i reckon they’ll learn me some mandarin.

The world has a love-hate relationship with Babel.

The Love:
2011: A mother rejoices as her 6-month old utters his first syllables: “Ma-Ma-Ma-Ma-Ma.”
The Hate:
1511: A tribe of Chickasaw Indians ponders why, "Greetings! A herd of meaty buffalo is just around the river bend! Let us hunt and sup together!" is met by the barrel of the white man's gun.

I embrace a similar bitter-sweet relationship with that Before-the-Common-Era Tower Fiasco and its 21st century ramifications. On the one hand, I enjoy the intellectual challenge of trying to tackle Mandarin (or at least obtain some sort of face-mask penalty). It is like a linguistic Sudoku puzzle. Aerobics for my brain. An escape from abstract ponderings about life's varying shades of gray into the concrete, black-and white "Adverb goes before verb.” Every time. No exceptions.

And yet, there are other days. Melancholy days. Days when I long to do more than merely babble, but instead, to really communicate, to CONVERSE with Chinese people. Days when I want to say "Hey! I really do have a brain even though you can't tell because I just said ‘today the sky is black plus white’ because nobody ever taught me the word for ‘gray.’

For the first week of Chinese class this semester, I didn’t turn in any homework. Given that for the past 17 years I would have rather been hung by my toenails in a Japanese POW camp than miss an assignment, one might be surprised by such a turn of events. But, I beg you to tell me how one is supposed to know what one’s assignment is when one’s assignment is written entirely in Chinese characters.

Flash forward two months. Things have improved. My Chinese dictionary is getting a lot less action these days. I am sporting the deer-in-the-headlights face far less frequently. And still…there are moments.

Like today. I thought my teacher was asking us about our hobbies. She wrote a list of verbs on the board and asked which activities we liked. I chose the only one I understood and proceeded to jump in with an “I like to sing.” In retrospect, you think I would have noticed that no one else was offering such information. The sheepish silence should have been the clue that sent a little alarm of “Retreat! Retreat!” sounding in my brain. But, no. No, no, no. I am learning that apparently, I speak Mandarin in 24/7 word-vomit mode. There is no social filter. There is no thinking before speaking.

After my declaration, my teacher became excited and told me that she would inform the main office of my love for singing.

Why does the main office need to know what I do in my spare time? I am still not sure. But I think it has something to do with some kind of school-wide talent show.

Oops.

I hope my 600+ Korean and Kazak classmates enjoy Chris Tomlin.

the great american-kazak-chinese preschool saga: part 二

(Please read my previous post about kidneys, kindergartners, and Kazaks here in the “Jing” for background info)…

Two Fridays ago…or as we say in Mandarin: “Fourteen moons and one red sun henceforth”…my Chinese class and I embarked upon an adventure to one of China’s historical landmarks.
This class field trip was the brainchild of my beloved teacher, Zhang Laoshi, who decided that our group of aspiring speakers of Putonghua had not yet truly gotten acquainted. (This lack of friendship might have had something to do with the fact that “broken Mandarin” was our only means for spanning the 4+ plus language barriers amongst the 25 of us. But maybe that’s just me…)

In the days leading up to our trip we “decided as a class” where we should go:
Student 1: “How about the Art District?”
Student 2: “Let’s go to the Great Wall!”
Student 3: “Happy Valley, Happy Valley!”
Zhang Laoshi: “Ok! It’s settled. We will go to the Beijing Movie Museum.”

Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking: “HOLY COW! THE BEIJING MOVIE MUSEUM??? MY FAMILY’S BEEN DREAMING OF VACATIONING THERE FOR DECADES!”
Try to reign in your jealousy for one moment as I relive some our fieldtrip’s highlights.

Given China’s history for progressive and creative breakthroughs in cinema, exemplified in Internationally renowned works like “Love for Life,” “No. 32 B. District,” “Wang Li Shi Wo Pengyou” and “Kung Fu Pan..—oh, wait that one was Dreamworks—it’s no wonder that we literally knew EVERY SINGLE actor and actress memorialized in both wax and photograph throughout all 20 of the museum’s display rooms.

