by Roseann Lake
Only then may the couple begin to live happily ever after.
10
EAST MEETS WEST
Rabbits don’t eat the grass that surrounds them.
—CHINESE PROVERB
June’s Korean crush had trained at a culinary school, and so for their first date, he proposed that she go to his apartment for a cooking lesson one Saturday afternoon. When she arrived, she was dazzled to find a spotless kitchen equipped with a meticulously laid-out arrangement of chopping boards, cooking utensils, and assorted bowls filled with different seasonings. “I forgot the mushrooms!” he said as soon as they began cooking. “I’ll have to run down to the store—don’t move.”
It dawned on June that she knew very little about the man on whose counter loomed a colossal and seemingly very sharp meat cleaver. This, she thought, was her chance to learn more about him. In the spirit of her never-ending quest for information, she decided to do a quick sweep of his apartment. She began in his bedroom. Closet number one revealed a fleet of suits, all starched to perfection. Ties, all suspended on a wooden rack, were arranged methodically, from cool tones to warm ones. Shoes were all lined up neatly and waxed to resplendence—how could this be? Did this guy even have foot odor? She put her nose to a beige leather loafer. It smelled of sandalwood! A tennis shoe might prove more incriminating? She plucked one out from the back of his closet—clearly, this was the place athlete’s foot went to die.
While June’s foray into a strange man’s closet might seem extreme, it’s worth keeping in mind that China’s dating culture is still in its nascent stages. Whereas in the United States, the invention of the automobile in the 1900s helped prompt the creation of a dating culture—as opposed to a culture of courtship in which a gentleman would come “calling” to a girl’s home and meet with her, often in the company of her parents—a similar shift didn’t occur in China until the mainstream use of the bicycle in the 1950s. On two wheels, young couples were able to escape the eyes and influence of their elders, although the fully fledged soda-pop shop, movie theater, and dance-hall variety of dating culture that revolutionized the way young men and women socialized in the States has yet to emerge. As a result, singles have few social cues on how to become acquainted with a prospective partner.
Therefore, with little knowledge of how else she might get to know more about the Korean man who had seemingly overtaken her nucleus accumbens—the part of the brain associated with pleasure, addiction, and reward—June pulled open the top drawer of his desk. An identity card—good picture, but was he only twenty-eight? She would have never guessed. A small stack of pages that looked like a medical report was lying just under it in a clear plastic folder. After spending a few moments trying to make out the Korean characters, she realized it was a scalp report. All of the minerals in his hair appeared to be in balance.
In the bathroom, June discovered a bounty of BB creams. Toners, detoxifiers, moisturizers, serums, and sunblock were all stacked neatly on the counter. She was getting concerned that her fastidious Korean friend might be back soon, so she decided to retreat to the kitchen. Wait, what was that on his bed? A cell phone! It couldn’t hurt to have a look, just to ensure he didn’t have a wife and kids back in Seoul. No password protection, but everything on it was in Korean. Pictures? A quick scan revealed nothing of note.
Back in the kitchen, June popped open the fridge to make it seem like she was trying to be productive while he was away. More creams and serums! These were all in smaller receptacles—some of them even came with eyedroppers. She was beginning to think this man was too metrosexual for her, until he appeared back at the apartment with a heady bag of mushrooms.
“I was so entranced watching him cook,” she said, “I forgot all about the frightening order of his shoe collection or the crazy cosmetic rituals his must perform every morning to get himself looking as good as he does.”
June was smitten. She reported having “an enchanting afternoon,” and was now waiting anxiously by her phone to find out when she might be able to see him again.
Cupid Strikes
After several intense months of work, Christy was also keen to get back onto the dating scene. She’d recently acquired a new celebrity client and had been traveling considerably between Beijing and Nanjing, where this client—a Chinese actress—had been filming a movie. Some of Christy’s colleagues had offered to introduce her to bachelors, but none of the dates she’d had with them left her feeling like she wanted a second. The men she met looked good on paper, but for the most part, the dates felt more like business meetings than anything that might turn romantic. “When would you be ready to have a child?” asked one of her blind dates, approximately three minutes after they met in person for the first time. Over the course of their meal, he outlined his desired marriage timeline to her—he planned to wed within six months at the latest. He also described in excruciating detail how he was able to purchase an apartment within the Third Ring Road of Beijing, making sure to emphasize that his address was considered among the city’s prime real-estate locations. When they were done eating, he proposed that she accompany him back to his new home. Taken aback by his suggestion, Christy recalls shooting him a look of incredulity. “I’d like to show you the nursery my parents have helped me prepare,” he said. “We’ve even ordered a supply of milk powder from Australia,” he added. (Following a toxic baby milk scandal in China in 2009 that killed six babies and caused 330,000 to become seriously ill, imported powders have become the gold standard.) “My parents are looking forward to having a baby to care for and to ensuring that their grandchild will have the very best of everything.”
