Spring 2001
Spring is now in full swing and it is glorious here in southern China. It is about 65 degrees, clear. sunny, and the winds feel warm and fresh. This change in weather has raised my spirits and moved me into another phase of cultualization. I say 'another' and not the 'next', because I am definitely not in 'linear' territory. I say "culturalization" because I seem so spend so much time in a semi-illiterate state of mind, I find myself beginning to create my own new words to describe my new experience. For me the process of culturalization is a bit like moving into a furnished unfamiliar house with alien roommates. Each room tells you more about the inhabitants, how they live their lives, their values. Every detail is another piece of the puzzle. You form likes and dislikes. And over time you find a place in yourself for the place -- and a space in the place for yourself.
In coming to China at first I felt completely open. I observed and absorbed like a sponge everything I could. I ate the food, or at least as much of it as I could recognize as food, I used a wok and tried to blend in as much as was possible for someone at least 10" taller and the opposite coloring. I appreciated all things I observed whether they were the same or different than what I was accustomed to. I admired how the Asian skin looks so fabulous with the lime green and pink that they love so much, how trusting pedestrians are in walking down the middle of the street and how every meeting of more than two Chinese easily becomes a party.
After a while I began to tire of the new and different. I was immersed in unfamiliar territory and had no ground to retreat to and no break from Chinese style anything. I became overwhelmed. Every daily interaction seemed to lead to more judgments. The quaint open plumbing became the damned open sewer, the organic style of driving became the bane of my daily travel, the child like exuberance of the Chinese fireworks that had charmed me, then jaded and irritated me.
It was around this time that homesickness set in and just the sight of Peter Jennings or Dan Rather giving the evening news could bring a tear to my eye. I only drank Earl Grey tea. I ate no rice. I had a deep longing to hear someone besides Tim put a final 'L' on an English word. I feared I would burst out in tears if one more person addressed me as Mrs. Tim or Mrs. Timo, pronounced Teemo, instead of Debbie. Then one day I called Tim and the man that answered the phone actually tried to correct my pronunciation of my own husband's name! I was over the edge and up to my eyebrows with Chinese anything and everything and my reaction was a complete retreat. My Mandarin tapes collected dust and I no longer watched Chinese TV. I dreamed of French toast, Campbell's cream of tomato soup, vanilla milkshakes, and grilled cheese sandwiches made with white squishy Wonder Bread. As far as food was concerned I considered the only option to be western style cooking and my thinking was along the lines of "give me nonstick Teflon fry pans or give me nothing". Any vintage of any western music made my heart sing, including any music I had run from in the past.
My angel directed us to the Dan Ryan Grill. It was a day I wanted to be anywhere but the orient, including my beloved Hong Kong, and then we happened upon this restaurant. It is designed for the desperate westerner that has had one too many pieces of the lifeless Chinese 'cake', bone filled meats, msg to the gills, and just way too many culinary surprises. It was a simple meal that at home you would spend under ten dollars for but in Hong Kong you paid a good $25 USD or more for. I personally considered it medication, for the homesick. And from the looks of the crowd in the place the day we were there, price was not as issue... the only issues were did things like, did they have ice cream for the hot apple pie, was the ketchup the real thing and not some sweet sour version, and were the french fries fried in some neutral oil or peanut oil. Everything was perfect. I could have kissed the feet of that wealthy restaurant owner. You actually felt like you were in a nice, downtown Chicago grill; right down to the way the tables were set with American salt and pepper shakers (as opposed to the Chinese kind where you can't tell one from the other), menus in English (so empowering after the experience of total illiteracy with Chinese menus) big heavy flatware (not a chopstick in sight). The waitresses spoke very clear English, the music was American being played at a moderate level. The bliss I experienced was something that I would not have understood in my pre-China days.
Some time went by and then the realization hit me one morning when I was checking e-mail and overheard a conversation between two men. I enjoyed hearing the sounds they made and I realized I had a good idea what they were talking about. I hauled out the wok and my language tapes soon after that and started exploring again. I felt comfortable and more relaxed. I turned on the TV and enjoyed the Mandarin and Cantonese accents. I still have questions as to whether or not I am actually programmed with the ability to produce some of these Mandarin sounds, but that is another phase further along in the culturization of Mrs. Tim.
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