Little Soldiers

by Lenora Chu

  “What makes you think you deserve to go to California?” my father screamed. “Do you think you’re worth it?”

  We’d been arguing about my future for nearly an hour; my father had envisioned an East Coast Ivy League, and a notch down on his list was Rice University, which had offered me a full merit scholarship. I’d placed myself under the epicenter of my parents’ red oak dining table, and I felt a strange comfort with the grain of the wood running overhead. I could see my father’s bare feet pacing back and forth past the head of the table.

  “I’m going, I’m GOING!” I screamed, to the underside of the table.

  “Stanford is expensive,” my father muttered, almost to himself. Faced with the thought of his daughter’s sudden departure, he was swimming in an ocean of fear and uncertainty, as well as the prospect of a tuition bill arriving in the mailbox every quarter for a school that wasn’t his top choice. Chinese parents typically pay, but this also buys them a voice in the decision.

  In the last few years of high school, our fights would build until they erupted—extended, volcanic blasts of anger and steam—followed by long periods of silence and avoidance. We battled over nearly every aspect of a teenager’s life, from whether I could go on dates (“only for prom”), spend spring break at the beach (“not during high school”), try out for captain of the drill team (“if grades stay perfect”), or buy a new Dooney & Bourke purse every year like the rest of the girls in my circle (“waste of money”). I secretly dodged the rules I found most egregious, but our arguments about the rest grew so fierce that before long, we both began making small adjustments and concessions, lest our household erupt into outright warfare. I’d learned to sense where to press and when to retreat—but on the topic of where I’d spend the next four years, I wouldn’t give up.

  “I’m going! I’m going!” I repeated. There was something about Stanford—volleyball in front of the quad, palm trees lining the morning commute to class, a fierce community intellect that seemed to belie that California sunshine—that grabbed hold of my imagination.

  “Can you decide just like that?” my father challenged me, his voice softening a bit.

  “Yes, I can, and I’m going to Stanford,” I yelled from underneath the dining table. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  We exchanged words for another heated twenty minutes, until finally both volcanoes quieted. As always, my father managed to get off the last word, tossed over his shoulder as he stormed out of the room. “You better be worth it. If I’m going to pay for Stanford, you better do something with it.”

  It’s fair to say I didn’t get a single pat on the back for all the late study nights, SAT prep, or hours labored over college admissions essays. My father was already focused on what I’d do with a degree I hadn’t earned yet, a full six months before I would even step foot on campus as a freshman.

  In retrospect, a little praise heaped on my childhood shoulders might have helped quiet some demons, the ones with sharp, haunting voices that many of my Chinese and Chinese American friends speak of. These little guys cling to your collarbone and whisper, as Amanda put it, “You’re not good enough, you’re not doing enough, someone’s always doing more, and doing better.”

  With the benefit of age and hindsight, I know that not every moment of the day should be spent in pursuit of accomplishment (although I’m sure I could find at least a quarter billion Chinese who might disagree).

  On the flip side, I know that I generally outwork most people, especially in the face of a task that seems impossible. Perhaps here, I’ve benefited because I never had a self-esteem angel assigned to my shoulder, whispering sweet words of encouragement. Success boiled down to a simple equation, and I could always summit the mountain with enough well-directed effort.

  Most days, I’m thrilled we’ve given Rainey an opportunity to learn this lesson.

  We didn’t intend his teachers to force eggs upon him, isolate him, issue threats, or bestow upon him any of the other dubitable methods the Chinese themselves are taking a hard look at. Yet our son survived. He’s a gritty, resilient kid, and he’s thriving in the face of challenge.

  Including the dental variety.

  “Rainey has four cavities,” said Dr. Ni Na, a woman of few words, except for the handful I didn’t care to hear. “Two are so big he might need root canals.”

  “But he’s only five years old,” I stuttered, in a dental office that towered high above the streets of Shanghai. “Those are just baby teeth—they’ll fall out anyway.”