Furthermore, we had the opportunity to expand our insight into each star’s life as Zhang Laoshi gave us a running picture-by-picture commentary:
Laoshi: “And of course you must know this actress! She is the most famous!”
Me: “Ooooh! I thought she was Japanese…”

As our exploration of the Beijing Movie Museum came to a sad close, the members of CAMIC Elementary Chinese Level C ended our time together with some Lazy- Susan fun at the Big Roast Duck Place, a restaurant situated near our school’s Eastern gate. Laughs and glasses of boiling water were had by all.

As we were entering the oh-my-Emperor!-i-can’t-believe-i-am-still-shoveling-spicy-peanuts-into-my-pie-hole phase of our meal, I received a cryptic phone call:
“Jessica. I have your money. Can you meet me at the Russian Café Asia in five minutes?”

It was my Kazak friend, the one who had formerly “invited” me to sell my soul to preschoolers in the nether-regions of Beijing (a moment of honesty: I actually LOVED that gig, but it was just too far from my house. Sadly, I had to give it up. I miss those xiao pengyou’s something fierce.)

Slipping away from my classmates with a muttered excuse about needing to visit the WC, I obeyed the Slavic voice and headed to yonder café. Entering through a gate and then into the restaurant, I was met by fluorescent lights and the stares of about twenty Central Asians all smoking, drinking, and talking in hushed voices. (I'm just telling it like it was.)

Soon, my friend met me. We grabbed a table and exchanged apologies that the preschool situation had not worked out. Then, with a quick movement-- AND I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP--she slipped 900 yuan under the table and asked me to count it.

After shuffling through the bills and giving her a nod, I departed, glancing over each shoulder and walking back up the street. Soon, I slid into my chair at the Big Roast Duck Place, much richer and my classmates, none the wiser.

And that was that.

Dear CIA, if you are reading this, you should know that if all goes well, by this time next year, I should be proficient in Mandarin and buddy-buddy with many of your top suspects.
Feel free to recruit me.
I am currently unemployed.

Kind Regards,
Jessica “Burning Wood” Schleiff

i'd like to (not) get whacked

Let’s get real. There are some people you can’t say “no” to: Mother Theresa. The Pope. Mr. Rogers. People from Kazakhstan.

Last week in the middle of my Chinese class, a petite girl I’d never met before, with thick eye-liner and a thick Russian accent summoned me to the hall. My intrigue was replaced by confusion, which soon turned into paranoia as I surveyed my beckoner and wondered how in the name of all that is Holy we could possibly be connected....“Have I offended a family (and KGB) member of hers?,” “Could she be packing?,” “Do I really need all my fingers?”…

With relief I discovered that the answer was “none of the above.” She simply wanted me to fill in for her at a Chinese preschool for the week. We decided to meet after class at the school’s “coffee shop” (a glorified desk with snacks, hot water, and packets of instant brew from which students who are affluent enough to spare 3 kuai may purchase such delicacies).

We sipped a substance that I will not call Coffee (as doing so would dishonor the name). The petite girl and her accompanying brother each enjoyed a cigarette. The sounds of Slavic dialects filled the room as their friends joined and we discussed the Preschool arrangement. Suddenly, it was if I had left the PRC, boarded a time machine, and landed smack dab in the middle of the U.S.S.R. Somehow, somewhere in between “oh, you mean this preschool is 2 hours away from my house?” and “that’s a nice mob ring you’re wearing there, Ruskov” I found out that my new Kazak friend was not in need of just a one-week substitute but instead, someone for the whole year.

I had never been to Happy Valley—the location of the school. Heck, I had never even taken an Early Childhood Ed. Class. But as the Kazak duo puffed away, I found myself committing to the whole, year-long gig. I would have offered them my right kidney as well if they had asked (I’m glad they didn’t.).

And that is how I ended up on a daily 2-bus-plus-subway commute to The-Middle-of-Nowhere-Beijing for the entirety of last week.

But wouldn’t you know that is was worth it? That Chinese preschoolers pretty much make my heart melt faster than a puppy in a fireman hat saving orphans from a well? And wouldn’t you know that Chinese preschoolers LOVE “Duck-Duck-Goose” (even if the only word for “duck” I knew in Chinese was the roasted-for-dinner version and who the heck even knows how to say “goose”?) And don’t even get them started on “If You’re Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands (Pie Pie!)!” You will have a riot on your hands.

