone to find – courtesy of the 5 cases that arrived at my front door, that I was the latest representative of Uncle Zhou’s Chili Balm – “Good for your muscle aches and tasty for your noodles!”. Plans to have my kid sell the stuff went nowhere.  That is, my kid would go nowhere near Uncle Zhou’s Chili Balm.
While I carry around a few simple Chinese phrases to fake like I understand the conversation (the word “Really?” can extend your contribution to the discussion until the next round of drinks is on you, then it’s time to leave), I’m at a total loss when it comes to written characters.
Not being able to read not only means I miss the best gossip about local celebrities and their baby mamas but I’m limited to items written in English. But with groceries, imported products mean inflated prices, so occasionally I’ll take a chance on a local brand like peanut butter, which the owner’s teenage nephew translated into “happy moon new blue ground nut”. Interestingly, the banana-like notes of the spread pairs well with aged cheese.
But being illiterate in Chinese has its advantages. I’m not susceptible to crazy marketing schemes that pop up. Like hair tonics that promote hair growth while at the same time increasing your IQ or face whitening creams that promise the undead parlor of a “Twilight” extra. Years ago, local real estate companies would text me daily promoting their apartments at USD 1,200 per square meter, but as it was in Chinese I ignored them. At today’s prices, I couldn’t even buy a parking space for USD 3,000 per square meter.
If I had to change just one thing about living here, it wouldn’t be the smog or the traffic or even the constant car honking that just blends into one continuous cacophony of flat notes, I would wish that everyone here would speak English. A pipe dream? No more so than my speaking Chinese!
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Shanghai’ed

Posted on October 4, 2011 by

Peels of thunder and flashes of lightning woke us up on our last morning in Beijing. Chances were we would be sitting on the runway tarmac for the better part of the day, John may have his wish of delaying our departure from Beijing albeit trapped in a cigar shaped steel fuselage (ensconced with bottomless glasses of Dom Perignon in first class while AJ and I jostled for the boxes of day old rubber dumplings they were flinging out in cattle class).  Then suddenly, the dark clouds lifted, the sun broke through and our plane took off on schedule, Shanghai here we come.

Day 1: Temporarily move to the JW Marriott Tomorrow Square apartments in the heart of the city (formerly named People’s Square but signs are afoot that they’re quickly shedding the last vestiges of overt Communism, that and the fact that the Chinese translation of “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” is the top selling book in the country).

Shanghai is really a city like no other. 21st century architecture, home to major multi-nationals and billion dollar State enterprises lies a mere body width beside hundred year old plus lane houses selling live crickets and elaborately carved wooden boxes for cricket fights.
AJ and I go on a feeding frenzy, seeing how much RMB 50 (USD 8) will go. Note: RMB 25 is more than enough. After ingesting the last plate of street-side fried noodles and chewy globes of bubble tea – we felt like Chinese Oompah-Loompahs; yellow, fat and blue in the face.
I pass a spa advertising facials for RMB 88 (USD13.75), and  not being physically able to ever pass up a bargain ( how many sets of Ginsu knives do I have? Don’t ask), lie expectantly down for a relaxing 90 minutes of bliss. Unfortunately, the girl doing the facial was attending part-time classes at “Wall Street English” and my hoped-for spa turned out to be a lengthy teaching session of “Where can I buy a train ticket?”, “You are so handsome.” and “I want to get a Green Card.” P.S. This is the same path Wendy Deng (aka Wendy Murdoch took).

Day 2: A 15 minute walk from our hotel leads us to our new home just a block away from Nanjing Road; Shanghai’s century-old main shopping through-way. We pass a 4 block long food street with the top 20 junk food hits from home. Baskin Robins, Carl’s Jr, Cha Mate, Honeymoon Dessert, Pho 28, Watsons, Papa John’s, and the bakery that ruined Dunkin Donuts for me – Krispy Kreme (like Pavlov’s dog, I drool uncontrollably whenever I see flashing lights similar to the Krispy Kreme “Hot Donut” alarm. This is especially embarrassing at police check points). This mixed in with a dozen Chinese, Thai, Korean and Japanese restaurants and the subway stop make this our go-to place when our arteries demand shots of fatty insulation.
Beijing is often said to be the city of intellectuals and artists while Shanghai is all about commerce and consumerism. Pirated DVD movies are rife in both places but  Shanghai sells cartloads of pirated novels – in English. The complete 7 set of Harry Potter books sell for RMB 140 (USD 22). I guess it’s ok as long as you can overlook the minor Chinglish quirks like “Ha-lee Pah-tah and de Haf-Brud Plince”.