  But they must be saved, Dr. Ni Na insisted, as spacers for permanent buds underneath.

  Ayi was immediately mistrustful. “Are you sure it’s not just the dentist wanting to make money?” she hollered, when I announced the news at home. A few months earlier she had explained the countryside abortion: “In China, if you don’t want the baby, you go out and ride bikes, run, and swim,” she’d said, pumping her arms and legs vigorously.

  “Uh . . . I think the dentist is trustworthy,” I said, hesitant to ask after countryside dental practices, especially after hearing about the rural Rx for unwanted pregnancies.

  “Back home, we don’t get baby teeth treated,” Ayi told me. “They just rot away. It hurts and hurts until it falls out and then a new one grows in.”

  I told her that seemed like a cost-effective option.

  Sedation and laughing gas aren’t common in pediatric dentistry in China, and Rob and I were anxious about our son’s first visit, so on the day of Rainey’s next appointment, we both begged off work for a couple of hours.

  “I love zaojie,” our little boy whispered as he met his parents at the classroom door, using a school term that meant “early pickup.” “I wish you could zaojie more.” I noticed a lump bobbing up and down inside his cheek.

  “What’s that?”

  “Teacher Liu put an egg in my mouth,” he said. I peeked inside. It was a quail egg the size of a large marble.

  “Does she do that a lot?” I asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is it always an egg?”

  “No, sometimes it’s a dumpling.” Teacher Liu, a stout woman in her mid-fifties who always wore a white apron, was the classroom ayi who oversaw the kids’ eating and sleeping. Last year, I might have found it odd that a teacher would line up children single file and insert foodstuffs inside cheeks.

  Rainey had a countermeasure. “I’m going to spit it out,” he said when we moved out of Teacher Liu’s earshot, lump moving under his cheek. I notice my son is highly skilled at talking with an egg in his mouth.

  “Do they let you spit it out at school?”

  “No, but I’m with you now.”

  Good point. We crossed Big Green toward the school’s front gates, and Rainey ran ahead to a cheery trash can, painted to look like a smiling mushroom. He carefully slotted his head into the mouth, looked down into the bin, and spat. The egg shot out and landed on some discarded tissue. He studied the pale orb, pulled his head back out, and smiled as Rob and I caught up with him.

  “Ready! Let’s go!”

  The dental procedure was quick, and it was an immense display of resolve from a five-year-old.

  “If the nerve is exposed, then we’ll need to go in and clean out the nerve cavity,” said Dr. Ni Na, dressed in a gown covered with scampering zoo animals. Rainey lay underneath a massive neck-to-ankle apron, lighted Star Wars sneakers peeking out at the end of the sheet. The tray next to his chair held a variety of metal instruments that were small and child-size, as if the usual array of dental objects had been subjected to an incredible shrinking machine.

  Dr. Ni Na moved quickly and efficiently. “This will taste like a little strawberry! So you’re going to be very still, right, Rainey?” The dentist smeared numbing paste on Rainey’s gum line and inserted a needle right into his soft pink gums. She pressed firmly down on the syringe. In all, Rainey would need three shots of Novocain.

  “If you feel uncomfortable, raise your left hand,” Dr.
Ni Na said. Rainey raised his right hand, feet twitching.

  “That’s your right. Raise your left,” Dr. Ni Na said.

  Rainey switched hands, all fingers wiggling maniacally in the air. His fingers were frantic, but his body was still as the second and third shots were delivered.

  “Is that a needle?” Rainey asked, speaking past the instruments.

  “It delivers medicine,” says Dr. Ni Na.

  “I hate it,” Rainey said, cotton moving in his mouth.

  “I know you hate it, but we kind of need it,” said the dentist. It struck me that she’d just uttered a parable for the Chinese education system.

  Hence began the parade of shiny, pointy things: Dr. Ni Na inserted all sorts of instruments in my little boy’s mouth: a butterfly prop to keep his mouth open; long, tiny metal sticks used to clean out roots; a silver hook to maneuver chunks of cotton. One instrument was long and needle-thin, as if it could poke out the eyes of bumblebees from a distance.