By the time her date said these words, Christy’s face had turned as white as the milk powder. She recalls excusing herself from the table, thanking her date for the dinner, and briskly exiting the restaurant. Her experience that evening reminded her of a cautionary tale she’d once heard from a former colleague who had gotten married under pressure to a man she didn’t know very well. She became pregnant immediately after their wedding, and upon giving birth, her in-laws seized the spare bedroom. Her mother-in-law made her zuo yuezi, or “sit the month,” an age-old Chinese tradition. Still widely practiced across China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong, the logic behind yuezi is that the female body is fragile after giving birth and requires special care, rest, and nutrition. Traditionally, mothers-in-law are tasked with enforcing the rules of yuezi, which in their most draconian form require that postpartum moms refrain from bathing, washing their hair, brushing their teeth, or going outdoors for a period of thirty days. Instead, they must stay in bed, covered from head to toe—socks and a hat, regardless of the season—and eat six traditional meals a day. These meals consist primarily of eggs, soup, pork trotters (pig’s feet), chicken, and carp. The dishes must be warm (forget ice cream), cooked (not even raw fruit), and prepared without salt.
It’s becoming increasingly common to slightly modernize the rules of yuezi—some women, for example, “cheat” and brush their teeth with a special cotton brush or shower after a week instead of thirty days. However, Christy’s former colleague explained that her mother-in-law was fierce in enforcing the most traditional formula of yuezi. Her mother-in-law also took full responsibility for the newborn baby—a boy—and had him sleep on a hard pillow so that his still malleable head would be flat in the back; something considered aesthetically pleasing by certain elders in China. Although the mother of the child fought repeatedly to allow her baby to develop as nature intended, her efforts were futile. Before long, the back of her son’s cranium took on the shape of a cheese grater.
Deciding it might be wise to broaden her search to include Western men, Christy created an account on OkCupid, a popular online dating portal used mainly in the United States, but available internationally. In China, the website features a mix of Chinese and foreign users, including a fair share of expats living in big cities like Beijing or Shanghai. Christy candidly filled out the profile and didn’t even lie about her age, which
I thought was a nice touch. She uploaded a glamorous picture of herself at a PR event, and another at the beach, with most of her body submerged in the ocean.
Within a few minutes of browsing the site, she spotted a few men she thought might be interesting to meet. She also came across the husband of an acquaintance of hers, who appeared to be using the site to have affairs.
“I just want someone kind, honest, and with a bit of taste,” she said. “I feel like most of the Chinese men I meet are lacking in contact with the world. They’re just looking to tick boxes and don’t realize that a relationship is much more than that.”
As Christy continued to try her hand at online dating, Zhang Mei was having a very out-of-character offline experience.
It had been several weeks since I’d last seen her. Once my classes at the school where she worked had ended, I’d taken her on as my private tutor. We’d meet when our schedules allowed us to, but it had been hard to book a lesson in the early spring. It wasn’t until we finally met that I fully understood why: my sensible, nose-to-the-grindstone Chinese teacher had been struck by Cupid’s arrow.
Naturally, she had to make a lesson out of it.
“There are three stages to falling in love,” she explained. “The first is you hao gan, or ‘to have a good feeling.’ The second is xi huan, or ‘to like,’ and the third is ai, or ‘love.’ ”
“And where are you on that scale?” I asked her. She scowled back in her playful way, much like she did when I got my tones wrong or forgot a stroke when writing characters. She then took my pen and in my notebook, drew a little tiny line between xi huan (like) and ai (love).
I probably knew more about Zhang Mei’s marriage pressures than anyone around her. For more than two years, I’d heard her tell me about the different ultimatums she’d been receiving from her family to return home and get married. I knew how small her hometown was, and how much she struggled to see herself moving back to it. Although she knew that her parents thought they were acting in her best interest and she didn’t want to seem ungrateful, or worse—un-filial—the type of life they envisioned for her was very unlike the one she’d hoped for. “Wo bu xiang zi ji,” or “I don’t think of myself,” she would always say. I had long sensed that despite all of her efforts to buy herself a bit more time, she would eventually do exactly what her family expected of her. She didn’t seem to have many other options.
After the holiday boyfriend bust, Zhang Mei’s mother had offered to come to Beijing and help her look for apartments. If she couldn’t find anything suitable, the plan was to have her move back to Harbin by the start of the next teaching semester, when there would be new job openings at a school near her childhood home.
Zhang Mei had agreed with her parents to abide by this plan, until a chance teaching assignment threw everything out of order.
“He’s my student,” she told me. “He’s Japanese.”
Zhang Mei explained that she had fallen for him quite organically. Though she’d had many Japanese students before, she never had any particular affinity for them beyond the occasional teen pop star, who was much too young for her anyway. I asked her what made this man so different. “He doesn’t smoke. Eighty-five percent of the Asian men my age do; it was so pleasant to meet one who doesn’t!” was the first thing she blurted out.
“He’s not even good-looking,” she said. “But he’s kind.”
She explained that after class, they’d often go for lunch together. He’d introduced her to spaghetti and lasagna—dishes she’d since grown to love—and to various different Japanese specialties. “When there were certain vegetables in my noodles that I didn’t like” (Zhang Mei despises zucchini), “he’d eat them off my plate,” she said.