And the Chinese government does not smile on riots.

i'd like some censorship

Chinese toddlers wear split pants. (See picture for example).

The split pant ensures that no obstacles hinder successful #1s or #2s, rendering the wearer free to do his or her business whenever, wherever, at the drop of a hat--or, in this scenario, at the sound of a whistle. For, the whistle is the preferred method of potty-training ‘round these parts.

Most foreigners gawk at the concept upon first introduction. We pity the shame that must come with one’s backside being less-than-mysterious to every ogling passerby. I imagine that the split-pant experience is like venturing commando, 24/7 into the outside world sporting a hospital gown. Sure, it’s a breezy alternative for the summer time, but I shudder to think of the chill come December.

Yet, I would like to point out several advantages:

1.) Neutralizing the potty-training battleground:

Instead of the many misses and inevitable kid vs. parent stalemates around those little training-potties, split pants make potty-training utterly straight forward. Step 1: squat, Step 2: well, you get the picture…

2.) Obliterating performance anxiety:

Split Pants make potty-time public. Where American children need books to reassure them that indeed, “everybody poops,” Chinese babes are quite aware of this truth. After all, they see their friends do it all the time.

3.) Going green:

Not only do split pants make diapers obsolete, saving space in landfills everywhere, they create natural, free fertilizer for trees all around. I would like to extend a personal “thank you” to all of the children of Beijing for the part you play in keeping our city beautiful.

4.) Growing the Pooper-Scooper market:

How much more practical is the decision to cough up that extra 20 kuai when your scooper will be scooping up after multiple species? Granted, considering that scooping up your loved ones's business is not yet a common cultural practice here on the Mainland, this increase in marketability may not yet be relevant. But think of the possibilities.

Granted, when I was walking to the bus the other day and saw a youngster bearing his boyhood to the entire world, these advantages did not immediately come to mind. Other thoughts, “Seriously?” “Is this real life?” “Thank you, that image will now be burned in my mind for all of eternity” came first, I am ashamed to say. But yet, on further review, I believe that the Chinese are on to something. Perhaps, one day, you will spot me on the streets of America whistling while I dangle a little tot above the sidewalk. And perhaps, the split down his pants will be the first shot heard around the Western World for the cause of raising children diaper-free.

Long live the split-pant.

Freeeeedddooooommmm!!!!

#4: i'd like to go to grad school

Two weekends ago, I set out to take the GRE. Now, the GRE is a normal rite of passage for many a Liberal Arts grad. Upon realizing that his “Insert something abstract here Studies” degree makes him very qualified for living at home with his parents, the recent graduate begins to grapple with questions like “how will I feed and house myself?” The reality of the M.A. as the new B.A. begins to slowly dawn on him, and he chooses to partake in this placement test, all the while wondering if he is having SAT déjà vu. Now, this post-graduate season of life, as unromantic as it may appear, should not be scoffed at too quickly. As any liberal arts major knows, such seasons of pondering, homelessness, unemployment, and occasional bouts of depression J have sown the seeds for many a great poem and indie band. The world is quite thankful for that. However, the truth that at some point in time we must move on, replace our hoodies with stuffy things like “blouses”, and avoid becoming soup kitchen regulars hits each one of us, and we begin to search for means of financial stability.

In my own ponderings of “what to do with an English major,” I came to the conclusion, that grad school was necessary. So, I set out to register for the GRE. Now in the States, this is a relatively simple process. Not so, in the good ole PRC. After many failed attempts online we resorted to a stakeout at the Bank of China. After transferring funds into a special account that would then be transferred into another special account, the matter was settled. I could now choose a location and date for my testing. Mission accomplished…or, so I thought.

Enter, complication number two: no seats for testing available.

In all of China. Really, no seats? In ALL of China?

Apparently, even in the utmost reaches of the Earth, places National Geographic has never been and where no English-speaking foreigners are anywhere in sight, Chinese students are taking an English test to fulfill their employment dreams. It seems the market is putting ALL of us new B.A.-holders in a tight spot.