  Rainey’s little hands were clenching and unclenching, but he didn’t move. His little feet twitched and trembled, but he didn’t move.

  Forty minutes later, Dr. Ni Na removed a bloody cotton, and it was over.

  “See you next time!” Rainey chirped, jumping down from the chair.

  On the way home, Rob and I brimmed with hypotheses, slightly stunned.

  “Is this because of Chinese school?” Rob wondered out loud.

  “He listened well to an authority figure and he can handle pain,” I offered. “He knows he can’t always expect everything to be easy.”

  “Let’s go back there again!” Rainey chimed in, Novocain clearly still in effect.

  The next day, I pulled aside Teacher Liu at pickup, firm in my resolve.

  “Please don’t put any more food into his mouth at snack time,” I said. “Rainey should eat only at lunchtime. Eating frequently is bad for his teeth.”

  “All right,” she said, blinking at my directness. “What about cookies—no cookies in the morning?”

  “Especially no cookies in the morning,” I said.

  The Chinese had figured out how to make their children expend mountain-moving amounts of effort, obey authority, memorize multiplication tables, and practice for weeks at bouncing a ball in competition with classmates.

  But for oral health and the dangers of refined sugar, I liked my way.

  13

  The Middle Ground

  Maybe the hybrid of American and Chinese systems is perfect.

  —Liu Jian, a mathematician working for the Ministry of Education

  We always made sure to attend the birthday parties of Rainey’s classmates.

  My fellow Chinese parents expended mountains of effort planning these festive gatherings, and I loved that they opened a window onto changing Chinese parenting and cultural mores. (Each party was a mini-sociological study, served up with green tea and cake.) More and more, I saw that urban Chinese were embracing American and European customs: champagne-and-seafood brunches, caricaturists and clowns, European-citadel-inspired bouncy castles. Of course, Chinese touches were always present: A greeting line commanded by parent-hosts, a professional photographer, a karaoke solo by the birthday girl.

  To me, these celebrations indicated a quickly shrinking, converging world. A decade ago, a Shanghainese girl might never have met an American on her home turf; today I am raising my children in China, and my son stands in her receiving line. At the same time, the Chinese are heading abroad to America, Europe, Australia, and other countries in greater numbers, fostering a global exchange of ideas more quickly than at any time in the past.

  Sometimes, the best intentions are lost in translation.

  One Soong Qing Ling mom prided herself on being well traveled, and for her little girl’s birthday party she purchased a piñata. The only foreign parent there, I watched, enthralled, as a staple of my American childhood became a modern Chinese fascination.

  Most American parents of my ilk know the piñata’s party parameters: children filed into a single line a safe distance back; three swings per blindfolded batter; plastic bags at the ready for spilled loot. I witnessed none of that order here. A scrum of children thronged around the piñata—which took the form of Elsa, the main character of the Disney film Frozen—in an undulating mosh pit. The birthday girl whacked at Elsa’s face erratically with a heavy baton, the bat whizzing far too close to noses and baby teeth. I sprang to action.

  “Children, form one line and back away from the piñata!” I said, in Mandarin, inching into the throng with arm outstretched, seemingly the only parent who recognized the mortal danger posed by Elsa. But swings continued at random, baton passing from hand to hand in no particular order. “Let it go . . . let it go . . .” I imagined Elsa singing, before deciding on the opposite. I raised my voice.

  “ONE LINE! ONE LINE! BACK AWAY from the piñata!” I urged, louder. This time I tried to position myself in front of Elsa. “And we should take turns with the bat.”

  Still, the children rushed past me like whitewater around a boulder, and as I was transported to the side, I felt a tug on my elbow. Rainey had popped out from the crowd.

