Black in China

by Vessup, Aaron A. ;

  For one month, during my second year in Changsha, I was joined by Chad, a White male teacher from the USA whom I rarely saw. One day, when our packed schedules allowed, I tried showing him where he could eat recognizable food and relax. He asked, and I told him, how I conducted my classes using posters and maps I bought myself. Over a cold beer he advised me, “I would not go around hanging things on Chinese classroom walls if I were you.”

  Chad disappeared almost as quietly as he had arrived, and in his wake were rumors of scandal involving the wife of one of the Chinese teachers. I was alone again holding the flag for Foreigners.

  It was a while before I was eventually invited into the homes of people whom I met in the community, away from the campus. I saw that behind the closed doors were pads that more closely resembled lifestyles featured in Home and Garden, or Good Housekeeping.

  Towards the end of my first year at the college, I finally arranged a meeting with the Director of Foreign Affairs for the college. Also present at the meeting were the Dean of our English department, his assistant, my Instructional Coordinator, and the Assistant to the Director of Foreign Affairs. This was the first time that we have all been together, except for two dinners and a handful of campus events. The fact that the Director did not speak English, nor I Chinese, had been a minor obstacle in the past. At this meeting, however, all the others present spoke both languages, so I was much more comfortable with the communication input and processing. I was grateful for their efforts. I managed to get feedback from them regarding their perceptions of my role and impact on the campus. Everyone seemed positive. I asked for details of requirements for the next year.

  From where I sat in the meeting, it was clear that the others did not fully comprehend my cultural frustrations or the stresses from working in such a closed system. From their standpoint, they were doing all that seemed necessary, and it was up to me to communicate when things needed changing for me to operate effectively, but from my point of view, there was no excuse for substandard living and working conditions. I wanted to build good relations, and finally being able to provide some input into the system made me feel less depressed, more valued, and more positive about my future in China. But also knew that if it was not possible on this campus, other options were available. The vastness of China is striking, although I was aware that my poor grasp of Chinese was a liability. “President Yang wants you to come join the pick-up basketball game with some visitors from Australia,” Ouyang, the assistant to the Media school’s president, announced.

  “Sure! When and where?”

  “About 4pm today, after classes. You are free then, right?”

  “Yes, but I’ll have to get my sports shoes and a change of clothes. Can somebody drive me to my dormitory?”

  “Sorry, we don’t have time for that. It’s at least a two-hour roundtrip. You can just play in your street clothes. We all usually do.”

  I tried to make it clear that this was unacceptable. I was not about to risk breaking my neck or ruining my dress shoes in some pickup basketball game. Perhaps this solidified my image of being a stubborn American, too independent-thinking. Ouyang and others thought my concerns were ridiculous.

  “Listen, I cannot play in my street clothes or shoes. This is not a practical or safe.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. This is China. For God’s sake, you are not in America. We don’t play like you Americans. You’ll be okay.”

  I had visions of slipping while dribbling, and trying to shoot after twenty years of playing no basketball, only tennis, and I shuddered. But what if I got hurt? Who would be responsible for my injuries? Only me.

  “I’m sorry, but not this time,” I told him. “I’ll pass. Just let me know in advance next time so I can bring my gear. I can at least store it in my desk.”

  In my mind I could hear sports coaches from years past berating absent-minded players who violated the cardinal rule to the basketball court. I tried to communicate this element of our American sports culture, but made not a dent.

  Ouyang was not happy about the news he would have to bring back to the president. How dare this foreigner decline the president, who was known for his generosity and kindness?

  Several days later, among my office colleagues, I heard comments indicating they knew of the incident and all thought me too independent-thinking and anti-social.

  “He even refuses to get drunk with us, and he’s always smiling.”

  “We’re going to have to wipe that smile off of his face!”

  What amazed me was that the teachers were talking as if I was not even in the room. I had been told by my close female friends that I “give away my smile too much.” Chinese people do not do this.

  President Yang of the Mass Media College appeared to me to be a visionary. He was a younger man in his early forties and his wife taught in a Middle School. They had a son who was preparing for university entrance in the US the following year. The school’s property development program and fundraising was showing rapid movement with new construction of fancy structures dotting the large acreage.

  During the next Spring Festival holidays, President Yang invited me to his hometown as a guest. I was with his parents, wife, son and a few in-laws. He also encouraged and promoted my photography, and the campus hosted a month-long solo photography exhibition of my works titled, “China: Through Western Lens.” The school also purchased several permanent prints for display in hallways.

  Over the holidays, Yang took steps to ensure that I would play some basketball. No more excuses. I was actually excited, and have always been willing to break a sweat, just not in my normal clothes. Now in his home town of Yueyang, he organized a group of guys, two teams including myself, in a closed local high school gym, unlocked especially for us to play. Together, we went to a local mall shopping for proper gym shoes. Now I would have to show my stuff. This was good!