After much prayer and petition and many a “refresh page,” finally, a spot opened up at Beijing Normal University. I was set for August 6, 10:00AM. After a couple months of vocab memorization and algebra review, I set off on that fateful Saturday morning, arriving at the testing place with two hours time to spare (Overeager? Perhaps. But this is China after all, and one never knows when a collapsed bridge or crossing flock of sheep may render one’s destination completely unreachable).

If we arrived any later than 9:30 at the sight, we risked being shut out of the test. So, naturally, my five new Chinese friends and I began to grow nervous when, at 9:45, no one had shown up to administer the thing. At approximately 9:50, one test-taker and I decided to take it upon ourselves to see what the heck was afoot. After busting into a class in session, borrowing a student’s computer, making a couple of phone calls, and receiving an offer to help one boy “improve his oral English” (an offer which I politely declined with an “I’m sorry, I just don’t know how long I will be left in the country…cryptic though honest excuses such as these come in handy far more often here than one would expect) we discovered that THE TEST HAD BEEN MOVED.

Seriously?!?

But, not willing to give up, I embraced the skills that both Tiger Tunes and Tiger Traks had instilled within me. I, along with my new friend, led the pack of befuddled grad-school hopefuls in a race across campus. (I can now safely cross “Win the Amazing Race” as a potential strategy for financial security off my list. I was not, I regret to say, calm and collected). I held back the tears with the help of some paper fanning and a rolled down window as we proceeded to get stuck in traffic and then drive down a hutong, a type of road that is only suitable for bicycles and small mobs. We made it to the “correct” testing center around 10:30 where we were whisked away to the sign-in center by a sweet Chinese lady. As the only foreigner present, I received special attention in the form of being personally ushered around like a blind person throughout the entire process. For once, I was not offended that my inability to speak Mandarin beyond a four-year-old level was equated with mental illness and/or physical disability.

Though in the moment it felt like one of my anxiety dreams was coming true, I got to take the whole test. And I think that all the running across Beijing pumped extra oxygen to my brain, giving me perhaps, a better score than I might have gotten if the situation had been, well, less nightmarish. When life gives you lemons…

Though my GRE attempt was almost Shanghaied, I have to thank the good People’s Republic for giving me great material for both future applications and dinner parties. And if I am accepted for a program next fall, I know I will owe at least part of my “xie xie” to the country which has hosted me during this season.

i'd like an easy button

There are three main dialects of Chinese: Cantonese, Mandarin, and Taxi Driver. Yesterday, I found myself immersed in the last one—well, kind of.

Anyone who ever scales over Purple Mountain Majesties, wades to the ends of the Amber Waves of Grain, and flies beyond Spacious Skies into the black unknown that is the Rest Of The World will soon make a startling discovery: we have it easy in the Great States. I mean, sure, having to renew your driver’s license every thirty years or so is kind of annoying. But try that same task anywhere else…After three hours maneuvering the public transportation system you reach the DMV with your passport, student ID card, shot records, electricity bill, and dental x-rays in tow only to find that the DMV has moved. New location unknown. After asking a friend to translate his brother-in-law’s neighbor’s gardener’s directions to the new place, you reach your destination and are met by a welcoming sign:

Gone for tea. Be back in a few hours.

While such experiences might leave some travelers singing “Proud to be an American” as they wave Old Glory and tick off the days on their Lady Liberty calendars until their return flights, others of us just wish for an easy button. Like in the Staples commercials. (Surely those really exist, even if a Staples is nowhere to be found.)

So many moments in my family’s life in China have left us looking for our easy buttons. Many scenarios--like last week when we couldn’t find the right bus, and no taxi would pick us up, and the hotel guards mocked our Mandarin pronunciation—leave us feeling like we have lost and China has won. (For, of course, any major defeats in our Chinese adventures are not the fault of say, a broken down bicycle, or a bank attendant having a bad day, but instead, the entire People’s Republic). So many days I think “China: 400 points, Schleiffs: 0.”