  “Mom. Mom! MOM! Don’t worry about it, okay?” he said, in English, before the scrum swallowed him again. In this moment I realized Rainey had become Chinese in a way I never would be; for one, I lacked his easy comfort with enormous, surging crowds. I carefully retreated a safe distance back, and what ensued was China: pandemonium eventually finding its own pattern of order. Magically, no child took a blow to the face during fifteen minutes of swatting, and finally Elsa’s arm fell off: The piñata tumbled to the floor.

  I braced myself for the familiar rush of children scrambling for candy, only to find the kids wandering off, bored: Elsa was an empty, cardboard box, lying battered on the floor. For all her preparations, the birthday girl’s mother had missed the point of the exercise: She didn’t know to ram the piñata full of sweets and treats!

  I wanted to chuckle, then to educate and inform the girl’s mother, but here, Rainey again materialized before me, pulling my ear down to his level. By now, my son had far surpassed his mother’s ability to skip seamlessly between one culture and another, and as a five-year-old, he keenly sensed when I needed guidance—or even an intervention.

  “Shh . . . I know, Mom, I know. But don’t say anything, okay?” he whispered, sparing me an embarrassing exchange. Rainey was skilled at saving face, and he’d nudged me to leave the mom in blissful ignorance.

  Sometimes the best intentions need some massaging—or a little cultural translation (at an appropriate time).

  As my reporting journey continued, I witnessed this phenomenon of adoption and interpretation happening inside Chinese education, too (with plenty getting lost in translation).

  A few years ago, one of Beijing’s top public schools decided it wanted its students to have “international eyes.” I recognized features of the prototypical American high school in their efforts: Rankings would no longer be posted. Textbooks must be left at school. Class sizes were whittled down to twenty-five maximum. A mental health club was advertised as a release valve for school pressure. Students could choose electives, including swimming, rock climbing, and Frisbee. And the zouban reform, or literally, “walk class,” meant students changed rooms for each subject.

  Curious to peek behind the curtain, I rang the school to introduce myself, then flew up to Beijing.

  “National Day School was founded in 1951,” Teacher Dai Chong told me on a blazing hot spring day, greeting me at the guard gate. “The school’s first graduates served as People’s Liberation Army commanders.” We passed a monument that conjured up a giant, machine-graded multiple-choice answer sheet: three diamond-shaped concrete blocks thirty feet tall, with a hole punched out of each.

  He seemed proudest of the “walk class” reform. “Now our students can meet a batch of friends in one class, and meet different people when they go to the next class,” said Dai, a plump man with a bo
wl cut who chatted animatedly. Amanda would have welcomed this change; she’d called her traditional Chinese classroom a “chamber of stagnation,” as she sat with the same thirty-, forty- or fifty-odd students for an entire career of schooling.

  Individuality and choice were also on the menu. “We have found traditional authoritarian Chinese teaching has many ill effects and deviates from the essence of education—which is to serve individuals. Our teachers are like friends—equals.” I doubted authoritarianism could be legislated away, but I was heartened by the effort. For an hour, I jotted notes as we walked the grounds, Dai leading the way.

  “This is the student union president. She was just elected,” Dai said, stopping in front of a poster hanging in a hallway corridor, displaying a photo of a skinny girl wearing glasses.

  “You have student unions?” I asked, surprised. I wondered whether these groups were arranged only for show.

  “Yes,” Dai responded firmly, when pressed. “Students can express opinions and make proposals, and the union communicates those to various departments.” Students could also send complaints online, or sit with a headmaster at lunch hour.

  “Has anything unexpected happened?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Dai admitted, squinting in the sunlight. “Students care about their rights. We didn’t expect this. They complain to different departments and try to get their problems solved.”

  Teacher Dai seemed genuinely surprised, and I found his naïveté endearing. “Can you give me an example?” I asked. We approached the school museum, and Dai swung open the glass doors so we could take shelter from the heat.

  “There was no hot water in the winter, and students were not satisfied,” he said. We approached a large bust of the school’s founder, displayed before a pictorial history of the school, which reached sixty-five years into the past and spanned three walls.