  It wasn’t long before I found my old rhythm and stroke with hoop and ball. I had been jogging every morning, so my energy level was fine and the pain of running up and down the court was not too bad. But the gymnasium was freezing cold. Steaming breath escaped all of our gasping mouths. After a while, my fingers felt like frozen blocks. I wished I had worn gloves. President Yang took frequent timeouts on a bench, smoking on the sidelines. He was younger than me, but whenever I signaled that I needed to take a breather he just waved me back. This was a little strange. They all knew I was the oldest person on the court by at least fifteen years. I had to keep being pounded by the big fellow on the other team, who was taller and heavier than me, wearing black fancy dress shoes. He played the other team’s Center position. This was also my assigned position for my team, since at 5 feet 10, I was considered tall. But this was China. And when Yang came back into the game, I felt guilty about taking away the ball he tentatively bounced. I wondered if it was a mistake to make him lose face in the game. But they wanted me to play, so somebody had to pay.

  12

  Battling for Physical Health

  Staying healthy became a big concern. I took vitamin supplements each morning, withal do ate chicken, duck, pork and fruit and cherry tomatoes. But I could not for the life of me find cold and flu medicines like Tylenol. In China, injections were the normal approach to address even the common cold. Having an IV slowly dripping fluids into your bloodstream is viewed in the West as an option for a patient in a critical condition. Life and death. Not in China.

  Not all my experiences with medical people have inspired trust. My first encounter with a nurse and a needle is deeply embedded in my mind. At about seven or eight, I was dragged to the Kaiser Hospital in Los Angeles for shots. My father had health insurance while working for the Los Angeles Board of Education. My mother said this would be a fun field trip adventure for me, but it was not my idea of fun. I had never before seen an injection needle, and the smells in the clinic tickled my nose. The doctor was Chinese and
he had a weird instrument hanging from his neck. There were White female nurses wearing strange white hats, long white stockings and soundless white shoes, floating around like ghosts. White people, up close. Imagine my state of shock when my mother turned to me and gave a strange command.

  “Okay dear, pull down your pants now.”

  “Huh?”

  This was strange. Before me were my mother and a White nurse holding a syringe. Was something wrong with my hearing? My mother repeated her command.

  “I said pull down your pants. Let the lady give you a booster shot. It will be over in a jiffy. Then you can have some ice cream.”

  My mother was smiling, but the strange lady wore a grim expression. She did not appear friendly. Reaching for the top elastic rim of my underwear she pulled downwards with a quick jerk, exposing my right hip and buttocks, and with a short punching blow she struck my body with a jab. The long needle and her fist made a resounding thud, and my entire body shook. The needle broke; my body muscles had reacted faster. As the nurse pulled her hand away, half of the needle was still lodged in my buttock.

  “Ouch! That hurt!”

  “What happened dear, you’re not afraid of needles are you?” my mother chuckled.

  “Kid’s got a tough little hide,” the White nurse said as she extracted the needle from my buttock. “Oh, well, guess I’m going to have to try again. Now hold still, you hear?”

  My buttocks ached for weeks. In the future, I would not be rushing to see any doctors if it could be avoided. Doctors and nurses were to be feared, especially White ones. I came to the conclusion that non-White doctors and nurses tended to be more sensitive and caring than the White ones.

  Some fifty years later, two male Chinese doctors armed with scalpels were carving into my wrist. This was no dream, this was reality. The hospital window let in eerie sunlight and their green surgical gowns, cloth caps, and ghoulish white masks did not hide their serious intentions. There was a growth-like hardening on the back of my right wrist, presumably from many years of playing tennis. The head doctor at the Number One hospital in Changsha insisted that the problem could easily be solved by a simple outpatient operation. I was shocked that no anesthetic was applied, which would have been normal practice in the States. But here in China, one doctor held down my wrist to ensure my hand did not move while the other went to work. In a panic, I began thinking that it was a good thing I did not have a headache because these doctors would then be trepanning my skull with a drill to relieve the pain. Talk about modernization!

  Was this normal? Too late to find out and with me inhibited by the language barrier, the spirited doctor was already enthusiastically digging into my wrist. I watched white bone and gristle periodically appear beneath the thin red coat of blood. I desperately hoped that they knew what they were doing. After all, the Number One hospital in Changsha, Hunan, was supposed to be highly reputable. But I was having my doubts. I could be a human guinea pig! Maybe these doctors were thinking, “Here’s a foreign Black guy, let’s try this and see what happens.”

  Actually, it turned out okay and the lump of gristle was carved out. I have the scar to prove it. Another doctor later told me the procedure had been unnecessary.

  The previous year, being ill with a fever, I was taken to the campus clinic and given China’s universal cure-all, an intravenous drip. No pills for cold or fever, or even a headache. A needle and a drip. This injection, I had been told a number of times, was a common Chinese practice. The problem was the young Chinese nurse failed to insert the needle properly. After she has left the room, I stared in horror as a small, brown skin-colored balloon appeared where the needle was lodged. The skin on my arm turned a dark bluish color. The balloon on my wrist grew larger and larger. I screamed.