So, back to the taxi. Yesterday, I set off two hours early for an afternoon meeting. After a ride on a shuttle and the subway, I finally reached my destination with time to spare. I brushed off my shoulders. I gave myself a high five. I thought, “Ha ha ha! Finally, China, I have beaten you at your own game!” After the meeting, I headed back to the subway, feeling confident, ready to take on Beijing travel once again. Except, this time, I opted for the cheaper route: the bus.

Many of our fellow foreigners avoid the buses. They find them dirty, crowded, and confusing. Instead, they use taxis or drivers. Obviously, these fellow travelers have failed to grasp the value of the yuan. With my bus usage I was saving upwards of 38 yuan. That is like 5 whole dollars and at least 6 stamps on my milk tea stand card. I mean, hello! Not only that, who wants to ride in a musty car that reeks of cigarette smoke when instead, you can enjoy the Mushu-acclaimed “corn-chip” aroma of a hundred bodies sandwiched together in a giant hug of international friendship. Plus, you can revel in the natural a/c of the smoggy breeze drifting through open windows as you are cooled by the delicate spray of your neighbor’s sweat upon your face. (Did I mention it was cheap?)

After disembarking the subway and boarding the 915 bus, I indulged in a wave of pride as I swiped my bus card and headed for a seat. My jubilee, however, was soon replaced by unease. I paused. “Open seats? Why are there open seats?” I thought. Not only open seats, but open cushy seats. This could not be good. The 915 I knew and loved never had seat vacancies, and it certainly never offered its passengers’ bottoms some additional cushion. This was not my bus. My fears were confirmed as we boarded the freeway and arrived 30 minutes later at Not-My-Home and Not-a-Place-I-Had-Ever-Seen-Before. I got off, fearing that remaining aboard any longer might leave me camping out for a night at the Great Wall.

I resigned myself to a taxi, and after a few failed attempts, waved a driver down who was willing to take me to my area of town. I soon realized however, that though very nice, the man did not really know where I lived. And unfortunately, neither did I. Not only that, but I understood little of what the man was saying. I pride myself at my attempts at the Beijing accent, but the Taxi Driver dialect is an art. I personally have not mastered replacing all vowels with the letter “R.” However, despite my incompetency and by the grace of our dear Lord, the driver and I eventually stumbled upon some of my old biking paths (thank goodness for summer boredom combined with the good-ole zi xing che!) Soon after, we pulled into the gate that I have come to know and love as both home and a comforting sign that I will not be spending the night in Tower Number 6.

Sure, this was not an uncommon scene for the international traveler. Heck, it was not even an uncommon scene for a Schleiff. Yet, I believe it begs the creation of a real-life easy button. I implore you, Staples, to put the thing on the market soon. And please, if you will, have it manufactured in China.

i'd like a new pair of shoes

[Disclaimer: Dear TOMS-loving friends, you hereby have permission to judge me for the following. Heavens knows I have done the same to you and your feet in the past. J]

I remember one night at the Campus Ministries retreat my Junior Year, Terese Cox began our evening in the Word with the proclamation “I hate trends.” To demonstrate her despise, she held up a pair of TOMS shoes. Granted, this was a bold move, considering that said brand of shoes were, in that moment, spooning many a Ouachitonian heel in that Perrin chapel. Yet, Terese had my undivided attention for the rest of her spiel, for I, too, had similar distaste for those canvas slippers.

My resentment wasn’t about comfort. I had donned a few of my friends’/roommates’ pairs when they weren’t looking. I knew TOMS hugged one’s feet better than a snuggy or a great-grandmother. It was not so much about style either. I thought TOMs looked pretty cool, to be honest. My aversion to the shoes was more about WHY they were cool…

TOMS shoes were and are cool because every pair has that oh-so-hip stamp of social justice on the box. When you spend $44+ on a pair of TOMS, you can rest assured, that not only will you look hipsterlicious in your new duds, but 7,000 miles away, a child named Sikote, will also be strutting his stuff-- barefooted no more--on those dark, dusty, African paths. Because of you and your socially-compassionate ways, Sikote will no longer be threatened by the dangers of ring-worm, glass shards, and stylelessness.

Is it dumb that Sikote had a new pair of shoes? No.

Is it dumb that you can be trendy by being socially just? Perhaps.

In the words of Emilee Wade, “what will happen when it’s no longer cool?”