After lunch, Zhang Mei explained they would sometimes go shopping. “He loves to golf, so I’d go to golf shops with him. He’d make me try on funny hats and shoes, and taught me about different clubs.”
As she was sharing these anecdotes, Zhang Mei was trying to deny that she had any special feelings for this Japanese student of hers, but I could practically see the dopamine pulsating through her brain.
“It’s hard not to think about him,” she eventually admitted. “But I know I shouldn’t—we have no future. He’s just returned to Japan.”
I wanted to get her on the first plane to Tokyo, but a few things needed to be addressed before doing something so irrational. This man’s work contract in Beijing was up, and he had no plans to be back in China in the immediate future. He’d tried to have a serious conversation with her about what they were to each other, but Zhang Mei cut him short, as she felt it inappropriate to pursue a relationship with a student. Now she was no longer his teacher—and more important, she was having regrets about not having tried to take things further.
Zhang Mei has never been out of China. She has a passport because she was supposed to go on holiday to South Korea with some of her colleagues, but their plans fell through. Traveling abroad is something that has been on her wish list for years. She had promised herself she would cross a border before getting married, just in case she ended up wed to a man who wasn’t much of a globetrotter. She had offers from her job to oversee the opening of new Chinese schools in Thailand and Indonesia, but she’d turned them down because she was scared to go so far on her own. This time, however, she was seriously considering a solo trip to Japan.
Getting visas to travel abroad is often difficult for the Chinese. I know many who have obtained foreign passports (by investing money abroad, for example) in part so that they can travel more freely. Zhang Mei holds only a Chinese passport, however, so as part of the approval process for her visa, she had to show proof of having at least 200,000 RMB ($30,000) in the bank. Zhang Mei didn’t have this much money saved.
“I’ve thought about it, and have decided to ask my parents,” she said. “They know that traveling is something I’ve always wanted to do before getting married, and I think they will support me. This is something I have to do—for myself, and for the chance to be with someone who I think I will be happy with. Even if nothing comes of it, I must know that I at least tried.”
Zhang Mei’s resolve was admirable. I knew that her courage was being fueled by a rush of emotions, and yet her ability to reason with such a level head and prepare for disappointment was impressive. “If nothing comes of my relationship, I will use the 200,000 RMB from the visa as a down payment on a house in Harbin.”
Nearly two years before she had fallen for this Japanese man, Zhang Mei had told me a story about her older sister, Chen. She’d gotten married at twenty-two to her high school sweetheart, but made an agreement with her husband that they wouldn’t have children for at least five years. If they got to that point in their lives and she still had no strong desire to be a mother, they agreed that they’d have no children at all. Her husband had no objections, and so Chen accepted to marry him on these terms.
Shortly after their marriage, her husband’s grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. The prognosis was grim, and despite being a fighter, she could sense the end was near. As a dying wish, she expressed her desire for a grandson.
Chen didn’t know how to handle this request. She had resolutely expressed her desire to remain childless for at least the first five years of her marriage, and not even two had passed. Chen’s mother-in-law, who wanted nothing more than to please her dying mother, begged Chen to change her mind. She was relentless. After a few months, she began to insist, and then eventually came up with a plan. “You have the baby, and then just hand it over to me. We’ll pay for everything and take care of it—you won’t have to do a thing after giving birth.” Feeling hopelessly cornered, Chen and her husband conceded. Their child—a baby girl—was born three months after her great-grandmother passed away. Today, that little girl, Pei, is eight years old. She’s been raised almost exclusively by her maternal and paternal grandmothers, and her parents, after living in separate cities for several years, are now getting a divorce.
So many of
Pei’s classmates live with their grandparents—because their parents are away working in bigger cities—that she doesn’t feel any different for it. What she does seem to be keenly aware of, however, is that little girls are not valued in the same way as little boys.
It’s often said in China that young children can look at the belly of a pregnant woman and accurately predict the sex of the baby inside. There is, of course, no empirical evidence that they can, but that doesn’t seem to deter anyone from asking them to try. Pei was once asked to do this when she was four years old, and after having a good long look at her auntie’s round tummy, she remained silent for a few moments. Upon further prompting, she said that there was a baby boy inside. Several weeks later when the child was born, it was a girl. When they went to see the baby, Pei quietly confided to her grandmother that she knew the baby would be a girl all along. “Then why did you say boy?” asked her grandmother. “Because I thought Auntie would be upset if she knew she was having a girl.”
That there are girls as young as four years old in China who already understand that they’re not as desired as boys came as a very disheartening discovery to me. I keep in mind Pei’s awareness of gender “differences” at such a young age and the forced circumstances of her birth when trying to understand Zhang Mei’s situation. Her future is not something she gets to decide entirely on her own. Marriages are more like stockholder meetings over the course of which many discordant voices lobby for their desired outcomes. I fully supported her determination to go to Japan, but understood everything she had tying her back to Harbin.