  “Nurse! Nurse! Something is wrong here!”

  There was no rush as the young nurse and an older nurse eventually enter the room. The senior nurse efficiently removes the needle in my wrist and made the insertion properly.

  “She had it in the wrong place. Sorry!”

  After a prolonged stay in China, it had become obvious that I had to take care of my own personal health needs, just as Chinese people do. That’s why there are so health-related centers and hospitals. It also means that footbaths and spas for tender care and massage are numerous. Many Chinese routinely soak their feet each evening before going to bed, to ease the body, the mind and the soul.

  In China, some massage Spas resemble the Taj Mahal: huge, quiet, luxuriously majestic and expensive. These facilities are fully equipped with a wide range of cold-to-very-hot soaking pools, whirlpools, steam baths, saunas, male and female attendants, and offer a complete line of services and amenities. Other, less flashy body treatment facilities, clearly identifiable near bustling work centers, are crammed-to-the-gills with curtained massage tables, sweaty white-coated staff, and long customer queue lines. Most tourist destinations have plenty of footbath operations with competitive pricing well within the traveling consumers’ budget. On one occasion in the tourist city of Zhangjiajie in central China, our group was ushered off the tour bus and into a large room with twenty-five or more people. Our feet were simultaneously and methodically worked on by a staff of white-shirted, neck-tie wearing, uniformed attendants, as we absorbed orations on health information about herbal products that would be available to us at discount prices. This session lasted an hour, with about thirty minutes of probing and smacking inflicted upon each foot. There was no charge, but you had to listen to the sales pitch. It was the only time I was glad of not being able to understand too much of the Chinese language.

  Most health establishments offering body therapy have options for Swedish, Thai or Chinese traditional massage. The Swedish usually means the application of oils and typically involve a change of clothing or bath towel. With Thai, on the other hand, powder may be used and a clothing change is necessary, along with much excruciating stretching and bending. My preferred option is the Chinese massage, because the basic approach is the application of acupressure to vital nerve points on the body. The massage entails much kneading of muscles, and you have the option to keep your clothes on. In addition to your preferred massage technique, you have the choice of a male or female attendant, depending on availability, and the choice of a health drink with a fresh plate of fruit slices. If you are concerned about whether the establishment is legitimate, you can always obtain massage services at local hospitals.

  During my first year as a resident in China, I had regular weekly one-hour appointments at the Number Two Hospital in Changsha, where I was given whole-body massages. I wore all of my street clothes during these visits, and on one or two occasions stripped down to my winter long-johns. Initially, I brought a friend along to observe, allowing me to feel more at ease during the sessions. At this hospital, sometimes the doctor would oversee a team of three attendants who all worked on me simultaneously. I must say that having six hands tugging and kneading your every muscle fibers, instead of the usual two, is quite a mind-bending experience.

  Once when visiting the city of Shenzhen in southern China, I saw a naked man running towards me. His body was bronzed and toned, his long, frizzy-looking, black hair shook with each stride. Running, totally nude, in public. Shenzhen is a second-tier city and a huge international industrial zone. The man was Chinese and he had a desperate look on his face, looking around frantically. Upon seeing me, his eyes registered a moment of surprise, making eye contact for a split second, and then his body dove to the asphalt, and he nestled himself rigidly on the street, hiding his head against the concrete curb. The people walking past on the sidewalk, driving past in cars, all ignored him. Even a police car cruising by did not stop to investigate this strange naked human form lying face down against the curb. It was shocking, a stark contrast with the progress and modernization all around me in the city of Shenzhen. A case of the crazies in China?

  Back in the USA, when I worked in a s
mall town, we had our own local crazy. The city workers, including the police, were very familiar with “Rose” who had been jailed so often that the police felt it a waste of time and taxpayers’ money to do anything more with her. Rose had no place to go. She was a White vagrant and constantly came to City Hall looking for handouts. I often wondered what would have been the scenario if Rose had been a Black American vagrant. I sincerely doubt that the police would have been so lenient.

  I have long worried about the mental health aspects of life in America, because as a Black male, the cards are stacked against me. It is common knowledge that ethnic individuals, especially Blacks disproportionately experience depression and related ailments. Studies by the National Health Organization and others confirm this notion. As a Black American, this information concerns me. Most of my childhood friends are dead or have served time in prison. Both of my parents died from heart disease. My mother suffered two strokes before passing away, and my father died of congenital heart failure. Where does this leave me?

  For many years, I have written poetry as a mental outlet. Physical exercise routines have been another constant. But even if I am able to live longer than my parents, what about all the millions of people who shoulder system-induced stress but do not have the ability to cope?

  Since I have been living in China, there have times when the stress has been physically noticeable. And I can imagine that the marginal others in positions less favorable than mine can easily reach breaking point.

  China has its own sizable population of mental health sufferers. It is impossible to talk about racism, or other negative social phenomena, without acknowledging the mental health impact. People in the US who exhibit hatred toward other races with behavior akin to crazy dogs barking—this also reflects a mental problem.