Black in China

by Vessup, Aaron A. ;

  “Come on, man. How can you help your brother if you are dishonest with him? You are going to be the one keeping the money here safe anyway until we get back looking for the address. It must be close by. My wife will stay to keep you company. Put all of yours with his.”

  I was now thinking, why not. There was no risk anyway since I would be keeping all of the cash while they are gone. Against my own misgivings, I complied and handed him the $1,200. The man combined it with the stranger’s money and passed the handkerchief back to me under the table. Or so I thought. In fact it was a switch.

  The end of this episode found me at the police station reporting having been ripped-off. The policeman laughed and said I had paid for a lesson in experience.

  “You should know by now that anyone can have bad intentions,” he said. “It really makes no difference whether people are Black or White.”

  I hated myself for being vulnerable due to my need to embrace Christian ways of living and thinking. It dawned on me that I did not want to live like I was separate, pure and above my fellow man.

  The entire Christian-oriented spiritual journey started to seem absurd, a feeling strengthened when during my studies I discovered that the basic arguments that southern slave owners had used were presented with biblical substantiation. Christianity, I decided, was simply another chain to keep Black people oppressed. Why would I, now aware of these facts, want to continue with this religious ruse? Why had I even elected to attend Seminary? The answer was that I wanted to earn my father’s approval. But now that my eyes were opening, I came to the blunt realization that I could no longer live my life trying to gain parental approval. One can be good without religious trappings.

  Most Black Americans are aware that during the slavery era in the United States, slaves were forbidden to read and write. Slave owners were suspicious of any ceremonial activities that appeared foreign, and thus encouraged the use of Bible teachings and the singing of Christian hymns. These acts were subsequently used as evidence that the “heathen” Blacks could be “civilized” and controlled. Christianity meant civilizing. Seeing the results of this cultural assimilation, the view that perhaps the Black man was not an animal but human was partially accepted by some Whites, but not by all. To most, however, seeing Blacks mirror important aspects of White culture was deemed delightful entertainment. “Those Darkies sing and dance so well. They are obviously happy.”

  In other territories close to the American South such as Puerto Rico, Dominica, Cuba, Jamaica and Haiti, horrific events occurred, creating a more brutal connection between Christianity and dark-skinned people. Subsequent occupations and collusion by the US government prolonged the brutalizing, the torture and murder of thousands of Haitians. These efforts paralleled efforts by American and European business ventures to exploit the fruit, tobacco, coffee, sugar, and rubber of these islands. The Church aided and abetted criminal practices, allowing for the exploitation of the souls it was supposedly working to save. The history of Christianity in the Americas is blended tightly with racial supremacy and oppression.

  I was done with it.

  32

  Differences Beyond the Color Blind

  To some extent, it’s not color but cultural disconnect that dominates.

  “What’s that you say? You want a discount?” I could hardly believe my ears. Here I was offering to help in a teaching situation, and the potential client was talking about a reduction in price. Maybe there is truth to the saying that Chinese always bargain. Anyone who pays the initial asking price in China is not smart. Instead you should constantly look for the cheap, the short-cuts. This approach can be off-putting for Westerners.

  “Welcome to China!” a group of young boys shouted at me.

  “Thank you! Xie Xie!”

  I get frequent informal welcomes in Beijing, far more than in Changsha in the south of China where my China adventures began. Yet Beijing, China’s capital, also has a diversity that most other Chinese cities lack, a more cosmopolitan air. You are more likely to meet people who are transplants from elsewhere. The group of greeters were passing me in a semi-dark parking lot as I approached my building compound’s entry gate. Saying a few English words often seems to be aimed at impressing their friends with a courageous language display. I always try to be positive and responsive.

  Finding the humor in encounters such as these took a few years, but I am now able to focus on the absurdities of it all, although it’s a bit exhausting. Who wants to think about race every day? I do not. But I do know that holding in feelings about things that upset you, no matter the cause, is not good. Obviously, assaults on your identity, shows of disrespect and demeaning social encounters, are never pleasant. But this is not about paranoia, it’s about actual situations. Regardless of race or gender, your body senses the negative and you then have a choice of either responding or burying it somewhere deep inside of you.

  I still must admit to moments of psychological stress, even though I am now a veteran of the Chinese lifestyle. I still feel uncomfortable seeing foot patrols on the street of three, sometimes four men clad in black garb with red armbands. Their eyes are looking, yet not really looking, filled with the vacant stares of boredom.

  Today, I received three mobile phone digital notices reminding me to renew my temporary residency visa or exit China before the expiration date. I appreciate these notices. At least I am being warned. I want to avoid paying the heft penalty for being found in violation, or worse, being deported. That almost happened once, a few years ago. I left a teaching position and was between jobs. The last thing on my mind was a renewal of a visa stamp in my passport. Now, I carry a copy of it with me at all times. It just feels a bit weird knowing that an I.D. card is required.