Day 3: Shanghai is probably the only city in China where you forget you’re in China. Foreigners are uncommonly common here. As an expat, we’re just another pair of legs to jostle and cut in front of; even beggars and fake watch hawkers ignore us for the more moneyed Chinese locals.
Like Hong Kong, it’s a fast-moving city where your looks and business acumen will take you far. Good thing I’ll work from home where my “office” pajamas will blend in with the local’s traditional choice of after-dinner street wear.
Now necessity is said to be the mother of invention, so the combination of small apartments and large German underwear gave modern consumers the Siemens all-in-one washer/dryer unit. An item that can do two opposing functions is more often a marketing fantasy, like a husband who likes shopping but isn’t secretly gay. And at first, the dryer would spit out hot, damp clothes – much like the steaming, oishi buri towels served at Japanese restaurants, only with limp sleeves and zippers attached. But a quick call to room service and a new washer/dryer replaced the old in a matter of minutes. German engineering again does the impossible (or at least the improbable) and the dryer actually worked, I was amazed and hence saved a bundle on hotel laundry charges.

Day 4 and on: Looking forward to a very interesting life in China’s most cosmopolitan city, making new friends and renewing old. Hope you come and visit (there’s a great hotel around the corner!). As they say in Shanghai “Nong Haw!” (Welcome!)

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Chinese Water Torture

Posted on October 1, 2011 by

Chinese Water Torture

On Saturdays afternoons in the 1950’s, kids would race to their televisions to watch the latest Flash Gordon episode. In his golden, ornate Versace-like chamber, the evil Fu Manchu strapped down his latest victim on a thoroughly worn, splintered wooden plank. Lying there prone and unable to move a finger, the buxomly blonde, her eyes wide as saucers, would start to shriek as the delighted villain gamely stroked his wispy goatee and then with a flourish, unscrewed the opening of the water vessel hanging above her head. The water slowly formed into a tiny ball until gravity took its course, the droplets falling “plink, plink, plink …” on her forehead. The victims were said to go insane at the never-ending irritation. This was ominously known as The Chinese Water Torture.

Like death and taxes, there is guaranteed to be a few repairs needed when moving into a new home. Things that the former tenant didn’t think was really necessary, oh – like a working telephone line or a leaking water pipe. Boldly I went forth, but little did I know that I was next in line for that splintered, wooden plank.
Much has been said of the current “victimhood” mentality of the United States. Maybe it started with the million dollar lawsuits and payouts for “emotional distress”, maybe it was the continuing emasculation of women and the feminization of men, maybe because after The Greatest Generation (1910’s – 1930’s) they raised a bunch of crybabies, whatever, there is a growing backlash to be accountable and take responsibility for one’s own actions.

China on the other hand, has both culturally and institutionally always looked for a “fall guy” every time a situation arises. Along with steamed fish and rice, stir-fried scapegoat is a daily staple of the Chinese diet.

A leaking water pipe is a case in point. A dozen repairmen revolved through my home, like beauty pageant contestants only less useful. Each of them took a look at my dripping walls and keeping their shiny, new toolboxes closed, declared it was the landlord’s problem or the management’s problem or the guy who lived upstairs, anyone’s problem but theirs. In a twist on the physician’s creed of “Do no harm”, Chinese culture seems to have evolved into a bureaucratic guide that prescribes “Do nothing and you can’t be blamed”.

That this thinking has led to the incidents involving Good Samaritans who are punished and fined for helping those in need only goes to show that something must be done. But what? The fact that blame is such an intrinsic fiber of Chinese culture, how can this be transformed? I grew up with blame; we threw it around like day-old spaghetti. In a Chinese family, being accountable when things go south has no upside. For Asians, failures are never forgotten and like clock-work, are rehashed, time and time again.

For the repairmen though, a job like theirs is truly ironic. Who can blame them for a poor job if they’ve managed to avoid doing anything in the first place? Reports of doctors leaving patients untreated due to the same fears abound.

A bloom of mold on the wall greeted me the following day, brackish water slowly filling up the bucket underneath the leak. While there’s nothing more dangerous than eating dirt-cheap “meat” buns from a Beijing street vendor, so too is a determined tenant with a lot of time on her hands and Google. I tracked down my absentee landlord in a distant country and an earful of indignant whining soon produced another repairman who promptly knocked a hole in the wall, fixed his flashlight on the offending leak and happily told me not to worry – it was the apartment above me that was to blame. Of course, he wouldn’t fix it since it was someone else’s problem. My arm felt itchy. Was that a spot of mold on my skin? My hands felt bound, I couldn’t brush it off. I could feel the spores taking over my body. The water wouldn’t stop; plink, plink, plink on my forehead…

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