Thus, for 4-years, I resisted the trend, sitting on a prideful throne of simultaneously idealistic and cynical principles and trying (kind of) to keep my opinions to myself and thus, not offend my beloved TOMS-wearing best friends.

Yet, today, I would like to eat my words and take back the bitterness I have held against TOMS and TOMS-wearers for some time now.

TOMS shoes has now officially touched my family and me in a personal way.

I am here to report that thanks to TOMS shoes, two China-dwelling children are no longer shoeless. There names are…Emily and Susanna Schleiff.

And now, thousands of miles away from Ouachita and my—probably vain—desire to resist Ouachita trends, I have once again, secretly donned TOMs when their owners weren’t looking. I found that my previous resolve to never own a pair wavered as I slid my foot into that oh-so-comfortable-and-practical two pieces of canvas + sole. Maybe my future pair of TOMS will be from the Chinese black market. And maybe my purchase won’t instigate the giving of a subsequent pair to an impoverished African child, but it’s the principle of the matter.

And the fact of the matter is: I will be purchasing some ASAP.

i'd like a sprinkle of horse-hoof

There is a series of a sayings that circulates the expat community here in China. They begin like this: "You know you've been in China too long when..." For example: "You know you've been in China too long when the foot prints on the toilet seat are you own."

I am not sure when one has lived in China long enough to be dubbed worthy of adding to this collection of sayings. Perhaps the mark of "long-enough" is somewhere in that delicate window of time between "ceasing to notice the footprints" and "creating the footprints oneself." Nevertheless, worthy or unworthy, I would like to add my own "you know you've been" to the pot.

Last month I set off with a number of Ouachitonians into what can only be dubbed "real China." The city which was to be our home for three and a half weeks of cultural exchange could affectionately be compared the American boonies. Perhaps, you might argue, that a city of 1 million people is a lot closer to "metropolis" status than "Southern sticks." I mean, it IS rivaling the population of Arkansas for crying out loud. Yet, in comparison to my only point of Chinese reference--Beijing (this land that I call my home and in which I frequent the local Starbucks)--the term "boonies" is appropriate.


During our cultural exchange, our team was given a strict breakfast budget of 5 kuai (roughly 80 cents USD). Hoping for some semblance of normal as well as some good microbial flora to counteract my daily dose of Chinese street food, I opted for blueberry yogurt. 4.90 kuai of good-bacteria goodness. Hello, breakfast of champions! Wheaties ain't got nothing on this stuff. However, I was soon surprised to find that something strange was afoot inside that green-plastic-container-with-personal-spoon. Floating amid a smattering of real fruit swam mysterious pink squares. And not only were said squares NOT of the blueberry-blue hue that was to be anticipated in blueberry yoghurt, these squares were...GELATINOUS. Hold the phone, ladies and gentlemen. Not only do I NOT feel comfortable putting UEOs (unidentified edible objects) in between my mandibles, but I especially do not want UEO's seasoned with horse hoof. Like, Jel-LO! Heck no, techno! Not unless Bill Cosby or my grandma is endorsing it, thank you very much.

Yet the yoghurt was otherwise delicious. So, I decided to cope by avoiding the mysterious squares like I avoided the quasi-vegetables in my Campbell's chicken noodle soup as a child.

However, after several days of 4.90 kuai blueberry yogurt consumption, I began to notice an odd transformation in my morning culinary habits. Not only had I stopped avoiding the mysterious, gelatinous, not-blueberry pink squares, but I had begun to--gasp--SEEK THEM OUT! And one morning, after an unfortunate grocery store sale rendered the dairy section sold-out of my yogurt of choice, I was dismayed to find that the strawberry yogurt I was forced to settle for was completely gelatinous-square free.

What. A. Let-Down.

And to think that the strawberry yogurt had the gumption to call itself "Chinese yogurt!" Psh! Tasted like Yoplait to me. Bor-ing!

All that to say, I think it is time, if I may be so bold to suggest, that a new saying be added to the "You know you've been in China too long" canon.

I give you:
"You know you've been in China too long, when yogurt fruit is but an inconvenient obstacle in your spoon's path to yogurt gelatin."