  The music at the Fatburger outlet was soothing. Whitney Houston was singing about her bodyguard, a saxophone wailing in the background. I was waiting for Nevike, a twenty-five year-old young man from Togo, Africa, who arrived one hour late with a friend in tow. It became clear that at least one of them was on a money scamming mission. I did not hear much of anything about life in Togo as promised, nor did I glean much about living in the Ivory Coast where his friend hailed from. Nevike’s message was that all of his problems in China were due to the dark color of his skin.

  “I cannot get a job because they only want white teachers who are native from certain countries. I speak French and English, but they still tell me to go away.”

  “But the positions announced clearly say they are seeking persons from England, the USA, or France,” I pointed out. “Also, you must have teaching experience unless you have recently obtained an ESL or TESOL certificate. You know this, right?”

  “All I know is they are afraid of me and my skin color. I want any job to survive. I am tired of feeling like an outcast in China.”

  “Well, this may be a bit hard for you to hear, but be realistic. Living in a country where over a billion people are scrapping to get by on limited resources, coming in as an outsider and thinking you deserve a low-paying menial job is a bit far-fetched. Try working in areas where Chinese need help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Listen, Chinese do not need “foreigners” who can wash dishes or sweep floors. You came into China intent on using your import-export business connections. You also have multi-language skills.”

  “Yes, but the places I have contacted for teaching don’t want a person with my skin color. They told me.”

  “Maybe you don’t have the necessary qualifications to teach?”

  “Well, it probably doesn’t matter, qualifications, you know? The fact that I am an outsider, an African, places me at a disadvantage against other foreigners.”

  But Nevike was definitely not interested in returning to his homeland either. He believed his future was in China.

  I have to admit, if you do not already know it, that I am a racist, if that can be said in a good way
. The more I try to not think about color, the more I think about skin color. No matter how hard I try to brush it aside, it still creeps into my head. I am sure it’s the result of past conditioning. It could also be the nature of these modern times. I see racial profiling at airports in China, just as in the United States. I sometimes see brown-skinned people being stopped at customs while lighter-skinned Han Chinese walk right through. I have no idea whether this is random or racially-based.

  Beijing is one of the most rapidly developing and advanced cities in the world. But in some ways, racial times have not changed all that much. There have been some attacks against foreigners, and people have expressed concern that a growing anti-foreigner sentiment exists.

  Chinese have a peculiar sensitivity towards dark-skinned people and such attitudes are not always well-hidden. I saw an amiable young woman, half-Chinese and half-Black, facing up to it on a TV show. Could she drag an army of bigots out of their medieval mentality? She was making a lot of Chinese netizens mad. One of the most popular online comments was: “Wrong parents; wrong skin color; and wrong to be on television.”

  My world here in China has been turned upside down as my thoughts, molded in a Western context, collide with fractured images that fit together into a unique and completely different cultural puzzle. And although I have traveled to over twenty-seven countries and lived for a short time in four countries outside the USA, I am still amazed by the contrasts that are the essence of Chinese culture.

  Here, everything about life seems to be on a rapid collision course. I am constantly amazed by simplest of observations, from the manner in which people squat down to sit, casually slaughter animals for meat in the city streets, or wear high fashion footwear in the most inappropriate circumstances. These signs remind me that China is in a constant state of transition.

  In the spring of 2015, a video clip showing a Chinese man being shot by a police officer in front of his mother and daughter while trying to board a train went viral in China’s social media. I read one report saying the police officer was a hero who opened fire when the man tried to grab his handgun. But later, there were other reports with a radically different spin, saying the man was a petitioner trying to get to Beijing to criticize local officials for some injustice, and the policeman was trying to stop him from going.

  What was the truth of the video? Much information about the incident was clearly censored, leaving people with no alternative but to doubt the official version. This is a common phenomenon in China. To some extent it mirrors the US. Then there is personal safety. My impression is that there is a higher level of risk for ordinary people in China, especially in smaller towns. And in China, I am a traveling man. What are the odds of me hitting a situation outside of Beijing?

  Black American sports stars stand out positively in the Chinese media, and for me, seeing images of dark-skinned people in Chinese advertising says a lot since white skin is most desired among the Chinese masses. It makes me feel more valued as a human being. My existence and importance is reaffirmed.

  One day, on a bus in Beijing, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a giant image of Stephon Marbury, then the top Black American star in China’s basketball league, the CBA, on a building. I wanted to take a photograph of it, and spent several days tramping around the streets trying to locate it and when I found it, a felt a burst of pride. It reminded me of a similar image of Michael Jordan I saw on the Kennedy speedway back in my Chicago days. It made me feel so good to see that Chinese business minds appreciated Black American talent. It was only a few years earlier, in 1988 to be exact, that Naomi Campbell made history by becoming the first Black woman to grace the cover of Vogue magazine’s international edition. Over the years, such colorful sightings have thankfully became more common in China. But of course, as in the West, it has not been a sign that race and color no longer.

  A few years on, and I was sitting in a downtown Beijing cinema watching Jackie Chan and an American Black film star play light-heartedly with race issues. Like many people of color, I am extremely sensitive to racial overtones in movies. I am aware of my personal biases, yet I am curious about how the other side is thinking and viewing reality.

  In movies in the West, race conflicts and the role of the police have traditionally been defined from a White perspective. It was only in the era of Blaxploitation in filmmaking, with movies like “Shaft” and “Super Fly”, made by minority filmmakers, that a reversal of stereotyping began to slowly take root in Hollywood. I remember in 1989 watching Spike Lee’s movie “Do The Right Thing”, a film that depicts cross-cultural conflicts in America. The police killing of an innocent, black youth causes a neighborhood riot. At the time, the film was controversial among White critics, but today it is recognized that it simply mirrors police behavior.

  When I tell Americans that I reside in China, and they ask, “How are things over there?” the first thing that comes to mind is having to adjust to inconveniences relating to the internet. Interrupted services and blockages are facts of life. The single-voice media means it is less likely that racial or ethnicity matters will be discussed. To all intents and purposes, they do not exist because they have been harmonized within the party’s unified vision. In the States, on the other hand, there is a wide variety of media sources and channels representing disparate views. The US media covers anything and everything. I recall when the television series “Roots”, based on the book written by African-American Alex Haley came out in the 1970s, social explosions resulted. There were literally fights in schools and riots in the streets. Black Americans were upset about being reminded of the oppression and tyranny under which their forefathers had suffered.

  But still, in the United States, the movie industry and the Academy that awards prestige and credibility to the stories produced and disseminated, has failed to fully showcase the diversity within American culture.

  In China, censorship involves tight government control over all areas of culture and the media. I know this from personal experience. I once wrote a story about travel in China for a magazine published in Beijing that was deemed journalistically inappropriate, and it got cut. The magazine was called English Language Learning and the episode in question involved a crowded train ride during the crazy Chinese New Year / Spring Festival mass migration. My hands were full with luggage plus a guitar on my back as I struggled through the carriages looking for somewhere to sit, and a woman with a small boy beside her followed me every step of the way, she encouraging the boy to try to get his hands in my pockets, pulling at the zippers on my pants’ leg pockets. It was a China experience that didn’t make it into that magazine.

  But despite the evidence of Blacks being viewed differently in China, I do not feel alienated. For one thing, there are so many different forms of the human species represented here that it is impossible to feel unique. In Beijing, few people gawk at me with jaws hanging open, as frequently happens in small Chinese towns and villages. And there are the occasional advertising billboards with dark brown smiling faces which to me says that Blacks matter, that diversity is good and that I can be respected.

  33

  A Love Like This

  The look he gave me was a mixture of astonishment and disbelief. It was as if to say, Don’t you know what time it is? Those people would lynch or drown you, rather than see us have justice!

  This was on a drive to Las Vegas after a family reunion. The remnants of a proud, large, Black American family, steeled by a life of being socially marginalized. We were rehashing an event ten years previously that brought public humiliation and shame upon our family.

  “Did the judge actually tell you to lay the blame on your own brother?”

  “Yes. Judge Hatchet clearly said that there was only one way for me to end this case. I would have to support the police claim that Dennis had assaulted an officer. I clearly remember seeing him standing quietly holding his cardboard picket sign. One second later, he was face down o
n the ground, hand-cuffed, and another policeman had a foot on his neck. I saw this. Yet, I would have to roll over and pin a false rap on my own brother. He would have to plead guilty to assaulting officers of the law, and for being a public nuisance. That’s what the judge told me. In essence, they even admitted that they had nothing to warrant his arrest, but somebody was going have to be the fall guy.”

  “Man, you should have had that on tape!”

  “Well, hindsight is twenty-twenty you know. And I wasn’t expecting to be called into the judges’ chambers in the middle of my cross-exams of the arresting officers. That scene was bizarre. Beforehand everybody knew that Judge Hatchet was as mean as they come, especially against minorities. But the policemen were so ridiculous with their conflicting statements. Everyone could see that the cops were lying, and the judge seemed bent on helping them tell their fabricated stories.”“Wow! And you say nothing even appeared in the Sun Telegram about any of this?”

  “Nope. No news coverage. It’s as if it all never happened. You know White folk.”

  I listened intently as my brother spoke softly. Ray is my younger brother, an imposing black man of forty-two years. He drove the five family members including myself to Las Vegas, a homecoming treat for me, my first time in the famous Sin City. Now, our drive from LAX afforded us good chatting time.

  Our family is full of secrets and mysteries, and I hadn’t seen my siblings in over forty years. The aches in my back from the long drive already had me yearning for a mainland Chinese massage. It was unlikely I would find such a luxury here in the Wild West. Before we started out, I noticed two of my siblings slowly circled the car, each one touching each tire with their finger-tips while softly mumbling words. This ritual was started by our father who would also dab olive oil from the saints on the car wheels before driving away from church each Sunday.

  The police incident my brother Ray shared raised many questions, but there was no hint of tension between us, which was unusual for six strong, admittedly odd personalities. Perhaps the harmony was a consequence of the occupants having just finished rendering an A Capella version of “Go Down Moses.” Four of my siblings are a professional touring vocal quartet, doing their gospel spirituals in a jazzy style. The climate is now good for sharing. Outside is the bleak, brown Nevada desert. We were like the “Children of Israel” crossing the Red Sea.